WELCOME TO THE (PRIDE) PARADE

It’s the day after Halloween, 2019. I cry for hours because my literal favourite band ever, Gods of emo, My Chemical Romance (MCR), has reunited, and I’ve persuaded my parents to buy concert tickets for my 16th birthday. Then the pandemic hits, the show is postponed, and I start thinking I’ll never see them live.

The band formed after singer Gerard Way witnessed 9/11, saying later, “The world changed that day, and the next day we set about trying to change the world.” For listeners, their sound was ground-breaking and revolutionary. Their melodramatic songs attracted dedicated eyeliner-wearing, emotion-feeling fans: predominantly women and queer people (a rarity in rock scenes). MCR were a formative band for teenagers worldwide, but their music has resonated especially within the queer community—their candour unifying us all.

I grew up in a shitty small town. I felt alone in my shame and guilt about my nascent queerness. I craved an outlet for self-loathing, a community I could relate to, and somewhere I felt accepted. Following in the footsteps of every good social outcast, I turned to emo music, finding solace in its theatrical sorrow. MCR spoke to the kids who felt they had no one else, who felt the world was against them. That’s the core of emo music’s confessional expression, and no one understands that feeling like queer youth.

Where so many emo bands glorified pain and suffering, MCR sought to uplift their audience.

They told us that you can actually move beyond the hurt. They made us believe that we were capable of creating a life worth living, and I believed them. In my lowest teenage mental health moments, listening to The Black Parade on repeat was the only thing that made me feel less alone. With their sonar support, I promised myself one day I wouldn’t be afraid to keep on living. They taught me that being different is a strength, and I was allowed to be myself authentically.

The world and music industry may not have been ready for MCR in 2002, but they sure are now. Looking back at their legacy, the band’s bravery in exploring androgyny and queer lyrical themes is even more important, considering the societal leaps and bounds in the fight for LGBTQIA+ rights since they disbanded. From deeply transgender lyrics such as “You should’ve raised a baby girl / I should’ve been a better son” in ‘Mama’, or the campy glory of Danger Days (more like Danger Gays), to wearing dresses and band members actually making out on stage, they’ve always defied cishet norms and celebrated being yourself. They risked their entire career in a time where being queer was the punchline, standing up for what they believed in when very few bands did.

In March, I finally saw MCR live in concert, and it was a truly religious experience. The second Frank Iero stepped on stage, I felt like I’d come home. The show was a love letter to my 13-year-old self,

and I finally knew I was okay (I promise). I started crying during ‘Famous Last Words’, hugging my best friend and my boyfriend tight. When they came out for the encore of ‘Welcome to the Black Parade’, Gerard said, “Be the fuck who you are.”

Thank you.

And I will. I’ll carry on.