Evergreen Reads to Empower Your Mind
The Standard Sister
Issue no.17
The Pride Issue
June 22, 2025
Image by Charles Allmon, Nat Geo Image Collection
To Be A Fairy
To celebrate Pride Month around the world, this issue is about honoring the courage it takes to be fully yourself.
The courage to see that love is not defined by body, gender, space or time. The courage to be proud of who you are — not just privately, but out loud. The courage to share your world, your perspective, your truth — without fear.
In this Pride Issue, we explore love in its many forms: from the timeless beauty
of same-sex relationships in Ancient Greece, to the story of a young boy who became a legendary woman. We look at the most powerful Pride parades around the world — and why they still matter. And we spotlight a brilliant photographer unafraid to show the tenderness and vulnerability of genderless love.
Divine by Greg Gorman
Marsha P. Johnson's Story
History- Article by The Standard Sister
Long before Pride was a global celebration, long before LGBTQ+ identities were visible in mainstream culture, and long before the language existed to explain what she was, a woman named Marsha P. Johnson was living out loud in a world that did not know what to do with her.
Born in 1945 in Elizabeth, New Jersey, Marsha came into the world as Malcolm Michaels Jr., the fifth of seven children in a working-class African American family. From an early age, she was drawn to femininity—flowers, dresses, lipstick—but quickly learned that such expressions came with consequences. She was harassed by boys in her neighborhood and scolded by her devout Christian mother. By her own account, she didn’t begin to wear women’s clothing publicly until she moved to New York City after high school—with just $15 and a bag of clothes. There, she renamed herself Marsha “Pay It No Mind” Johnson, a phrase she’d offer casually to anyone who asked about her gender. It was more than a quip. It was a shield, a manifesto, a way of moving through a world that refused to make room for someone like her.
In 1960s Greenwich Village, Marsha found her place among drag queens, sex workers, artists, and outcasts. She became known for her bright, improvised fashion—flower crowns, thrifted gowns, sequins and smiles—and for her generosity. She gave away what little she had. She mothered those who had been abandoned. And though she had no formal education or political training, she quickly became one of the most visible and beloved figures in the city’s queer community.
On June 28, 1969, when a police raid at the Stonewall Inn sparked a spontaneous uprising, Marsha was there. Whether she threw the first brick or arrived later is beside the point—she was a flame in the fire. Alongside her friend and sister-in-struggle Sylvia Rivera, Marsha helped co-found STAR—Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries—one of the first initiatives to house and support young transgender people and queer youth lliving on the streets. In a world that offered them little more than violence and invisibility, Marsha offered home. Not in the conventional sense, but in the way women so often do—through care, through presence, through unshakable love.
Marsha didn’t identify strictly as transgender—she called herself a drag queen, a transvestite, a gay person—but these were the words available to her at the time. Her identity, like her style, was fluid. She moved through categories with a kind of grace that defied explanation. To some, she was strange or even unstable. But to those who knew her, she was a saint—equal parts joy and sorrow, a spirit too vast for the boxes people tried to place her in.
She was also deeply involved in activism during the height of the AIDS crisis, marching with ACT UP and demanding dignity for those the government was content to let die. She didn’t seek recognition. She just showed up—again and again—for those who had no one else.
In 1992, Marsha’s body was found in the Hudson River. Police ruled her death a suicide, but her friends and community knew better. Her death, like her life, was met with silence from the systems that never saw her in the first place. And yet her legacy has only grown stronger.
Gay Life in Ancient Greece
History- Article by The Standard Sister
There was a time when same-sex love wasn’t hidden or politicized — it was woven into daily life, reflected in poetry, sculpture, and even battle formations. In Ancient Greece, desire between men wasn’t just accepted. It was celebrated, ritualized, and, in some cases, institutionalized.
Sculpture of Castor and Pollux
In Athens, love between men followed a structure — part romance, part mentorship, and deeply rooted in philosophy. These relationships, known as pederasty, paired an older man (erastes) with a younger one (eromenos). They were meant to be educational, emotional, and yes, erotic. To modern eyes, it’s complex — a blend of guidance and desire, power and admiration.
