Pride in a Small Town: A Musing on Visibility
 

I was sitting in my favorite spot on the big green couch one night watching the news and absently flipping through a "Southern Living" magazine when a story came across the TV about how people in Conway, Arkansas were organizing the first ever Gay Pride parade.
I remember tossing the magazine to the floor and turning up the volume to hear the story about how two well-known Gay men were gathering people for a Pride event and parade to be held in Conway the next weekend. The news anchorwoman solemnly declared the parade to be the "First Ever in the history of Conway, Arkansas" (a town of about 50,000). I waited for information about where the parade route was, how to contact the organizers, anything, anything to give me a clue as to where to go. There was nothing. Still, my internal organs were already glittery with knots and my joy worked it's way into my feet.

As soon as the story ended, I literally jumped up from the couch and ran to my bedroom, flinging open the closet doors and shrieked, "There's going to be a PARADE! WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR?!!!"
This might have been the Gayest moment of my life up until that moment and I remember grabbing a purple sequined shawl from my closet and flinging myself on the bed and giggling wildly with the flaming faggotry of it all.
All the next day was spent researching the where, when, why, who, and what of the Parade. I found out through a series of internet searches and phone calls that the two Gay men who were organizing the parade were the two "pink sheep" of Conway, the most well-known, ostentatious and unapologetic flaming Gay men in Conway that EVERYONE seemed to know about but me. These two men lived in a crumbling-but-loved older Victorian revival right in the center of town and had been ballsy enough (or perhaps just creative enough) to paint the bitch pink and purple with accents of a mild blue.
Anyone who wanted to participate in the parade was to meet at the pink house that Saturday morning and there would be a group marriage ceremony and small Pride celebration after the parade.

Already, there were rumblings from a few of the local churches about the sinful nature of the parade, a few editorial letters sent in to the paper about our "flamboyance" our "unadulterated display of sin". Still, the vibe in the GLBT community was electric. We had been having Pride events in Little Rock for quite some time, but never a PARADE, never an unapologetic Gay strut right through the center of a mostly conservative town.

All that week, I clasped my hands in anticipation. I tried on clothes, I mused over the churches who had issued opinions, I thought about what I would say when and if I was confronted by a protester.
I decided to dress as a Gay Angel to counterbalance the ideas that all Gay folks were "of the devil" and I made a series of very crudely drawn posters with bibilical sayings to hang all over the car.

On Saturday morning, I found the pink house.

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There were a few hundred Queers congregating around various homemade "floats", some cars covered with Pride flags and such, a flatbed trailer with several Gay families and their children perched atop folding lawn chairs, all holding signs saying "I love my two Mommies!" or "My two Daddies are awesome!" or "I love my family!". There were a couple of folks riding horses and holding Pride flags, there were Queers on bicycles, Queers on motorcycles, Queers walking, Queers skating, Drag Queens on the back of convertibles, Lesbians in trucks, Queers walking dogs on rainbow leashes. There were hundreds of us. Our people. Our kind.
It was hot, maybe about 100 degrees and there was a distinct smell of horse manure in the air and I noticed that the streets were wet. I wondered if someone had been landscaping a large area but found out through the Gay Grapevine that someone had come and dumped several truckloads of horse manure on the parade route the night before. Just that morning, the Conway Mayor had called out the fire department to come and hose down the streets and parade route.
Later, we would see stories on the news about how they had caught and arrested the guys who dumped the manure...and also charged them with a hate crime, for which they were convicted.

When we arrived, we realized we were just a bit late and fell in to the back of the parade line. A man in little shorts and a tuxedo jacket came jogging up to the car and said, "You're IT, honeybuns! You're the last car and we are pulling out just as soon as the police get behind you! LOVE your wings!"
It was Robert, one of the Gay men organizing the parade. He was beautiful and energetic and clasped my hands in his and said, "You get to be the Grand Princess!"
"What's that?", I asked, having never been involved in parades or pageant life.
He said, "That means your the parade princess so wave real pretty!"
I pointed to one of the drag queens up ahead of us and said, "What about her? She has a tiara!"
"You're the Princess because I say you are", and just like that, it was done.
I then realized that if a Gay Man says you are the Parade Princess, then you damn well ARE, so I smoothed my skirt and straightened my halo and steeled myself for what would come.
Just before we took off, someone snapped a photo:

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As I looked behind me, a police car pulled up. I realized then that being at the very end of the parade meant that a policeman would be behind me the entire way. It both rattled me and made me feel secure. I also realized that sitting on the back of a convertible meant that I was exposed in all 360 degrees. I was visible from all sides. This also rattled me, but also helped my spine infuse with a little more titanium. I was visible, goddammit, and there was nowhere that I could hide and nowhere that they could hide from me.

I could see just far enough ahead to see that there were hundreds of people lining the sidewalks along the parade route. They were all holding signs. Just before we took off, I asked someone walking by, "What's up with all those people?"
"Protesters.", they answered.

