We often make a hard distinction between urban and rural, which isn’t exactly precise anywhere. The distinctions between rural towns and small cities is, in the South in particular, nebulous. Franklin, for instance, might be considered by some a suburb of Nashville, or a small city rather than a rural town. But to link red-leaning Franklin with solidly blue Nashville, seems questionable at best, for any reason besides proximity. Around Franklin, particularly to the south, Wilson County is decidedly rural. The same can be said of almost every county surrounding Nashville: the small cities and towns there are gateways between the urban enclave of Nashville and rural Middle Tennessee
In March, the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) brought its National LGBT Rural Summit Series to Nashville in an effort to highlight the gulf between the experiences Nashville’s LGBT community and those of LGBT people in rural MTn outside of Nashville. Those from rural areas, even those in surrounding counties, are often entirely unaware of the resources available to them because the resources, groups and organizations are based in Nashville, and it can be difficult for those from outside to discover these resources on their own.
USDA’s Summit Series also accentuated a second element of its program. People of all kinds in urban settings tend to view those from more rural areas, if they think of them at all, as in need of outreach/help. We often fear, or are suspicious of, the rural experience, and undervalue what it may offer us. Yes, LGBT people in rural areas are more subject to poverty than their urban peers, but despite this there are those who cannot shake their #RuralPride.
The Tennessean recently published a wonderful article, “LGBT Face Challenges in Rural Tennessee.” The piece provided an intimate look into the difficulties many LGBT people face, and we do not dispute that: there are myriad stories more heart-wrenching and disturbing that could be told.
What about those LGBT people who have a different rural experience, though? What about those places where LGBT life and culture actually thrive against the backdrop of the rural south, like Short Mountain, near Liberty, Tennessee? We often think of the worst when we think of the rural South, but the story isn’t quite so simple for everyone, as these reflections on life outside of Nashville demonstrate.
Brandon Thomas and Michael Finch are an interracial, gay couple, and River Johnson is a trans man. They are all from Rutherford County.
Brandon Thomas:
Growing up in the rural South as queer person of color has its challenges. Sometimes I seriously wonder how I’ve made it this far. Coming out with a lackluster support system can be a scary situation. Luckily, the invention of the internet has given a way for LGBT people to connect with one another regardless of location. In my younger years, the internet and media played a great role in how I viewed the LGBT community and myself. I watched a lot of *Queer As Folk*, and wished I had the family, friends and glamorous life that the main characters did.
Once I went to college, I found the love of my life. Michael and I met briefly during a MT Lambda meeting. When I saw him, I thought he was the cutest one in the room. I knew then I needed to get to know him better. I found non-creepy reasons to get closer to him. I asked him to work with me as I tried to get gender identity added into MTSU’s non-discrimination policy. When I was Opinions Editor of the student newspaper, I asked him to write an op ed. And when I decided I wanted to start a chapter of Sigma Phi Beta, a queer-allied fraternity, I called Michael to see if he would help. We became best friends, and once I was brave enough to admit my feelings (with a little help from a friend playing Cupid at the bar), it turned into a relationship.
We do everything together and I can honestly say that I’ve never felt unsafe in public. Although most people think that rural areas aren’t safe for queer people, and while there are challenges that we still face, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
Michael Finch:
Being transgender means that my queer experience is unique. I’ve never had my parents disapprove of me liking guys—when they (and I) thought I was a girl, it was expected that I would like boys. So once I came out as trans, accepting that I was now their son was their biggest hurdle. I don’t think the fact that I was now their gay son even crossed their minds.
My trans brothers and sisters, especially trans women of color, face a high risk of violence, and the stigma seems to be worse in rural areas. I won’t deny the privilege I hold as a white man, even a queer man of trans experience. I’m also a little socially oblivious sometimes, and while that meant for the longest time that I could never tell when anyone was flirting with me, it also means I tend not to notice if someone is looking at me and thinking anything negative.
I’ve had boyfriends who were more hesitant than me though. One in particular, from the North, refused to hold my hand in public for fear of violence. I tried telling him that the hip taco restaurant in West Nashville is not the most likely place for someone to experience anti-queer violence, but he wouldn’t listen. That’s part of why dating Brandon has been so refreshing. For as much as he says he doesn’t need other people “knowing [his] business,” he’s perfectly willing to hug me, kiss me or hold my hand in public. I think we both have a lot of faith in our rural Southern communities.
