I’ve Got Southern-Fried Queer Pride
A Prism and Pen prompt response.
I can remember chugging down a glass of lemonade like it was liquid gold. It was another summer at mawmaw’s house and the heat outside had already forced a retreat. “You’re letting my good air out Joe, it’s either out or in,” the adults would say, giving me a loving ultimatum.
Ice clinked inside the old glass as I heeded their warning, throwing myself towards the other side of the door. Breathing in and looking up, I could see pine trees shaking in the wind. In the distance church bells rang, signaling the start of the afternoon.
Life and time felt endless back in those days.
I closed my eyes and pictured what I’d find myself doing. Before I knew anything, I had the knowledge of freedom. In this small town in the Deep South, the world may have seemed small on paper, but my imagination let it be so much more.
“In or out,” wasn’t the language of the closet, no, it was something simple. It was the language of adventure.
Pride through Southern Eyes
When you hear the word “Pride” what’s the first thing that comes to mind? Do you picture a place like New York City in June, awash with an endless amount of colors and smiling faces? Does your mind wander to the protests of the past, angry queers tearing it up and sticking it to the (straight) man? Do contemporary examples flood your mind, full of famous LGBTQ actors and celebrities?
Visions of queer life filtered through the lens of various cityscapes dominate our collective consciousness. You don’t envision the people like me, living in places not known for their progressiveness. The folks living in oft maligned “red” states, who deserve their suffering for refusing to evolve with the times.
No, there’s nothing prideful about living in rural areas. A place like the southern United States, full of small towns, is not where LGBTQ people thrive, or so they say.
For anyone, it should be a common thing to be proud of where you’re from. For southerners, with our sometimes less-than-stellar history in this country, expressing pride can be a minefield. So what are we to do? Should we just exist in perpetual silence about our thoughts and experiences? Or perhaps we can take the braver route, rewriting what it means to be southern and proud of it.
A common LGBTQ narrative is one where someone leaves their shameful home to embark on a journey to a supposedly progressive city or region. Yet I haven’t managed to leave this place, does the story of my queerness not start until I take that step? I don’t think so, in fact…
It’s Being Written All the Time
My queerness is both complete and incomplete. It’s the experiences I have had while living in both rural Louisiana and other, larger cities in this state. While it may not have had the same kind of glamour you would see on TV, it was mine all the same.
My queerness was the time I’d spend thinking of the boys in my class, not understanding what that meant. As I’d sit there in my parent’s car enjoying a cherry snowball and po-boy, I’d wonder why they were on my mind as much as they were.
These were my friends right? Yet with a few of them, it felt like something more. From hanging out in the backwoods to trail rides, these were moments unique to where we lived. Moments informed by the foods, words, and culture that permeate all aspects living in South Louisiana.
I think there’s something magical about that.
Standing here now in the same spot I would as a child, the memories continue to come back to me. The trees still sing their songs, even with a few of them taken away over the years by storms. I can still reach deep inside and summon that same sense of adventure and wonder.
I don’t hate it here, I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. If it wasn’t for me growing up in such circumstances, I wouldn’t be as resilient as I am now. If it wasn’t for me experiencing the push and pull of wanting to leave, I wouldn’t come to appreciate the many things that make up who I am.
The South has problems, let me be the first to tell you. But it’s not anyone’s scapegoat, especially those who don’t even live here. I’m proud of the fact that I have survived as long as I have, even thriving at certain points. Proud of the other southern queers like me who have stuck it out, fighting for their right to exist and be happy.
No one should have to leave home to feel human. The idea that we should leave behind family and culture to be happy is one that I reject. I may not always find myself living in the South, but I will always know that my pride is deep-fried in all the experiences others tell me I should be ashamed of.
This story is a response to the Prism & Pen writing prompt Will the Real (Queer) You Please Stand Up?