I steeled myself again, and so we began.

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We encountered protesters almost immediately and I began taking picutures of them. Most of the protesters who saw me taking their picture were quite irritated, some responded by taking pictures of me, some shouted insults.
Most of the protestors were holding signs with religious themes, quoting scripture, or flat-out condemning us for our life.

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Many of the protesters had their backs turned to us:

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Still, there were lots of folks who faced us, who clapped for us, who cheered us on. There were Mothers holding up their babies to wave at us. There were old men giving us the thumbs-up. There were college students holding up their own homemade signs that said, "We support you!".

All along the route, there were protesters. More and more of them and as we drove along at 10 miles per hour, I felt the heavy blanket of ignorance.

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Throughout the parade, I nodded and waved at people. I held up my signs. I threw my candy. I laughed when an angry man yelled at me from the sidewalk, "Are you a MAN or a WOMAN?". I wiped spit off of my arm when a teenage boy hocked a giant loogie at me after screaming, "FAGGOT BITCH!". I picked a paperwad out of my hair when we passed a group of protesters who were holding up signs that had been professionally printed and paid for by their Church with sayings like, "Homosexuality is a SIN" and "Adam and EVE, not Adam and STEVE!".
I waved and nodded and smiled while I looked over my shoulder, the police car ever-present and keeping pace with me.

We were tunnelling through the hatred, all of us. Gay moles in a sea of ignorant, hating dirt. The parade route, a Luge track for all of us, proving our bravery, our insistance on equality. I would be lying if I said that I didn't feel tears brimming several times. Not because of the hatred, but because I felt the gravity of what we were doing. We were demanding our space, fighting for our rights with feathered boas and homemade signs. We were a tiny flock of Gay birds in a big, BIG intolerant sky. And there I sat on the back of a raggedy-assed Mustang with my homemade signs and ridiculously undersized angel wings and halo, a loud pink skirt, and the sun beating down on my head and shoulders and the police car behind me, almost like a hearse in a funeral procession, somberly keeping silent time.

At one point in the Parade, a guy in a Speedo ran up beside the car. He was carrying a shoulder sack and had obviously stuffed a potato into the front of his suit. He ran up beside the car and shouted, "HAPPY GAY PRIDE! WOULD YOU LIKE SOME PORNOGRAPHY?"
He ran ahead when I told him no and proceeded to hand out pornography along the parade route for several blocks. I shook my head in disgust, knowing that the mockery was at our expense.

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Later, there was an article in the paper about how this guy was a DJ from a local radio station and had made statements on air about how it would be funny to "infiltrate" our parade as a publicity stunt. We also read about how he was charged with distributing pornography to minors after handing several of his "Giant Bubble Butts 4" videos to teenage boys.

As we were nearing the end of the Parade route when the sun was highest in the sky, a church group appeared on the edge of the turn and were handing out ice-cold bottled water to all of the parade participants.
A man came alongside of the car and held out a bottle of water to me. I could still see the little beads of icy goodness dripping down the sides of the plastic bottle and onto the pavement. It occured to me that this church was trying to show kindness, trying to show the other churches a "better way" to reach the sinful Queers. It occured to me in that moment that it might be a topic of discussion at their next prayer meeting when they all sat around and back-slapped each other for giving water to the Queers at the parade, like we were a bunch of lepers in need of salve. I thought about how I didn't want to be anyone's "story" over a bottle of water, how I didnt want to be a stepping-stone to Heaven for a Christian trying to "do their duty". And then I thought, "Bitch, it's hot! TAKE THE WATER!"
Just as I was about to reach over and take the water, I happened to look down into the floor board of the car and saw a bottle of water rolling around absently. I declined the "Jesus Water" and thanked the guy anyway.

My emotions were high. On overload even. I exhaled deeply when I saw the pavillion at the end of the route decorated in rainbows and glitter.

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At the pavillion, we celebrated.
There was singing, dancing, a commitment ceremony, testimony, prayer, a moment of silence, food, and children playing in the sprinklers.

The two men who had organized the Parade got up on stage at the pavillion (you can see them in the picture above and below), and told their stories.

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John and Robert talked about their experiences in Stonewall and Vietnam. They talked about their commitment to battling for Gay rights and equality in Conway, in Arkansas, in the South. They both spoke so passionately about coming out, about living in a small town in Arkansas as two Gay men. In a word, they were both....amazing.

Jack and I plan to attend the Conway Pride parade that is now in it's 7th (8th?) year. We might even set up a booth for The Planet there and see if we can draw some new members.

Pride parades are often such a flamboyant, if not cheesy, affair. On the surface, looking very much like a stream of glittery debauchery. An excuse to get half-naked and wear a tiara. A fun way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
After having been in the first Pride parade in a small town, I now realize that underneath all of that glitter and feathery boa shit is a very real current of need. We NEED to be seen. We NEED to be heard. We NEED to demand that our way of being is not a tunnel underneath the ground, in darkness, or in dirt.

