By George B. Severson, Carolyn Campbell, Cat Palmer, Wes Long, Scott Renshaw and Benjamin Wood

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We share one world.
Let's make it a good one.
By George B. Severson, 2023 Pride Issue Guest Editor

Happy Pride Month, 2023! This June, Utah and communities around the nation are gathering for festivals, rallies and special events celebrating inclusivity, civility and equality. Members of the LGBTQ+ community—along with our allies, family, friends and those who are not yet ready to live out loud—are coming together in a safe space and solidarity to celebrate our pride, our shared values and our community spirit.

We also recognize and honor those who came before us—the pioneers of our community, who delivered us to where we proudly and unapologetically stand today. Every person has a unique journey and story. In this Pride edition of Salt Lake City Weekly, we'll read about some of those stories describing the challenges, the triumphs and yes, the sorrow and pain felt by many along the way.

During Pride Month, it's important to acknowledge that although every person is unique, we also share many values. It's in this common space where we must be unapologetic about who we are, show our personal pride and celebrate both our similarities and differences as people—respectfully and without judgment. Despite ongoing challenges, conflict and continued injustices, I believe our community is surviving and thriving because of our strong commitment to see and hear one another for who we all are.

We share one world. Together, we have the power to make it a special place.

Pride Month is a wonderful reminder of what is possible. Last year, as I marched down the parade route with my peers representing Utah's ABC4 and CW30, I noticed that the people walking beside me came together for two important reasons—to celebrate and to support. People with different backgrounds and interests—and in different phases in life as well—were together in solidarity. It made me proud.

For more than 30 years, I've been showing up at Pride events around the country. Sometimes, I show up to party and have fun. Sometimes, I show up to be seen, heard and counted—serious business. And sometimes, I show up to simply observe and soak up the fabulous energy and spirit of what's taking place. My personal Pride journey continues and evolves as I grow older. I suspect so shall yours.

The Utah Pride Center identified a wonderful theme for the 2023 Pride Festival—"Queer Pride is Unapologetic." I love it. This powerful statement embraces self-value and acceptance. I am who I am. We are who we are. And I/we are damned proud of it.

I recall the rallying cry of, "We're here. We're queer. Get used to it." It had its time with its "in your face" demand for acceptance, and it served a meaningful purpose. But I think living unapologetically and out loud—showing your true colors—is more powerful. It fosters and cultivates inclusivity and respect, and it builds a productive, collaborative culture—something we all can be proud to be a part of in this world.

Amid all the festivities, parades and celebrations this month, take a moment to observe the community around you. Is it the space you want for yourself and your loved ones? If not, explore what you can do to make it better. If you like what you see, congratulations! Be sure to acknowledge that and celebrate it.

Take a stroll through your neighborhood this month and while doing so, please pay close attention to who and what you see. When I do this, I see my neighbors—some familiar to me and some who are complete strangers.

But what else am I noticing? I notice that the elderly person next door proudly displays her flag, just like I wave mine. I notice the couple holding hands as they walk down the street past our house. My husband and I don't do that—why not?

I notice who has pets and who has children (I have fur babies). And I wonder who lives in the few houses where I never seem to see people outside in their yard or coming and going. Are they shy? Are they lonely? Should I knock on the door and say, "Hi"? Would I want someone to do that to me?

Overall, I've learned that we're all on a journey—one that is uniquely our own—yet it's a journey that often has shared experiences and values. I've learned more about myself and my world when I do this exercise. I find that a simple friendly gesture to a neighbor can break barriers and open up opportunities for discovery.

This Pride Month, let's celebrate our unique journeys together. Our paths may be different, but oftentimes, the destinations are the same.

We share one world. Let's be unapologetic about coexisting in it respectfully and with pride.

Happy Pride, Utah!

George B. Severson is a resident of Midvale along with his husband, Brian, and their three fur babies. Severson is the director of local programming and creative services at ABC4-CW30.

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Utah Pride organizers stress quality over quantity for this year's festival and parade
Louder and Prouder
By Benjamin Wood

The Utah Pride Festival and Parade are growing and shrinking for 2023.

