When Pride Comes to My HomeTown (small)USA

“Not everyone wants to go down to the city. It’s a lot smaller, just local, fun, warm energy. Shows that it’s not just cities that are supporting the L.G.B.T.Q. communities, but also neighboring small towns.”

Harrison Wright

 

Text by Sam Whitney

Photographs by Amy Lynn Powell

Mr. Whitney is an art director in Times Opinion. Ms. Powell is a photographer based in Dayton, Ohio.

Aug. 30, 2024

The first time I went to Pride, I lied about where I was going. I drove about an hour from my parents’ house in central Massachusetts to the periphery of Boston’s subway lines. In the station parking lot, I swapped my modest khaki shorts for a bright red pair with a much shorter inseam and boarded a train heading downtown.

When I emerged into the city, I found myself, for the first time, surrounded by a crowd of mostly queer people. The rainbow colors of balloons, floats and Pride-goers’ clothes stood out against the muted tones of Boston’s City Hall Plaza. The novelty of what I was experiencing revealed that this was not possible everywhere, and certainly not in the town where I grew up.

For decades, it has been mostly cities, like New York and San Francisco, that have defined what Pride looks and feels like. Queer people like me have, for reasons that feel obvious, flocked to these areas; why wouldn’t you want to live somewhere that makes you feel celebrated? But in an era of widespread L.G.B.T.Q. visibility and acceptance, queer residents in smaller communities are bringing Pride to their hometowns, prompting questions about what the festival can look like in those places, the impact it can have and what kinds of communities welcome queer people.

Lebanon, Ohio, recently faced these questions. A town of about 21,000 nestled between Dayton and Cincinnati, Lebanon isn’t shy about its conservative politics and hasn’t always felt welcoming to its queer residents. Growing up, a Lebanon native, James Reynolds, felt that being queer wasn’t accepted; he left town and ultimately settled in Cincinnati. 

Years later, he reconnected with Brooke Handley, who grew up in Lebanon and still lives there, and shared his dreams of building a more inclusive culture in their hometown. The two concocted a plan for Lebanon’s own celebration of its queer residents. They expected resistance but felt they had nothing to lose.

The inaugural Lebanon Pride Festival took place this year on July 20, a sunny Saturday, at the town’s Bicentennial Park and surrounding blocks. Billed as a safe, positive, family-friendly event, it had all the hallmarks of a queer celebration: balloons, rainbow apparel, drag queens. The words “Love always wins” were displayed prominently, written in chalk on the sidewalk. With the energy high and joyful, the event lasted through the afternoon and well into the night, the celebration undeterred even by the presence of a group of protesters.

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The festival was met with surprise from some locals, but for many who attended, there was a shared feeling that it was a success. It felt personal. It felt like a community. It inspired some to imagine alternate versions of their childhoods where their identities were celebrated and cherished.

Pride events don’t always give me the same thrill that my first Boston Pride did. I have now lived in a couple of queer hot spots, and I can take them for granted. But the Lebanon Pride Festival is a reminder that Pride offers something real to those who need it most. It is permission to explore identity, a reminder that there is a community to be made, and — at best — a redefinition of home.

“Being a gay boy raised in a town like this, you didn’t see a lot of support. You didn’t see a lot of visibility. As my husband and I were walking up, I was like, 'Wouldn’t it be something to see this in our hometowns?' To see the kids out here, the support of the community. That would have been a game changer in the ’90s.”

Shawn Harwell