President Message

The San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus—the first openly gay chorus in the world—was formed On October 30, 1978. Barely one month later, Harvey Milk—the first openly gay person elected to public office in California—was assassinated alongside Mayor George Moscone.

That night, the newly formed chorus gave its first performance …singing on the steps of City Hall at a candlelight vigil in their memory. Even before the assassination, the LGBTQ+ community had been muzzled into silence by legitimate fear of violent reprisal. Police routinely raided gay bars. Whispers ruined careers. Insinuations ripped limbs from family trees. HIV had begun stalking San Francisco. And yet, in the face of acute pain and dire risk, more than 100 gay men stepped out of the closet and into the light. These brave souls did not simply join voices when they walked onto those steps—they also walked off the margin and into the heart of the American story. Gunshots may have broken the silence that day—but the singing shattered the fear.
 

If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when? — Hillel the Elder

If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door
 — Harvey Milk
 

Perhaps the spirit of Hillel, the Jewish sage, inspired the chorus to sing—even when it was not safe for gay men to exist, let alone sing. But someone had to go first. Someone had to say this is bigger than any one of us, so we must act for all of us—and the time is now.

I think of that moment often during Pride Month. Out of the assassin’s gun came ten bullets …and more than 100 voices singing a chorus of hope. It is a reminder that the goal of Pride has never been to dominate the narrative—it’s to be written into it. For many, Pride is an important exercise of our First Amendment right of peaceful assembly and an opportunity to advocate visibly for a more inclusive and loving society. For these folks, Pride can offer a brief respite from the repressive force of a political will that would erase them from the story and relegate them back to the margin.

That is why the thought of the chorus singing is particularly chilling this year. Outside of the Civil War, Americans have never been more encamped across ideological battle lines than today. While the events of November 27, 1978, began with violence and ended with peace, Pride 2025 can easily go the other way. The threat of political and social violence against the LGBTQ+ community is real.

The pomp(oms) and circumstance of Pride events contain eye-catching—but harmless— frivolity. Revelry and celebration are integral parts of recognizing hard-fought freedoms. The flags and rainbows, however, are as powerful as they are joyous.

The rainbow stretches end-to-end across the sky. It is big enough to cover everyone. The flags do not foster division, they invite inclusion. These symbols beat back hatred and beckon to anyone who has ever felt unwelcome or different saying:

All love is worthy
You are worthy of love
You are perfect just as you are.
You are welcome here.
 

Just as Justice rests on firm ground and Liberty continually progresses, Pride is fueled by steadfast bravery and divine kindness. Pride is not about who shouts the loudest or wears the brightest colors. Pride makes it safe for people to stand up. Pride gives them courage to speak—even though their voice shakes. To support Pride is to channel the spirit of the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus in 1978 and perform the radical act of stepping into the light, eliminating the margins, and redrawing the page so everyone belongs inside the story—fully, unapologetically, and without condition.

For those of us who have experienced life in the margins—queer people, trans people, people with disabilities, immigrants, people of color, women—we know the pain of questioning where we belong in this world. We know what it feels like to watch the story unfold from the margin. We know invisibility. The rainbows and colors of Pride destroy invisibility and erase margins. Pride never stops singing choruses of hope in the face of hate.

Credit Unions are Margin Erasers too

In a time when some companies use Pride Month as just another branding moment—and when parts of our own federal government are openly scrubbing LGBTQ+ (and Harvey Milk himself) from the public record—credit unions stand apart.

We were designed to be more than just an alternative to a bank. Our creators understood that achieving financial well-being requires more than access—it requires dignity. It calls for education alongside opportunity, and building communities rooted in mutual accountability.

And if we’re living by our design, then Pride Month calls us to action: commit to greater kindness, practice rigorous inclusion, and pursue bolder outreach.

So What Do We Do About It?

Go to the margin and find those who still feel invisible or afraid to speak. Invite them to write a chapter in the story of your credit union. Let’s stop asking who we want and start asking who we are missing—from our membership, boards, lobbies, and loan files. Let’s operate from the radical belief that our credit unions will do better the more we do good.

Take St. Mary’s Bank—the first credit union in America. It opened in 1908 to serve the people banks ignored: immigrant workers, women, even children. Women made up more than half of its first twenty members. And the credit union thrived. Starting in a modest home with volunteer staff and a metal lock box, it surpassed $1 million in assets by 1923—about $19 million today.

That same mission can lift your credit union further—and lift our entire movement higher.

Because in the credit union movement,

Every person matters
Every identity counts
Every credit union should sing a chorus of hope in the face of hate

As always,

Bruce