​I’ve lived in so many places, let’s just say that it’s necessary for me to count on my fingers just how many places I’ve been lucky enough to call home. I will not bore you with the litany of how many, but let’s just say Farmington, N.M. is not the smallest enclave I have called home. That would be gay mecca Wilton Manors, Florida, which was certainly smaller. Farmington, however, is the most rural.

​I still chuckle when we pass signs that remind us to beware of cows crossing the road. Of course, despite the small size of Wilton Manors, it has a gay population to rival the per capita of San Francisco. Its proximity to Miami and Fort Lauderdale renders it a small town, yes, but rural, decidedly not.

​On Wednesday, June 17th, my husband and I attended our first rural Pride parade. I was nervous, admittedly. Would there be protestors? Serious protestors. In major cities, the protestors do not outnumber the LGBTQ+ and/or ally attendees. In Philly, New York, Portland, and even little Wilton Manors, our voices drowned out their threats.

​Or, to sum it up in a text conversation with my friend Lance, back in Philly:

​“We went to the rural Pride parade. No Jesus protestors,” I texted, hoping for a laugh, “ I was kinda disappointed.”

“Those pious zealots have just become so lazy,” he lamented. “They don’t have half the gumption they did in the 90’s, or even the 2000’s. I didn’t even notice them once during our entire Pride weekend.”

​“I know. It’s almost like they gave up! Remember the days you could sit on a double-seat on a bus? And eight outta’ 10 times nobody sat next to you? You had a place for your bag! I mean…a little refined homophobia is a good thing.”

​“Is nothing sacred anymore?”

​The denouement* of no protestors aside, we had a good time. We were invited by my friend Julie Gow. Like me, it seems she has lived in many bigger, urban locales, including my native Philly. As far as the size of the parade, yes: it was on a smaller scale than my past experiences.

​There were several marchers, a few floats, the de rigueur* drag queen, and several pleasant onlookers. There were vibrant costumes. There was free merch: a pin from the Episcopal Church with their coat of arms rebranded with the Pride flag, which will go on my blazer the next time I wear one, mini-Pride flags, of course, and a paper fan, which I sadly dropped.

​*(Thinking a lot about France today, because it looks like I have July 14th off, Bastille Day, which is a favorite holiday of mine; a reason to make French food and drink real champagne.)

​We live in a society that talks about the vibes. While there were no scantily clad men in Speedos or jockstraps, or women in bikini tops and denim shorts, the vibe was there. “Happy Pride” was heard with the same heartfelt love encountered in the metropolises we have lived in.

​And that, that was all that mattered.

​We were invited by Julie Gow, mentioned above, a member of the New Mexico State Democratic Party Central Committee and the San Juan County Central Committee. She is an ally, an aunt to an out nephew. She is also heavily involved with Farmington’s Chamber of Commerce.

​“This evening’s  Pride Parade was a beautiful celebration of resiliency, respect, and joy. Love can trump hate. I’m so thankful for all who participated in this successful community event!”

​The event was organized primarily by Indivisible San Juan County. They also organize local No Kings events. Their mission statement is, “Indivisible San Juan is a pro-democracy, anti-authoritarian, grassroots activist network of neighbors working collectively towards a vision of community rooted in inclusion, fairness, access, and justice for all people – local, state, and nation.”

​(My apologies to Indivisible San Juan for not getting a quote from them,  but I had to extend my deadline to attend the parade and get this column to my publisher.)

​A straight colleague from work texted us as we were on our way home from the parade. He’d never been to one. He thought it was “awesome.” We had to cut out early because a few more plants had to go into the earth, and the planted veggies and flowers had to be watered. So, like two ships, err, pride floats in the night, we missed each other. I was a little surprised, and pleased he came, especially without being there for myself and my husband.

​A gay colleague at work, Ben, who is from the Four Corners but experienced L.A. Pride while living there, passed by me early in the morning.

​“Did you boys,” (he and his fiancée, I mean, both adults, all legal) “go to the parade?”

​“Not this time. How was it?”

​“It was gay.”

​“Then it was good!”

​And, that, dear readers, is all that matters at a Pride event. It should be gay, and proud, and happy. Regardless of numbers, whether it’s on a major avenue in Manhattan or Philly, or the quaint Main Street of Farmington, New Mexico. That’s what makes it good.

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