In the early 1980s, when I wandered down to Oxford Street from a friend’s terrace in Darlinghurst to see Mardi Gras for the very first time, there were no barricades. No strict divisions between marchers and onlookers. If you felt the pull of the music and the joy, you simply slipped into the procession and joined. That intimacy and freedom reflected a community still finding its feet – a smaller scale, but no less powerful.
Fast-forward to today and the world has changed. Mardi Gras has grown into a globally recognised festival that draws hundreds of thousands of people, and millions more who watch on television or online. The fences now keep us safe and allow the event to function at that scale, but the spirit remains the same: visibility, celebration, and solidarity.
When I first joined the Mardi Gras committee in the early 1990s, it was hardly glamorous. We had a small number of staff. The rest were volunteers doing what needed to be done. I was given the security portfolio mostly because nobody else wanted it. That experience – sitting across the table from police, negotiating safety and security for our community – gave me the confidence and drive I carry with me today.
We won some fights and we lost others. We didn’t progress in a straight line. There has been elation and tragedy along the way.
When I became the first paid production manager for the Parade in 1993, I would ring around to suppliers asking for quotes. As soon as I said the words “Mardi Gras,” people would hang up the phone. Again and again. Some wouldn’t even let me finish my sentence. Today, suppliers line up to work with us. They compete for the honour. That transformation tells you how far Mardi Gras has helped shift Australian society. It is living proof of why visibility matters.
Of course, problems remain. Discrimination still exists in our institutions, in our workplaces, in our families. We aren’t naïve. But the answer has never been to shrink Mardi Gras or to divide our community. Our power has always come from our inclusivity and our reach.
I think back to when lesbians debated whether we should even be named separately in the organisation. Some of us resisted. We thought “gay” meant all of us. But when “lesbian” was added to the name, I saw the difference it made for women who had felt invisible. They told me they finally felt seen. That shift taught me something important: inclusion makes us stronger, not weaker.
We can do better on inclusion. That’s why I’m standing again for the Board.
Over the years I have heard many criticisms that Mardi Gras has “changed.” And yes, of course it has. It had to. We are now a hallmark event recognised by government, tourism, and international media. That scale brings logistical challenges – more security, more risk management, and a lot more cost. But it also brings unmatched visibility. A young person from Dubbo or Darwin can turn on the TV, see our parade, and realise they are not alone. For one night, they see a world where they belong. That is priceless.
I understand the frustrations people have with institutions like the police. As a lesbian who spent decades negotiating with them, I share many of those concerns. But when LGBTQIA+ police march in Mardi Gras, it matters. It tells the world that they exist, that change is possible, and that some of those in uniform are fighting for us too. The same is true of allies in politics, business, and other sectors. Welcoming them doesn’t mean endorsing everything they do. It means demanding their solidarity in public, on our terms.
Each year, I still work on security at Mardi Gras events. Not because I have to, but because I want to protect our community. My moment of joy comes when I see someone experience Mardi Gras for the first time – the light in their eyes, the relief of belonging, the pride of being themselves. Sometimes it’s a kid from the regions, sometimes it’s a nervous parent who came to support their child, sometimes it’s a sceptic whose heart shifts just a little. Those are the moments that sustain me.
That’s what we have to protect.
I know there are people who would prefer Mardi Gras to be smaller, purer, more exclusive. They argue for banning police, banning politicians, banning sponsors. I respect their passion, but I cannot agree with their strategy. Exclusion doesn’t build power. It reduces it. We cannot afford to weaken one of the world’s strongest beacons of queer visibility at a time when reactionary forces are rising globally.
Mardi Gras has never been perfect. But it has always been ours. It has always been the place where we can be visible, defiant, joyful, and united. That unity is not about agreeing on everything. It’s about recognising that we are stronger together.
I am standing again for the Board because I believe deeply in protecting that legacy. I want Mardi Gras to remain a place of many voices and one parade. A place where the barriers between marchers and spectators may now be physical, but the spirit of joining in is alive and well. A place that continues to change hearts, to open doors, and to save lives.
Mardi Gras gave me my strength. Now, I want to use that strength to give back – to protect the event that has given so much to so many. I hope you’ll stand with me. Join, rejoin, and vote for an inclusive Mardi Gras – many voices, one parade.