This structure wasn’t just social — it was also philosophical.
In Plato’s Symposium, one of the most enduring texts of the ancient world, a group of men gather at a dinner party to deliver speeches in praise of love (Eros). Many speak of same-sex love as the noblest form of affection — one that elevates the soul. Through the voice of Socrates, Plato suggests that physical desire between men can lead to something far greater: the pursuit of truth, beauty, and the divine. Love, in this context, isn’t just a pleasure — it’s a path to wisdom.
On the island of Lesbos, a poet named Sappho wrote verses that shimmered with longing — directed not at men, but at women. Her poetry speaks in whispers and firelight, in glances and blushes. We don’t know exactly how she lived, but we know how she loved. Her name gave us the word sapphic. Her island gave us lesbian. And her voice still echoes in the gaps of history:
“Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time.”
Love between women wasn’t codified in the same way as male relationships — but it existed. In quietness, in art, in poems passed from hand to hand.
As in philosophy and literature, the male body — in all its idealized glory — was the centerpiece of Greek art. Nearly every statue from the classical period, from Kritios Boy to The Discobolus (the discus thrower), was an ode to youth, strength, and aesthetic perfection. Muscles were softened into marble. Nudity wasn’t shameful; it was aspirational. These weren’t just studies in form — they were expressions of desire. Celebrations of male beauty and the erotic gaze, designed by men, for the admiration of other men.
Male lovers weren’t just in boudoirs and bathhouses — they were in the military. The Sacred Band of Thebes, an elite fighting unit composed of 150 male couples, was built on the belief that lovers would fight more fiercely to protect one another. And they did — until their final stand against Alexander the Great.
Still, ancient Greek sexuality wasn’t what we’d call “queer” today. It wasn’t based on identity. It wasn’t equal. Adult male partnerships were often frowned upon. Female desire was rarely documented unless it served the male gaze. And women, in general, were excluded from much of public life.
But even in this imperfect world, something remarkable happened:
Love between people of the same sex wasn’t hidden.
It was lived — openly, poetically, and unapologetically.
Image from Andy Warhol
Walking With Pride
Culture- Article by The Standard Sister
Pride parades may look like glitter and celebration — and they are. But at their core, they are carefully constructed rituals of visibility. Like traditional crafts passed down across generations, Pride wasn’t born in lights and sound systems. It was born in basements, protests, and underground bars — slowly shaped into something louder, brighter, and impossible to ignore.
Each Pride parade has its own character: the beat of the street, the tone of the march, the weight of its past. Some are sun-soaked parties. Others are deeply political demonstrations. But all of them are built, year after year, by communities that refuse to disappear.
We’ve mapped some of the most iconic Pride parades around the world — not just by size or spectacle, but by what they mean in context. Here’s why each one remains, in its own way, a radical act.
Roberta by Gilles William Yang, 1988
São Paulo, Brazil
With over three million participants, São Paulo hosts the largest Pride parade in the world. But it isn’t just a massive party — it’s a powerful response to a country where anti-LGBTQ+ violence remains widespread. In 2023 alone, Brazil recorded 142 murders of transgender women and hundreds more targeting LGBTQ+ individuals. Each year’s theme — such as “Vote with Pride” — reflects the community’s ongoing fight for safety, visibility, and political power. On Avenida Paulista, celebration is not frivolous — it’s defiance.
Madrid, Spain
Madrid’s Orgullo is Europe’s largest Pride, drawing 1.5 to 2 million participants each July. It emerged from La Movida Madrileña, the post-Franco cultural movement that reclaimed public space and personal freedom. What began as quiet gatherings after decades of dictatorship has transformed into a week-long celebration stretching from Chueca to Gran Vía. Today, it’s more than a festival — it’s a statement of how far a country can come when it chooses openness over repression.
New York City, USA
Pride was born in New York City following the 1969 Stonewall uprising — a moment that turned protest into global tradition. Today, NYC Pride is a layered experience: older generations march in remembrance; younger ones arrive to celebrate and claim space. The city’s Pride remains a powerful intersection of legacy and action — history you can dance to, but never forget.