For the first time, the two-day festival's Washington Square location will expand to include the adjacent Library Square, opening new spaces for activation and enhanced food and beverage options. But the live entertainment program—with a high-profile roster of local and national performers—is being consolidated onto a single stage in what organizers say is an intentional focus on quality over quantity.

"It was really important that we professionalized the entire festival—we needed bigger, we needed better," said Ted Nicholls, Utah Pride Center's director of operations and special events. "We kind of outgrew some of the old ways. In the past, we've been very volunteer-reliant and that has caused some aspects of the festival to suffer."

The Pride Parade on Sunday, June 4 (the second-largest in the state behind the Latter-day Saint-themed Days of '47 Parade), will follow much of last year's expanded route circling the festival grounds. But it's technically one block shorter than 2022's event and will begin this year on 100 South—due to the city's ongoing construction of a transit-priority corridor on 200 South—before running south on 400 East and west on 700 South.

"Our loading zone will be right in front of the beautiful Salt Lake City [Latter-day Saint] Temple," Nicholls said.

Those are just some of the ways that "everything is new," Nicholls said. Following a period of high turnover—made all the more complicated by pandemic upheaval—the Utah Pride Center has a new leadership team, with new Pride organizers and a new spin on old events, like the rally and march from the State Capitol to the festival grounds (usually the other way around) on June 2, followed by an opening-night concert to kick off Pride weekend (a new event this year). The night before, on June 1, the Pride center will host a first-ever Pride Gala at the downtown Hilton.

"Glitz, glam, cocktail attire—we really want to have an upscale, ritzy, splashy, glamorous gala," Nicholls said.

He said that Pride, at its core, is about people celebrating life as their truest selves. And that sentiment is captured in this year's theme: Queer Pride is Unapologetic.

"As a kid who grew up in South Jordan, Utah, it wasn't easy for me to meet and feel connected to other weird little boys like me who liked to draw and watch Sailor Moon and listen to Madonna and all sorts of gay shit," Nicholls said. "Pride is a great platform for folks like me to meet folks like me."

Pride Week is the largest source of funding for the Utah Pride Center, and co-CEO Jonathan Foulk emphasized that the sustainability of the center's broader, year-round programming—from counseling and suicide prevention to hosting trivia nights and Dungeons & Dragons campaigns—is reliant on the success of the festival, parade and other Pride events.

Those real-world financial pressures inform the Pride center's decisions around event size and corporate sponsorship, an at-times divisive topic (locally and nationally) as Pride celebrations have shifted from smaller, LGBTQ+-specific events rooted in protest to more mainstream, big-tent community gatherings welcoming allies and coordination with private and public entities.

"We have to create a safe space for all and that doesn't come free," Foulk said. "We do need our corporate sponsors to help pay to make this happen, as well as small businesses and things like that."

And Foulk was quick to point out that, while attendance and support for the Pride festival has grown, new waves of anti-LGBTQ+ hostility continue to wash up.

Large and visible celebrations of queer life and love, with the backing of government and commercial partners, he said, demonstrate the humanity of LGBTQ+ individuals and the coalition pushing for acceptance and equality.

"We're having drag queens and trans folks being targeted, and we need to do everything we can to promote visibility and to be unapologetic—to be our true selves," Foulk said. "The more that we can elevate, the more that we're louder, the more that we're prouder, the more that we're unapologetic—the more that people, 365 days out of the year, will see us and see us as human."

When Foulk came out to his adopted family, they told him he was better off dead. That led him to walk into a Pride center, he said, where he was connected with The Trevor Project and told, simply, "You're loved. You're not alone." That was the start of his coming-out journey, Foulk said, and is a large part of why he joined the Utah Pride Center as co-CEO.

"There are many Jonathans out there who did not get that chance," he said.

Roughly 90% of the performers at this year's Pride will be making their Utah debut, Foulk said, and a new main stage bar will provide space for those interested in dancing and imbibing without exiting and re-entering the alcohol service space.

"If you look at the genre of artists, we have something for everyone," he said. "We have something for dance, we have something country, we have vocalists, we have burlesque—you name it, we have it."

