“I’m nervous.”
“What are you nervous about?” My wife asked me.
“What if something bad happens? I know they will have security. It’s just things are so heated right now.”
“I’m sure there will be protesters there. There always are at these things.” She sighed and we both looked at the road ahead.
Then more thoughts spoken between us:
We have to show up today. It’s important. If we aren’t there, then who is going to show up? Who is going to fight for us? So many people are talking about leaving the South or the country because of Roe. What about the trans kids? What about BIPOC people and people who can’t leave? Who will protect them? It’s so important to stay in the South.
We talked about it a little more then settled into silence and a little worry for what the day would be like, missing our turn and having trouble finding the park.
We set up our booth in the grass. It took my wife and I both working together to get our canopy standing and ready. I had a small stack of books on the table, and we set up our two-seater camping chair and got our portable fan ready for later in the day. I noticed my hands shaking a little as just up the hill, protesters started to file in. There weren’t many of them. They all had on red, white, and blue, except for the preacher in slacks and a short-sleeved button up, slicked back hair – shouting prayers in a contrived voice I had once been accustomed to growing up in the Pentecostal Church.
As set up continued, more vendors came in and set up their tents, and one woman came over to introduce herself. She also let us know she was trained in de-escalation. Just in case we needed her.
None of us knew what to expect. This was Rome, GA’s first pride festival. We hoped for a decent turnout, and we hoped for a peaceful day.
I walked around for a bit and introduced myself to a few more vendors, and I thanked the officers present who were providing security for us, aware of the watchful eyes of those on the hill above, their signs decrying Drag Queen Story Time while admonishing others to “save the children.”
Soon more protesters gathered, still not many – but they made their presence known. They recorded videos of us as we waited for the Pride marchers to arrive and the bulk of the attendees to get there. They took videos of license plate numbers and even had a drone flying video overhead. Some of them held up American flags and wore shirts with the word “freedom” while they did their best to intimidate us. It felt much like a scene in my novel, Broken to Belong.
The local sheriff’s deputies stood watching over, making sure no one crossed over to where we were. Our friend who helped with our booth watched over, and we all talked about how increasingly uncomfortable we were becoming.
We waited some more, and one vendor’s tent started to blow away. My wife and others helped secure it down with extra tent stakes we had on hand, which was the most lesbian response we could have mustered.
Pretty soon, we could see some people making their way through the clearing where the walking bridge crosses the river. Rainbow flags and clothing revealed bright colors through the dark green of summer leaves. Ten, then ten more, then pretty soon, a large crowd walking in.
And still, they came.
More flags, sparkles – banners and the spinners, marching in. Free Mom Hugs, Free Dad Hugs, Say Gay across T-shirts and tanks.
The protesters all stood still, recording, watching.
And still, they came.
“Wow!” we kept saying the word as more Pride marchers filtered in through that clearing and down the sidewalk toward us.
My eyes filled with tears as we could see no end to the crowd coming across that walking bridge. Progress flags, fairy wings, and drag.
And still they came.
The crowd stalled out in front and all around us as more marched in and in and in. Nobody anticipated this showing. Nobody knew it would be this glorious.
I started to cry. I took in the sight of parents marching with their children, young, old, white, Black, LatinX.
And still – they came.
Flags draped over shoulders and wonder in watery eyes. A young woman with a rainbow flag worn as a cape stood breathing in deeply, crying tears of joy and pride. I walked around and asked if I could hug her. “Oh, Sister!” she said as we both laughed/cried tears of great knowing of just how meaningful this all was. “Isn’t it beautiful?!” was all I could say.
Kids with rainbow flags ran smiling and laughing in front of the “save the children” protesters, and a group of teenagers dressed as fairies gathered with their wings blocking the view of the “save America” crowd, posing for a photo together.
With the marchers all present, the festival kicked off with more joy as drag queens took the stage to “This Is Me” and other Pride anthems. Pretty soon, the protesters had gone home. Silenced and outnumbered by the winning of love.
