Photos by Logan Oleson | @l.o.foto

Four years ago, I moved from Boston, MA to Covington, Kentucky, to be closer to my long-distance partner. I was confident that many of the things soon to be changing in my life were going to bring me joy: I was leaving behind terrible icy winters for a longer summer, a cost of living I couldn’t afford on my nonprofit salary for an affordable city, and hundreds of miles of distance between me and the person I wanted to be with. I had just one serious concern: I was a Queer woman moving from a sanctuary city to a red state.

This wasn’t my first big move. I had moved to Boston for college in 2009 from a Philadelphia suburb. I had come out as bisexual my junior year of high school when I started dating a girl, and the harassment that came from being openly Queer convinced me that there were only certain cities that would feel comfortable and safe to me.

Boston was one of those cities. I wanted to walk down the street holding hands with whomever I wanted, and never catch a second glance. I wanted lesbian bars and book clubs, concerts full of Queers, a community built on something shared, and so many gay friends.

Hotel Covington at 638 Madison Ave.

For a while, Boston was a welcome change. I attended Emerson College where being Queer was basically the norm. The Duck Boats that toured the historical downtown would joke about the “chain smoking bisexuals” that the college churned out, and I was proud to represent. I lived with my girlfriend, and we were rarely bothered. But after college and as time went on, my Queer identity felt like a practice that was only personal. I had no community in Massachusetts.

It’s not that Boston wasn’t gay-friendly. Massachusetts was the first state to legalize same-sex marriage. There are Pride flags on the buildings, Queer-owned businesses, and legislative protection. But I felt isolated from anything Queer and bigger than myself. There were two gay bars accessible to me, and both were frequented solely by gay men and straight bachelorette parties. When I did try to make Queer friends in public spaces, I found myself challenged. As a super feminine bisexual cis woman who dates men, I felt I had to come out again and again with every new introduction. I grew tired of it. It almost felt as though part of me had disappeared into the safety of a sanctuary city. When I decided to leave Massachusetts for Kentucky, I was resolved to find people and places that would make me feel safe and seen. I was only worried that it wouldn’t happen.

Ahead of my move and in the depths of COVID-19 quarantine, I joined Lex, a social app for Queer people. I was surprised by how many folks reached out in response to my post about moving to the area and looking for friends. I started chatting with a fellow East Coast transplant who was living in Newport. While still living in Boston, I joined her Northern Kentucky Queer book club, and attended my first meeting on Zoom. Even if I had just this one Queer friend and this little Queer book club, I thought, I would be OK.

Clive the Alien at the Midtown Garage parking lot in Covington.

When I arrived, my new friend took me to what I can only describe as a gay bagel shop. If I have this one Queer friend, this little Queer book club, and this Queer-ass bagel shop, I will definitely be OK, I thought.

But Kentucky kept opening to me. In Covington, I became an organizer of the book club I joined, and it grows a little bit each month with members of varied age, gender, and orientation. Folks join from rural areas north of Cincinnati and south of Newport. We have all shown up for each other during hard times, even though we meet just once a month. I live two blocks away from an intersection where the pedestrian crosswalks are painted as rainbows, and gay bars face off on the corners. Even closer to home, my block has a strong Queer contingent, and we are a small community within our larger one: we are pet sitters, parcel carriers, diligent watchmen, and well-wishers, checking in with regularity.

It’s not just Covington that has proven welcoming–my first trip to Louisville showed me even more. At Revelry Gallery I spent nearly an hour admiring the art and wares from local artists, a huge number of whom were Queer. There I picked up the first print edition of Queer Kentucky. I was overjoyed to find a publication dedicated to Queer stories in the state. I had never seen such a thing, certainly not in Pennsylvania or Massachusetts where I’d lived before. The stories inside were inspiring in their diversity of voices. In Louisville I learned about the Kentuckiana Pride festival. I coveted a sweater from Crybaby, whose focus on community safety and harm reduction — in addition to their gorgeous chain-stitch pieces — felt like an answer to a question I couldn’t name.

The Carnegie

Some time later, I finally got to explore Lexington and ended the night with a drag show at the Bar Complex, a huge gay nightclub. Bar Complex felt entirely too good to be true: in all my years dancing and drinking in Boston, there had never been a place that felt so close to home.

In all of these towns and all of these spaces, I’ve been greeted with a smile. I have been looked after and I have looked after others. I have not even been on the receiving end of a sidelong glance when I enter a Queer event with a straight date. In Kentucky, I feel invited by my community to celebrate my Queerness for longer than the month of June.

My position is unique, and I will not suggest that Kentucky, or any place in America right now, is not a dangerous place to be Queer–especially for folks who are also of color or are immigrants. But I often wonder if adversity has a strengthening effect on the community. Perhaps when the government would like to erase our existence, we are less likely to take one another for granted. We resist by welcoming one another. There is nothing more Queer than an insistence on being ungovernable, and in Kentucky we are. I am thankful that we are here to see each other, to fight for each other, and to rejoice in one another.

Author Katie Eelman, contributor to Queer Kentucky’s story “Relocating to Northern Kentucky.”