And while the festival will host fewer stages overall, Nicholls—a local drag performer at The Exchange and other venues—said organizers have made a point to feature Utah and Salt Lake artists alongside their national peers.

"They get to share the exact same, huge, main stage as all of our headliners, instead of being kind of cast off to one of the smaller stages in a corner under a Diamond Rentals tent," Nicholls said. "It was really important to me that I featured and honored our local artists as much as I could."

On the topic of corporate sponsorship, Nicholls said there's value to including space for "your Deltas and your American Expresses and your Wells Fargoes," companies that have formally embraced pro-LGBTQ+ stances.

"We want to keep Pride as authentic and as queer as possible, but that doesn't mean we should exclude our allies," Nicholls said. "They should have a presence at Pride because they have publicly come out and said, 'We are proud to nurture, protect, support and empower our queer employees.'

"I think that speaks volumes," Nicholls continued. "These are brands that we see in our day-to-day lives."

Asked about the future—of both Utah Pride events and the archaic politics that continue to injure the LGBTQ+ community—Nicholls was optimistic. He offered a full-throated endorsement of the new Pride center leadership and direction, and confidence that the community will continue to grow in strength and visibility.

"I'm very confident the leadership we've got on board now is committed to mission," he said. "There's a lot of synergy. There's a lot of collaboration, exchanges of ideas and healthy dialogue. I think we're going to be just fine if we continue to stick together and hold each other's hands through this."

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When it comes to coming out, these Utahns say it's a marathon, not a sprint
True to Yourself
By Carolyn Campbell

Page Petrucka's bright, bubbly face and cheerful smile have graced many screens, stages and classrooms. Last year, she played a diner owner in the Hallmark movie A Cozy Christmas Inn. It was a sequel to Christmas Under Wraps, in which she also appeared.

"I love the stage—being in someone else's shoes," she said. "Theater and film allow me to make people feel something."

Petrucka said she discovered her theatrical passion in high school and that it's what she wants to do for the rest of her life. And that discovery came a few years after she began to recognize another love that lived within her.

"When I was 11, just barely in the [Young Women's] Beehive class at church. I felt something for this gal who was a Mia Maid. Back then, I couldn't put my finger on it," Petrucka said. "Now I know I had a crush on her."

For many years, she didn't want to admit her same-sex attraction. She said she was deeply rooted in the Latter-day Saint faith and thought she might not really be gay. As a result, her coming out was a long time coming.

She felt discouraged in her 30s, wondering how her life would work out. "I wasn't living authentically, and I wasn't happy," she recalls. In her 40s, Petrucka earned her doctorate in fine arts, emphasizing acting, directing and playwriting. She also lived one street away from Ty Mansfield, a marriage and family therapist who co-founded North Star, a faith-based support organization for LDS people addressing sexual orientation and gender identity.

"Ty and his wife allowed me to admit the truth about myself," Petrucka said. "The self-protective walls I had built started crumbling after that."

So, she started coming out at 43. And after she left Utah and moved to Kansas, she found that people there didn't care about her sexual identity. "They loved me for me," she said. "My sexual orientation wasn't an issue."

In the future, Petrucka wants life to be that way for everyone—where acceptance is so broad that there's almost no need to "come out" in a traditional sense. And yet, she also believes that coming out offers healing benefits in today's society.

"Some people are very fearful and feel it is scary," she said. "But the sooner you take the leap and come out, the closer you are to loving and accepting yourself."

Petrucka says that while some immediate family members still struggle to accept her, her nieces and nephews are happy to hang out. She's looking forward to soon spending time with a niece in New York City. Until then, she's staying busy and living her best life teaching theater and spending time with her boxer dog.

Petrucka's also convinced that finding a wife is in her future. "I'm telling you, she's out there," she said. "I gotta find her."

Petrucka's story parallels insights offered by Lisa Diamond, a distinguished professor of developmental psychology, health psychology and gender studies at the University of Utah. Her research focuses on sexual orientation development, sexual identity and bonding. For example, Diamond says that during the pandemic, when people were trapped indoors with only their own thoughts, it was probably familiar for them to ask, "What do I want?" or "What do I believe?"