We spent a year living in Baltimore, and it was actually there that we faced the most public harassment we’ve had to deal with. A man in a car driving past the bus stop had some choice words about me getting close to Brandon to brush a piece of lint out of his hair. [Another time] some teenagers looking out the windows of a passing light rail train yelled and made faces when they saw Brandon with his arm around me. Neither incident was particularly scary, but I can actually say we’ve never experienced anything like that in Tennessee.
We got homesick and moved back, and we’re here to stay. We both feel like it’s our job to make Tennessee, our home, even safer and more welcoming for Southern queers. No matter what, we’re staying for the fight.
River Johnson:
My name is River Johnson, and I’ve lived in Rutherford County since I was thirteen. Living in a small urban/rural area has its benefits, but as a gay trans man, my path has been a largely uphill struggle.
I wasn’t aware of, and thus didn’t have access to, a supportive LGBT group until I was a graduate student at MTSU at the age of twenty-one. It was only then that I finally had direct access to others like me, others who would finally enable connections with a wider community that provided me with the resources and support I needed.
Some of the more poignant moments I have included being told to get a new doctor and new insurance by my former PCP when I revealed myself to be a transgender person who wanted to pursue transitioning. I desperately needed counseling to begin my journey into transition medically. She refused to even attempt to do any research or networking to get me referred to someone who might be helpful. I felt completely lost and abandoned. I didn’t know where to go to get help. I felt judged, anxious, and desperate.
The first therapist I sought out for gender counseling utilized outdated guidelines that are no longer relevant to trans related healthcare guidelines, like making me spend a year in therapy while paying out of pocket for care. He also refused to help me get additional care, even though he knew I was desperate enough to attempt getting testosterone illegally.
The major downfalls in my rural/urban area have been lack of sensitivity and diversity education training for: medical providers, counselors, educational institutions k through 12, for kids under the age of 18, and access for families with LGBT youth. People were polite enough—by southern standards—to talk about me when my back was turned, not to my face. I also didn’t experience any physical violence related to my transition, though statistically I should have, since my chances of being murdered are 1/12. (If you’re cisgender your chances of being murdered are 1/18,898.)
I think what bothers me the most about the local community is a sense of apathy and willful ignorance. Until a person you love is impacted by these struggles then you don’t know what’s happening, nor do you care. Why should you care about a battle that isn’t yours?
Still, my experience living in a more rural community had some upsides: I found that on a daily basis people didn’t care what I looked like, which bathroom I used, or how I dressed. I think the ample room for education and growth is overall a positive thing for rural communities.
In Nashville there are defined categories if you identify as anything besides heterosexual, and I just don’t fit any category of the LGBT community in Nashville. I’m a perpetual outsider there, graciously allowed to share space with “legitimate” gay people.
People in rural communities are open to having a conversation and listening when I attempt to introduce them to how to address me, what questions are hurtful, and how to be a better ally. In the established LGBT community in Nashville I’m largely bull dozed over by people who reject me, who have expectations for how I should act as a gay man; I am shouted over rather than being heard, and many react with anger rather than accountability or desire to be a better ally or friend.
My love life also suffers, and not just in the rural environment. Just last night in Nashville, a cisgender gay man called me “a woman who cut off her boobs.” The hate and vitriol I have experienced overall in the LGBT community in Nashville, makes me more afraid than ever to dream of having a healthy relationship while living here (though there have been exceptional individuals who have welcomed me).
I am not willing to be fetishized. I am not willing to educate a romantic partner, if someone loves me, they will educate themselves. Just as it’s not a HIV positive person’s job to educate people about HIV. I want to spread love and help others. That is my personal main function. I will remain in this rural community, which overall provides more safety for me than a community that “eats its own.”
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So many LGBT people who live in urban environments in the South fled from rural communities that would not accept them whole-heartedly, and this builds understandable mistrust. Others still have negative notions about the rural South formed by media and culture. And we are not trying to say that the rural environment is ideal, by any means.
Rather, it seems that the simple narrative about LGBT life in and feelings about life in the rural South are far more complex that it may seem at first. As such, programs like the USDA’s Rural Summit Series and its #RuralPride initiative are invaluable in gaining greater understanding about not only the challenges, but also the rewards, of life in the rural South.