Pride comes to Madison, Indiana

And maybe everything isn't as horrible and hopeless as we think it is? Maybe?

I read a bad novel this week. I read the whole thing because it was by an author who has written many good novels. I had faith that like a plane in a nosedive, the author would pull out of it at some point, avoiding the fiery crash to our deaths. They did not.

Instead at the end, connected to nothing in the novel that had come before, they tacked on a dystopian, apocalyptic epilogue, set in the year 203-. So, six years or so from now and, yes, maybe the world will have gone to total shit by then. Maybe it already has. But maybe not.

I get the impulse, this dystopian anxiety dump apropos of nothing. Let me take my very darkest anxiety nightmare and put them on the page and spread those anxieties to everyone else. It’s hard to figure out what to do with our anxiety, even if you are a famous novelist. Why not turn it into a random epilogue? The world can certainly feel dystopian. Terrifying. The world can feel like we are inches away from falling off the cliff to our own doom Like perhaps we are already falling, speeding toward certain destruction. Hope feels like too much of an effort. I get it.

Still, this weekend in my small town in Indiana we had our first ever Pride event. A festival on the lawn of the Lanier Mansion, our most famous historical landmark. The grounds in front of the mansion were festooned with all manner of rainbow decorations.

I wish I had better pictures, but as my husband and I put up these little rainbow squiggles, I’m especially proud of them

As Pride festivals go, it was small. We are only a town of about 13,000 on a good day. There was music. Face painting. A photo booth. Food trucks. The mayor gave a speech. They mayor in our red town in a red county in a red state would not exactly describe himself as a liberal guy. But he was there at the Pride festival and reports were that his speech was sincere and after, he thanked the organizer of the festival for including him in the event.

It's true, it’s in the mayor’s interests to be friendly with the gays in town. A good number of our local businesses are owned by LGBTQ+ folks, including our new duckpin bowling/wine bar coming soon (Am I excited about this? Fuck, yes, I’m excited!). We recently won a national award (hello, Great American Main Street) partly on the basis of our openness to diversity. Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned there—that being inclusive is a good thing for everyone, even Republican mayors.

The event was organized by a friend and various neighbors. I didn’t know everyone at the festival, but there were a lot of familiar faces. In a small town, you can convince yourself that you know everyone who’s gay or everyone who counts themselves as an ally, but, of course, you don’t. You believe you and your friends are an isolated island surrounded by hostility, but it’s not that simple.

My friend told a story of stopping at the local liquor store on the day of the festival. The woman working the counter was decked out in Pride accessories, even though she wouldn’t be able to make it to the festival because she had to work. “I’ve been waiting years for this,” she told my friend. “I’m ready.”

You never know who needs a Pride event in their town. You never know whose life might be saved, even if they never show up. You never know who’s been waiting for so long for their community to say to them, “We want to celebrate you. We want you here. We love you.” You never know who needs to hear the message a Pride event sends—“We will defend you if the need arises. We’re in this together.” That’s what Pride in a small town in Indiana means.

Did I tear up as I stood on the lawn watching people pitch in at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning to help set up for the event? I did. Did I give the organizer a big hug and tell him. “Look what you made happen!” Yep. Did I rejoice in being able to say to my friends and neighbors, “Happy Pride!” Absolutely.

Maybe everything is horrible and the famous novelist is right. Maybe we are six years or even fewer away from the end. But maybe also a small town in southern Indiana had its first ever Pride event. Maybe that means something, too.

Maybe we avert disaster. Maybe together, we pull ourselves out of that nosedive. Maybe we don’t jump off the cliff. Maybe our better selves prevail. Anyway, that’s the ending I would write.

Thank you to all my new subscribers! Glad you’re here. And extra special thanks to Hillary Beal, who became a paid subscriber, which is deeply appreciated.

Good books I read recently to make up for the bad one: The Great Divide, by Cristina Henriquez, about the building of the Panama Canal, but also so much more. Edge of the Grave, by Robbie Morrison, the first in a new mystery series set in early 20th century Glasgow, peppered with little bits of Scottish history, like the Quintinshill rail disaster. Very much like Peaky Blinders, but Scottish. Because I’m still obsessed with Truman Capote and the swans, The Swans of Fifth Avenue, by Melanie Benjamin. Another interesting perspective on those relationships.