Diamond feels that it is a false notion that people reach a singular moment of certainty regarding their sexual orientation, never to be reexamined for the rest of their lives. Human development, she said, is lifelong, and perceptions in a person's 20s or 30s can become clearer over time.

"I'm 51," Diamond said. "A lot of my high school friends, once they hit 45, started to look at a lot of thoughts and behaviors and reasoned, 'Maybe I'm not as self-aware as I thought."

She continued: "All of us have wild parts, protective parts and scared parts. Becoming authentic and loving yourself is a way of saying, 'I am many things.' Pride could be a reminder to try loving all the parts of ourselves without judgment."

Turn it Off
Kent Carollo initially had no words for the difference he sensed about himself in elementary school.

"My interests and tendencies didn't align with my peers. I wasn't like other boys," he recalls. "I was drawn to the arts, music and, eventually, theater."

But while those around him didn't share his interests, pursuing them offered him a sense of community and he developed friendships with several "comfortably out" young men.

"While I didn't see all of myself in those people, I suspected that I was gay," he said.

Carollo grew up in an orthodox LDS home where the dialogue regarding same-sex relationships was "absolutely not." He said the message he lovingly received was that no one he knew, nor himself, could be gay.

"If you suspect such," he said of his upbringing, "don't entertain that part of yourself and move on."

Carollo said the queer side of himself didn't solidify until after he had served an LDS mission, graduated from college and married a woman, who he described as "incredible."

"I was genuinely happy with her," he said, "but not genuinely happy with myself."

During his marriage, Carollo said he was terrified of becoming a father. He worried that he would be a bad influence or a dysfunctional parent. It prompted him, for the first time, to confront his sexuality and pay a visit to a therapist.

He and his wife later agreed to divorce. For him, it represented the closure of an internal conflict.

"My wife was understanding," he said. "We communicated throughout the process, and I felt understood."

Carollo then found himself in a new phase of coming out, living authentically and establishing a new way to practice his faith and spirituality on his own terms. In time, at a backyard barbecue for volunteers from an LGBTQ+ nonprofit, he met Cole Rasmussen.

"Cole introduced himself, then left the gathering," Carollo remembers. In time, Rasmussen reached out on Facebook, saying it was nice to encounter Carollo at the barbecue. They swapped a few messages and met up for dinner, Carollo recalled.

Their relationship didn't take off immediately. Carollo was newly out, navigating his sexuality. He briefly dated a few other men, but said he found himself drawn back to Rasmussen.

"Dating was overwhelming," Carollo said.

After falling in love during COVID, the two married three years ago. Carollo said he is proud and glad that all of their family members attended the wedding. The two are now parents to a fur baby—a Jack Russell terrier named Olive.

To those beginning a similar journey, Carollo suggests: "The most important thing you can do is take the time to evaluate who you are. You don't have to decide anything quickly—there is no right or wrong way to express your identity."

Carollo added that a person doesn't have to instantly replace their ideals—like those of Mormonism—with another. Some may find a way to include a prior faith community in their lives, and others may not.

"The most important thing is to take the time to evaluate who you are," he said. "You are the best authority on what you need."

Spin Cycle
Choreographer and dancer Brayden Singley recently finished a Broadway tour of Fiddler on the Roof. He says his Fiddler experience was exceptional, and that its themes of challenging traditions echoed his own journey that began with his earlier life in Utah.

"Many of my friends and family figured I was gay growing up," he said, "but they let me figure it out on my own."

Singley was all-in as a Latter-day Saint, he said, serving a mission and then staying in touch with his former companions. "I was quite happy as a closeted gay member of the LDS church," he said. "But there was always something deep down that weighed on me."

Singley said that when he would pray, he would regularly include apologies to God for his gay thoughts, as well as pleas to be healed. "My highs were extremely high, but my lows were very low and frequent," he recalled.

When Singley moved to New York, queer people who were comfortable with themselves surrounded him. As a result, he started shedding some of his belief traditions.

"My faith taught me that I couldn't be happy being who I was and loving who I wanted to love," he said. "I felt that I could either be kicked out of my faith or choose to leave. I chose to leave."