Feathers and giant rainbow props shook and danced along with drag queens as they led us in loud celebration. One drag queen spoke up between songs to point out how many young people were there and how much they deserve love from their parents, their friends, and their community, and she encouraged us to be there for them. I knew looking over the crowd and at the vendors that there were so many supportive people there. So many allies and affirming parents. So many people doing good work in the community.
I knew the booth across from us was a nonprofit, but what I didn’t know was what kind of work they do. Pretty soon, I realized it as trans and nonbinary youth stood with their arms up and got measured for free chest binders. I teared up watching their faces and knowing just how life saving and life affirming that one piece of clothing can be.
Then later in the afternoon, there was one kid in particular who came by. They looked to be a preteen, petite – but the kind of personality that grabs you from a distance. We watched as they got measured then hesitated for what looked like going to ask permission from their parent before receiving their binder. When they came running back grinning, the woman who measured them handed over the binder and the kid’s smile hit us all in the gut while they hugged the woman over and over again. She started crying, too, and we all did. As the kid walked by with their head held high, my wife and I clapped for them and grinned from ear to ear.
I will never forget that moment. I’ll never forget that kid’s face and the sheer joy they experienced – the sacredness and meaningfulness of them receiving that binder.
We drove home that evening, sweaty and exhausted from all of the heat, and the conversation took a turn back to what we had discussed that morning.
Except this time, we had faces. We had the Black drag queen, the teens dressed like fairies, the hundreds of people who walked by our booth and smiled, and the one we will never forget – the kid who was so overcome with joy to receive a binder.
I have watched as person after person in groups I am part of has announced they are looking to move to another state or country. But if we do that, we are abandoning the people who can’t.
Not only that – progress happens through presence.
In 1968, it was the presence of drag queens and other queer people who fought back at Stonewall in New York. In the Civil Rights movement, it was leaders staying present in the South to fight against segregation. It was the presence of queer people in San Francisco under the leadership of Harvey Milk that eventually led to unjust discrimination against gay teachers being overturned.
Not that long ago (2008), Californians voted to repeal marriage equality even after thousands of gay and lesbian couples had married. Prop 8 passed in the same election that Barack Obama won.
Imagine if all of the LGBTQ folks had left the state in protest.
Imagine if John Lewis had abandoned the South.
Imagine if the queer people had just left New York instead of fighting.
We live in an age where activism has become watered down into social media posts or insta-worthy protest gatherings. What we need are everyday activists in our communities making change. It might look like talking to teachers about using more gender inclusive language. It might look like volunteering as part of one of the established abortion networks. It might look like registering people to vote, donating to local LGBTQ+ groups, speaking up and being present at county and city councils and school board meetings. It might look like speaking up in our friend groups and families and the places we work.
There are numerous organizations doing fantastic work in the South, but they need us to join them. Imagine if the Black women who helped secure the votes in Georgia in 2020 had abandoned the state.
One of the religious imageries that stays with me is a teaching of Jesus – he says the kingdom (or kindom, as a more relational term) of God is like mustard seed, and in another passage – like yeast.
Both of these are wild, present, seemingly small, but with a great impact. With either of these things present, the composition of the garden or the makeup of the bread is radically altered. They are unruly and maybe even seen as invasive by some.
And so it is with change and progress. We need more mustard seeds, more yeast, more of us working together – less of us abandoning the work, less of us tapping on our phone screen in a reactionary move that does nothing but hype us up and contribute to phone addiction, less of us being apart. (I highly recommend Jenny Odell’s book How to Do Nothing for more insights on just how damaging getting pulled into social media is for activists.)
We need more forward-thinking people to move to the South. We need more financial support and people working in the community to support the established advocacy groups. We need to band together.
We need to get back in touch with the roots of Pride – digging our heels in the ground and saying enough is enough. We’re here. We’re queer. Get used to it.
For a story that explores these themes, please check out my novel, Broken to Belong, here.
