By Dr. Laura McGuire
On a recent drive through a rural community in the South, I stopped for a bite to eat at a local restaurant. A few months ago, I started an online business making spiritual symbol necklaces with different LGBTQ flags inside—hamsas, Stars of David, crosses, and Goddesses—on Etsy. I try to wear the ones I have made for myself as much as I can, and the exchanges I have had because of them have been deeply moving.
I created these necklaces simply because I wanted a wearable piece of art that sends a clear message—that one does not need to choose between their faith and identity. I figured that, if I wanted something like this to show my lived intersections, maybe others did too—and I was right. People from all over the country have requested rainbow faith paintings, jewelry, and keychains. I receive beautiful messages through my shop about how these items are meaningful to people of all ages—it makes me honored to be of service in this way.
But on this day, in this small town, I was reminded of just how important representation can be. My necklace is subtle enough that those who don’t want to imagine a queer-inclusive God don’t get it, but for those looking for that vision, the message is abundantly clear. As I was waiting to be seated at the restaurant, two hosts—both just out of high school—commented on my necklace and shared how they appreciated what it meant. We briefly chatted before I was seated, and I made sure to give them my contact information in case they wanted to stay in touch.
As I pulled onto the highway to leave, I saw an enormous Confederate flag proudly being waved over a public space in the town. Imagining those young souls having to navigate living their truths in such an unabashedly hostile area broke my heart. So, today, I wish to share some encouragement with those two hosts, and with all the other young queer people living in hateful environments.
Dear Young Queer Friends,
I wish I didn’t have to write to you about the trauma of growing up queer in the Deep South. When I was younger, I wanted to imagine that, someday, this would be a part of history—an ancient artifact that we had to explain to younger generations. But here we are—still in the place where I can see your pain when we talk about keeping our faith, culture, and identities, all while hate constantly exists around us.
I can tell you that it gets better, that one day you can leave, and that what the community around you is saying isn’t the entire country’s point of view. But I also want to acknowledge that being here now is incredibly hard and deeply painful. Imagining a different future can be helpful, but it doesn’t help what you are facing in this moment and all the fires you have already walked through. Your soul has the burn marks to prove it, and I see those singed edges hidden underneath your smile.
The flag on my necklace is the antigen to the infection that runs through the flag that waves over your town. Almost every faith, at its indigenous, ancient roots, understood many genders to be valid and true. This history may have long been silenced but there are more and more voices bringing these truths to light. Despite what you may have heard growing up, God does not want you in any other form than how you were created—beautifully and preciously queer.
The South has a deep, dark history of erasure, harm, and oppression of millions of people from a vast array of communities. But even there, remember that white oppressors are not the soil of the earth you stand on. You can love your home and, because of that love, reject its toxicity and reclaim what it means to be a southerner. You were born to fight against injustice, to hold a mirror up to those who want to cover up the past, and to amplify the voices of queer, BIPOC, and disabled southerners throughout history. Trust me, the Confederate Generals you see immortalized are the least interesting and most unneeded focal points of our history.
Immerse yourself instead into the untold history of your town and state while reading about southern heroes like Jackie Shane and organizations like the Gay Rodeo Association. Remember that you are not alone in your experience, and history is here to remind you of that.
Take a deep breath. Know that you are needed, here and everywhere. I grew up in—and for periods of my life left—the South, only to return in the end. You see, even with all the issues we have here, this is my home, and this is where I am needed. It is in the voices and faces of young LGBTQ southerners that I am reminded of the importance of continuing the fight for inclusion. Let’s do this together.