Singley has had three boyfriends since he started dating in 2020, and he has now been single for about a year. He said it would be wrong to describe him as unhappy before and happy now, but he added that he struggled for a time with defining and describing the different kind of happiness he experiences today.

Singley said he used to feel trapped in a circular pattern, but that changed after coming out and stepping away from his former faith.

"I realize the difference in my happiness now is freedom. There is no more cycle," Singley said. "My highs are frequent—daily even—and my lows are few and far between. I used to be happy and trapped, but now I am happy and free. I didn't realize that happiness could feel weightless until now."

Diamond, the University of Utah researcher, said that everyone who goes through the coming-out process and comes out the other side experiences periods of self-doubt. But with empathy and compassion, she said, they can arrive at a place of personal pride as well as community Pride, which Diamond described as a beautiful opportunity for LGBTQ+ individuals to check in with, love and celebrate themselves.

"Take pride in your everyday life and honor yourself," she said. "Take a look at yourself with love, empathy and courage."

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Honoring Salt Lake's Metropolitan Community Church and its role in Utah's LGBTQ+ history
A Bold Ministry
By Wes Long

Within the walls of a modest 1913 structure just north of Liberty Park on 600 East, Berry Payne prepares the chapel of Sacred Light of Christ Church. As music director, Payne is dutifully carrying out responsibilities that he has held for 13 years.

"This has been my home for a long time," he says. "They're another extension of my family."

Acknowledging that he was gay when he was 12, the church has been a "sanctuary" for Payne—on and off—since he first became acquainted with it in the 1970s. Back then, it was known as the Metropolitan Community Church, a nondenominational Christian organization famous across the country for its pro-LGBTQ+ message.

Payne discounts the notion that "one church is better than the other." For him, it's where one feels most "at home" that matters. Besides, he said, "most churches are accepting now."

Indeed, the road to increased acceptance has been as hard-fought and painful as it has been joyous and exhilarating. This Pride Month, City Weekly looks back on the story of Salt Lake's Metropolitan Community Church and the part it played as Utah's LGBTQ+ community developed.

Lavender Scare
Prior to the mid-20th century, there were few community centers for gay and lesbian Salt Lakers to feel connected and nourished as their fullest selves. Early examples existed, such as downtown Salt Lake's Bohemian Club, but they were few and far between (as far as documentation can suggest). Cruising—or at least furtive gazing—was pursued by some, and locations like Liberty Park (900 S. 600 East, SLC) and what was Wasatch Springs Plunge (840 N. 300 West, SLC), and Deseret Gymnasium (formerly at 161 N. Main, SLC) provided semi-private venues at which locals and travelers made brief forays.

But it was World War II, wrote Douglas A. Winkler, author of Lavender Sons of Zion: A History of Gay Men in Salt Lake City, 1950-79, that exposed men and women to "unprecedented opportunities for homosexual desire" in the barracks and the factories. American gays and lesbians began developing more defined subcultures in cities across the country, and Salt Lake was no exception. Starting in 1948 with Radio City Lounge (147 S. State, SLC), bars became the unofficial centers for Utah's dispersed LGBTQ+ community.

"One man's prison and another's refuge," observed Winkler, "Salt Lake never seemed large enough for some, while others appreciated its anonymity."

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had also changed by the postwar era. A non-erotic culture of same-sex dynamics had been traditional within Mormonism, argued the late Mormon historian, D. Michael Quinn, in a 1996 study—one that could be traced back to 19th-century mores in its approach to what Quinn described as "extensive social interaction, emotional bonding and physical closeness."

Homosexuality, on the other hand, was rarely broached, and when it was privately addressed, Quinn reports that church officials "responded to homoeroticism in ways that often seem restrained, even tolerant, today."

This "live and let live" response was described by Earl Kofoed (1923-2000) in an April 1993 issue of the Affinity newsletter. Reminiscing about his days as a gay Brigham Young University student, he recounted a 1948 meeting between two fellow gay classmates and then-Church President George Albert Smith (1870-1951).

After declaring their love for each other, Kofoed wrote, "President Smith treated them with great kindness and told them, in effect, to live the best lives they could. They felt they had gambled and could have been excommunicated right then and there; instead, they went away feeling loved and valued."