Tel Aviv, Israel
Tel Aviv hosts the largest Pride parade in Asia, drawing around 250,000 people annually. Yet it unfolds under a government shaped by ultra-Orthodox and nationalist parties that often oppose LGBTQ+ rights on religious or ideological grounds. Critics have accused the event of “pinkwashing,” using Pride for tourism while neglecting deeper structural change. Still, for many queer people in Israel and across the Middle East, Tel Aviv remains a rare space for public visibility. Marching here is both celebration and protest — a necessary contradiction.
Berlin, Germany
Christopher Street Day in Berlin draws close to one million people. It is explicitly political and proudly intersectional, with demonstrators speaking out against racism, xenophobia, transphobia, and antisemitism. The parade’s recurring slogan — “Only Strong Together” — reflects Berlin’s long tradition of activism and resistance. It’s not just about visibility. It’s about demanding rights — to identity, to joy, and to safety — in a world where none of those can be taken for granted.
Cape Town, South Africa
Cape Town’s Pride, the second-oldest in Africa, began in 1993 during South Africa’s transition out of apartheid. The parade starts in De Waterkant, the city’s historically queer neighborhood, and moves toward Green Point Stadium. But it has not been without controversy. Many Black, lesbian, and trans activists have spoken out against exclusion and the dominance of white, cis male narratives. Alternative events like Khumbulani Pride have emerged in response. Here, Pride is not only a celebration — it’s a mirror of inequality and an active call for change.
Each of these parades reflects the specific challenges and triumphs of its community. And even if it sometimes feels like we’ve moved beyond the need for them — we haven’t. Pride is still about visibility, resilience, and the ongoing right to show your colors, your voice, and your identity without apology.
Q&A With Guy Nechmad Stern
Guy Nechmad Stern (b. 1996, Tel Aviv) is a photographer and visual artist, a graduate of the MFA program at the School of Visual Arts (SVA) in New York. His work moves between time zones — both literally and emotionally — weaving together intimate memory with shared visual culture. Using the same camera that once documented his own childhood, Stern crafts photographs that feel like both a return and a reinvention. For him, the lens isn’t just a tool of observation — it’s a mechanism for creating new memories, new myths, new truths.
At the heart of his work is a quiet emotional charge: still lifes, cityscapes, stolen kisses, naked bodies, soft melancholy. But behind the softness lies structure — a visual language shaped by a decade of artistic practice since graduating from Thelma Yellin High School of the Arts.
His work often echoes the classical — and yet, it breaks from it. The male figure, a central motif in his practice, inevitably brings to mind Ancient Greek sculpture: bodies carved in perfection, deified and invincible. But Stern’s subjects are not idealized. They’re vulnerable. His camera searches not for the flawless form, but for the perfect frame — maybe to conceal the flaws, maybe to reveal them. Where Greek sculpture presented power, Stern’s portraits offer fragility. In this way, his work feels like a quiet rebellion — a subversion of the heroic male gaze.
Q: Which quality/ word define your past?
A: Lost
Q: Which quality/ word defining your present?
A: Lust
Q: Which quality/ word will define your future?
A: List
Q: What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?
A: Instagram then shower
Q: What’s the best advice you’ve ever received, and from whom?
A: The artist Roee Rosen once told me, that as an artist I can humiliate myself more.
Q: If you could be anywhere in the world right now in a second, where would it be?
A: Berlin
Q: What or who is your guilty pleasure?
A: Gay hypno porn
Q: What turns you on/ off?
A: That's a secret i'll never tell, xoxo
Q: What makes you feel at home, even when you’re away from home?
A: Music
Q: If you could meet any woman, living or dead, who would it be and why?
A: Addison Rea because she came out with the best pop album of the year
Q: How do you express love?
A: Physical touch, but also through my art
Q: What’s your favorite word?
A: Gag
Q: Who is your hero/heroine in real life?
A: Wolfgang Tillmans
Q: Which fear will you give up to be invincible?
A: Fear of being forgotten
