Today marks the final day of Pride Month. Last week, several important anniversaries passed that deserved recognition. Each one merits an article of its own, but I wanted to take a moment to remember them together because, collectively, they remind us why Pride is not simply a celebration, it is also an act of remembrance.

On June 22, 1988, we lost Leonard P. Matlovich.

Leonard was an American war hero, a race relations instructor, and a recipient of both the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star. He also became the first active-duty service member to intentionally come out publicly to challenge the military’s ban on gay service members.

His fight to remain in the Air Force became national news, rallying the gay community and bringing the issue into newspapers, television broadcasts, and eventually a made-for-television movie. In September 1975, he appeared on the cover of Time magazine, becoming one of the most recognizable faces of the movement.

Although a court eventually ordered that he be reinstated and promoted, Leonard understood the military would almost certainly find another reason to remove him. Rather than continue years of legal battles, he accepted a settlement.

His legacy extends far beyond his legal victory. Perhaps nothing captures his courage better than his headstone, which bears no name. Instead, it reads:

“Never Again. Never Forget. A Gay Vietnam Veteran.”

And beneath it, the words that continue to echo through history:

“When I was in the military they gave me a medal for killing two men and a discharge for loving one.”

On June 23, we celebrate the birth of Alan Turing, born in 1912.

Often called the father of modern computer science, Alan earned his doctorate from Princeton University in 1938 before joining Britain’s Government Code and Cypher School during World War II. Working in Hut 8, and later leading the team, he developed methods that allowed Allied forces to break German encrypted communications quickly enough to change the course of the war. Historians widely credit his work with shortening the war and saving countless lives.

Alan was also gay.

In 1952, he was prosecuted for homosexual acts and, rather than serve a prison sentence, accepted hormone treatments, what history now recognizes as chemical castration. Two years later, on June 7, 1954, at only forty-one years of age, Alan Turing took his own life.

History eventually acknowledged the injustice. In 2009, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown issued a formal apology for the “appalling” treatment Turing endured. In 2013, Queen Elizabeth II granted him a royal pardon, and in 2017 the law providing posthumous pardons for thousands of men convicted under historical anti-homosexual legislation became widely known as the “Alan Turing Law.”

Then there is June 24, 1973, one of the darkest days in LGBTQ+ history.

That evening, an arsonist set fire to the UpStairs Lounge in New Orleans. Thirty-two people lost their lives, and fifteen others were injured. At the time, it was the deadliest attack on the LGBTQ+ community in American history, a tragic distinction it held until the massacre at Pulse Nightclub decades later.

The circumstances made the fire even more horrific. The club occupied the second floor of the building. Windows were covered with security bars, and many patrons found themselves trapped. One heartbreaking photograph showed a man desperately trying to escape through one of those barred windows. He never made it out.

The tragedy did not end with the fire.

Many churches refused to conduct funerals. Memorial services that were held were met with hateful protests and anonymous hate mail. Some families refused to claim the bodies of their own loved ones because they were ashamed that they were gay. Several victims remained unidentified for years, and some compassionate members of the community stepped forward to ensure those who were never claimed still received dignified burials.

Yet even in that darkness there was courage.

At one memorial service, mourners were told they could leave through a side entrance to avoid photographers and public scrutiny. Instead, they chose to walk out the front doors together, heads held high. It was a quiet but powerful declaration that they would no longer hide.

I had moved to Louisiana less than a year before this tragedy. I remember hearing about it, but it did not receive the attention it almost certainly would have if another community had been targeted. That silence became part of the tragedy itself.

These are only three stories among thousands that make up LGBTQ+ history. They remind us that the rights and freedoms many enjoy today were not freely given. They were earned through extraordinary courage, unimaginable sacrifice, and the determination of people who refused to disappear.

As Pride Month comes to a close, let us celebrate, but let us also remember.

Because history that is forgotten is history that can be repeated.

Our stories matter. Our history matters. And it deserves to be told, preserved, and remembered, for this generation and for every generation that follows.