Our tunnels are meant to be firey, glittery, passionate displays of who we are, right out there in the goddamn open. Right in the middle of the sunshine and light of day. Right in the middle of small-town America. Even when it's scary. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels like it doesn't matter. Even when everyone around us is telling us that we are wrong.

I'm telling this story today because I want to remind folks as we come up on the season of our Pride events that showing up DOES matter. That we make history every time we demand space where there was none before. That we have to put aside our fear, our irritation, or own comfort sometimes to be visible. That we are doing things in this time that the folks before us couldn't do, and that there will be people after us who will do things that we can't do. That we are ALL in this shit together, we are all a big, giant, squawking Queer family and that we have to do our part in this fight for our rights.

I love you all,
Medusa

thanks for sharing.

Nothing to fear :)

Jack and I moved to a very small town after living in Los Angeles. We have been in our small town in Arkansas for 6 months and I can honestly say that we have experienced no direct homophobia. Sure, I have seen exactly 2 bumper stickers since being here with the little "man plus woman equals marriage" symbols, but in all honesty, I saw those all over Los Angeles as well.

I would love it if my husband would come into this thread and talk about her experiences of living as a Butch here. She has a pretty unique perspective and has mentioned several times that she feels more comfortable in Arkansas as a visible Butch than she ever did in Los Angeles. Our friend, Niceguy, has said much the same thing and has lived here his entire life.
We have speculated that maybe country folks are used to seeing "tomboyish" women because of all of the women who do farm labor here or all of the "country girls" who wear camo and hunt. Or maybe its just that country folks do they whole "bless their heart" thing and move on.

Don't get me wrong, we have some damn ingorant fools here but my experience is that we have no more ignorant fools here than I have encountered in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Baltimore, San Francisco (!), and even Seattle. You will find them everywhere, of course. :)

We had some long discussions in our house around the time of planning the Reunion for this reason. The idea for some that Arkansas is a bunch of "white racist homophobes" and that some folks might not feel safe. My honest experience, after having traveled all over the world is that for the most part, Arkansas (especially the Little Rock metro area and college towns) feels a lot like Portland, Atlanta, and even Austin on a lot of levels. It feels gay-friendly to me as a Femme, and Jack will tell you the same when she comes in here.

I can certainly tell a difference in the last 5 years after moving back here from Los Angeles. It seems like there has been an explosion of Gayness here! TONS of Pride events, clubs, churches, and organizations doing anti-oppression work and such. It's a noticeable difference in Conway as well. Just as an example, when Jack and I went and filed for the business license together for The Planet, the clerk didnt even blink when Jack asked her when they were going to allow Gay Marriage in Arkansas. I think her response was something like, "Well, we haven't gotten that far but we're working on it."
We have met tons of friendly folks who are inquisitive in respectful ways about our relationship, who offer stories of the other Gay folks that they know, and who are supportive of us as partnered Queers. Even the ladies who work at the convenience store where Jack buys her chew fawn and coo over us when we come in. It's like we're their Queerpets or something.

Not saying it's perfect. It's not. But it isnt the banjo-playing homophobia-Mecca that a lot of folks think it is. Every small town has its own flavor of course. :)

love it!!!

We hid the pictures from you, Greyson ;)

I was talking with Jack just a few weeks back about hate crimes and wondering if there was any info about the number of hate crimes in small towns versus the number of hate crimes in larger cities.

When I think of the places where most of the homophobia-related hate crimes have occured (not that any hate crime has greater value than another, but just for this discussions sake, focusing on these), I think about Matthew Shepherd in Laramie, Wyoming. I think about Brandon Teena in Humboldt, Nebraska. I think about Harvey Milk in San Francisco. I think about Rebecca Wight in Pennsylvania. I think about Scott Amedure in Michigan. I think about Barry Winchelle in Ft. Campbell, Kentucky.

When I think of just those few homophiobia-related hate crimes and all of the others in a long list of (too) many, I get a mental map in my head that looks pretty sporadic. (Especially when I think of the homophobic hate crimes that have happened in London, Ireland, Jamaica, etc.

I'd love to do some more research on it or perhaps have a larger discussion about it. :)

Madusa thank you so much for this story...now I got something in my eyes...u rock.

Bless you for this post. *in tears* It's utterly beautiful.

{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{Dusa}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

I was surprised how small the Pride Parade was here in Wichita my first year--and even more surprised how few protestors there were. Last year it was a bigger parade and even fewer protestors.

When I first started talking to Gryph, he called this "the buckle of the Bible Belt" which scared me. But while that's true--we are sort of in the center of the Belt--Wichita is much like Little Rock. We're accepted pretty much everywhere and people either ignore the fact that we're Queer, or they just don't care.

wow...thank you Medusa for sharing your story along with the pictures. I was moved to tears. I am so proud to be a member of the LGBTQ Community.

Madusa please let us all know when the next pride is in Ark...I think I can get e fue from hear to come,besides myself.