Lawrence County Hosts First-Ever Pride Month Celebration
Drag pioneers performed in a bar full of neon and a Confederate flag.
I’ve been to a lot of hashtag “Pride” events.
I’ve seen the cops beat a woman passed out at one of the country’s largest Pride parades in what’s supposed to be a liberal haven — Chicago. I’ve seen protestors screaming until slobber drooled from their mouths in Nashville, the bluest city in my current state of residence. I’ve seen photos of Pride parades around the world that my former employer Apple produced, and they looked nice until I learned how abusive the company is.
I’ve not until now experienced half as good a Pride event as what SameLove Productions put on at the Good Times Bar on Friday night in my hometown of Lawrenceburg, TN. The town’s first-ever Pride event also happened to be our second-ever drag queen bingo night. Like a lot of things, I didn’t how bad I needed it. It was also my partner’s first drag show, and the fact that Lawrenceburg delivered it is incredibly special.
For non-locals, Lawrenceburg is in Middle Tennessee and plenty of people love to remind you it was founded by Davy Crockett. We have a Walmart, more red lights than Waynesboro and we just built a four-year college that may or may not be sapping our electric grid beyond its ability.
We have some reckoning to do; that much was clear at last month’s Pride event according to drag queens and locals. SameLove’s Heather Patterson said protesters showed up at the May event with a bull horn and signs, and I didn’t need to ask for specifics about what sorts of things they were shouting. Surprisingly, though, the cops kept the rowdy group in line, asking them to stay across the street. Patterson said they enforced that order at least 90 percent of the time.
Friday’s event had no protestors. Instead the fear was replaced by a sickening Facebook comment on a post advertising the show. Although the comments have since been deleted by mods, the poster mentioned that folks used to just make the LGBTQ+ community “disappear.”
Residents responded and so did I. I put on a brave face, but I was terrified. I immediately tried to figure out how I could keep people safe. I texted friends to ask for informal security. I asked how to survive an active shooter. I imagined hitting the floor, checking my exits, and trying to regroup to deter or slow the assailant. I was, as my partner would say, tripping.
Queer people are assaulted, murdered, taken advantage of and beaten every day, so it took almost an entire day to calm down and comprehend the low the likelihood any of that would happen and that I would most likely be safe. I even tried to give money to the bar owner so she could get more security. She told me she carried a big stick and I believed her about ten seconds into our second conversation, when I walked through the door on Friday and disclaimed I’m a journalist. Her fierce reaction told me everything I needed to know about her dedication to LGBTQ safety and my respect was instant.
As the creator of the Southern and Appalachian Co-op Press and the sole writer/editor/financier/etc/etc., I was delighted when my followers had given me about $700 to cover the event. I’d asked for help on Twitter because it’s so hard to land hyper-local stories in national publications even though I have ten years of experience under my belt. Sure, I might be able to pitch the event to the New York Times since I’ve been published there before, but the rate wouldn’t be enough to cover my living costs for a single day and would probably just bring in more of the death threats I’ve tried to grow numb to over the years.
I decided to spend nearly half of all donations supporting the queens and the bar.
An audience member asked me a few times why I was handing out beer, so I explained a little about myself. I explained why and how I’m a journalist and that I’d come to cover the first Pride event in my hometown. We both teared up, and he pitched in another entire case of beer for the crowd. I danced with people I'd known in high school, people I always worried didn’t like me. But instead of hatred or slurs I was met with hugs and celebration — especially when I said I expect to be married soon.
Most importantly, I interviewed the absolute pioneers on the forefront of queer rights in a place that has a confederate flag sticker on the fridge door.
The queens put on an excellent performance led by host Tierra Stone. Stephanie Patterson, also of Same Love Productions and the event’s organizer, sat at a table and helped 50 or so people pick out bingo cards and chips. Stone opened the show wearing a bright, animal print catsuit and then took her post at the golden bingo roller to make dirty jokes Southern style.
“Did anybody think Lawrenceburg would ever have drag!?” she yelled to big cheers.
She was followed by solo performances from Jackie Mioff, whose rainbow-striped one piece with giant shoulder pads was made even more beautiful by her mom’s best Southern-pageant-energy outfit fluffings between sets. After the show, Mioff said she’s from Alabama and that she wasn’t scared of the aforementioned Facebook threat.
“I take care of myself,” she said. “I always have.”
Her tone was dead serious even though she’d been so bubbly right before. I knew that as scared as I was, Meoff had seen shit I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
The night also included sets from Dolly Bee Wellington, a Miss Rocket City Pride Newcomer. Meagan Flosha from Alabama performed and joined Mioff and I outside for a post-show round table. Flosha, of course, has seen the same threatening behavior Mioff has. She even said she’s been called her a pedophile for doing kid-friendly events. But she was also able to describe the magnitude of the emotional evening.
“That actually makes me super excited and honored to be a part of that,” Flosha said. “That’s history in the making.”
People from Alabama and Tennessee came to watch, some of whom don’t have supportive communities in their own towns. Loneliness sucks and so does being disconnected from fellow gays — so keep supporting local drag by visiting places in your area that stick their neck out for queers. Follow performers like Stone, Wellington, Flosha and Mioff. Go to local drag shows and tip as generously as you can.
And for those looking to organize directly, partner kindly reminded me that if Lawrenceburg can pull it off, just about any other Southern and Appalachian town can.
Lawrenceburg Pride is a little different than others. Ours Pride isn’t perfect, and it may not draw as many people as the metropolitan areas, but it’s just as impactful. I’ll be damned if I don’t yell about what we’ve got going on, because our community needs and deserves attention and investment.
Thank you for your support in making that happen. Please consider donating to the Southern & Appalachian Co-Op Press for more local reporting.
Great stuff here, Lonnie!
It was like I was shadowing you, great work. Happy Pride