I grew up in rural Indiana, and did not know I was queer until six years after graduating high school. Small, overwhelmingly conservative Lawrenceburg, in Dearborn County, Indiana, had its first LGBTQ+ pride parade in 2018; the fact that there is visibility now is almost unbelievable to me. All of my friends who are queer had to leave to either realize it or come out safely. However, the slow work of organizing for a better future is finally happening. Dearborn County Pride is now incorporated as a 501(c)(3) and hosts regular events to support the queer community. Kate Weinbender, executive director of Dearborn County Pride, notes that there are unique fights that must happen in areas like Lawrenceburg, but the first and largest obstacle is that people in these places have a lot of misconceptions about what being queer actually is. Organizing in a place like this requires spaces for people to come and question.
Katrina Ward
A little more than ten years ago, I spent a lot of time in downtown Lawrenceburg, photographing friends for album covers for their music releases and for fun. When I was younger, it was a place no one ever went, so no one ever questioned the ragtag group of teenagers running around with a camera. Now, parking is almost always full, and business is booming—clearly, things are changing, and new perspectives are coming alongside these changes.
Katrina Ward
Signs like these saying “choose life” are ubiquitous in the area, and have been since I was young. A new addition, stating “No matter who is President, Jesus is KING!” rests in the background. People here are not shy about combining religion and politics—local churches send groups to the national anti-abortion “March for Life” in Washington, D.C., every year. Churches are one of the only community structures for folks who live in this rural area.
Katrina Ward
Dearborn County Pride is run by a small volunteer board that meets once a month, and their efforts largely focus on the yearly Pride Festival held at the county fairgrounds. When possible, they try to work with partner organizations to provide support and programming outside of the pride event—for example, they run a support group run by a licensed mental health professional. There are monthly LGBTQ+ events at the Lawrenceburg Public Library District, as the bulletin board shows. While the reaction when the group posts online about their offerings and events is somewhat “feisty,” Kate notes, “When I talk to people in person, the tone is a lot different. People are excited.”
Katrina Ward
Rabbit Giraud and I grew up together in the same conservative religious circles, and lived on the same road. Although he now lives less than an hour’s drive away from Lawrenceburg, he shares that “it’s still kind of painful to go back there.” He knew from a very young age that he was not a woman, and the knowledge of his gender also came with a certainty that if his family’s religion was real, he was going to hell. Today, Rabbit works as a tattoo artist in a suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio, and has creatively invented language to affirm his gender identity, like “team bride” instead of “bridesmaid” when participating in a loved one’s wedding.
Katrina Ward
Mattea Westrich graduated last year from Lawrenceburg High School. She now works at Funny Farm Coffee in downtown Lawrenceburg. The culture in Lawrenceburg has changed so much since the time I lived there that Mattea has multiple friends who are out and queer, including trans folks. While the owner of Funny Farm, Mike Detmer, notes that “these things just take time,” the fact that anyone is out now is monumental.
Katrina Ward
The sign outside the middle school I attended flashes announcements, and then, “Once a Trojan, Always a Trojan” (in honor of the school’s mascot). During my K-12 education, I did not know a single person who was out as queer. Many of us—myself included—simply did not know that this could be an option.