Conditions swiftly changed by the 1950s, however, as the so-called "Lavender Scare" of the Cold War era swept the country in the guise of federal and state purges—enhanced sodomy laws and frequent police raids of popular gay spaces. This was particularly true of then-Salt Lake City Police Chief Cleon Skousen, who, according to Winkler, embodied "both the national security state and an uncompromising, conservative brand of Mormonism. His administration was a harbinger of the LDS Church's hardening stance toward homosexuality, which reached a fever pitch during the 1960s."

Under the influence of such figures as J. Reuben Clark, Spencer W. Kimball and then-BYU president Ernest L. Wilkinson, homosexuality was now something that was talked about openly and in the most hostile of terms. To these prominent leaders, homosexuality was not an aspect of a person, but an act requiring eradication by any means necessary, from shock treatment and spying to psychiatric confinement and police entrapment.

But two events at the close of the 1960s heralded dramatic changes to come. The first came by way of a defrocked pastor in Los Angeles, the other from a tavern in New York.

Having been ejected from his Pentecostal ministry in the East, Troy Perry relocated to Los Angeles to start anew as an openly gay man. Outraged by the raids used by local police to target gay clubs—and the devastating effects such practices had upon loved ones—Perry resolved to act with his calling.

"Tremendous need existed for a bold ministry," Perry later wrote. "Literally tens of thousands of homosexual sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, plus our friends and the friendless in every age group from puberty on, who had been robbed of their self-esteem, were waiting to find and heed our basic message, 'God loves you!'"

The 1970s 'Renaissance'
Starting with a small group at Perry's home in the fall of 1968, the Metropolitan Community Church (MCC) began. In four years, his church had grown to 35 congregations across 19 states. In an era before marriage equality, MCC even started performing same-sex weddings—or "Holy Unions"—in 1969.

And while the MCC was spreading around the country, another revolution boiled over at the Stonewall Inn in New York City.

Like countless other gay meeting places, the Greenwich Village bar was a routine police target. But during one early morning raid on June 28, 1969, the patrons at the Stonewall had had enough, erupting into a spontaneous riot against police violence.

By the following year, communities around the nation began marking the occasion with Gay Pride celebrations, and a more assertive form of gay rights advocacy by groups like Gay Liberation Front had come into being.

Ben Williams is a long-standing chronicler of local gay history. Of Utah's gay community following Stonewall, the retired teacher considers the 1970s a "Renaissance period."

"I met so many really valiant people here, against all odds when we had no allies," he said.

It would not be long before an MCC congregation began its ministry in the Beehive State. And according to Williams' chronology, locals met at a private Bountiful home in the early 1970s to organize an outreach. "All this stuff starts with a few brave people coming out and doing things," Williams said.

The Salt Lake chapter of MCC began meeting at the Unitarian Church at 569 S. 1300 East, SLC, in 1972. Before long, it relocated to 740 S. 700 East, SLC, under the leadership of Richard L. Groh, who performed Salt Lake's first Holy Union that November.

A letter from Troy Perry celebrated the chartering of the new church, with the hope that it would become "a real lighthouse in the Rocky Mountain states."

Already, by early 1973, Utah's first gay hotline was established through the Salt Lake Community Mental Health Center, whose staff trained five members of the MCC congregation in crisis intervention. In return, as one MCC publication reported, "the mental health personnel underwent a most interesting training session as to crisis intervention in our 'special community.'"

Relocating again to 870 W. 400 South, SLC, MCC enjoyed its first real opportunity to interact with the larger public, for the building was also used by other local organizations and clubs.

Candace Naisbitt remembers her time as Salt Lake's MCC pastor as "a gift." Originally from Ohio, Naisbitt discovered MCC in California's San Fernando Valley in the early 1970s.

Training for the pastorship and serving in Stockton with Alice Jones (1937-2013), they were MCC's first team ministry, coming to Salt Lake City to replace Michael E. England after the latter resigned from that all-too-familiar malady: burnout.

Although she and Jones differed in approach, "we worked well together," Naisbitt recalls.

They served a congregation that has fluctuated in size—anywhere from a small handful to more than 100. Internal dissension led some factions to start anew elsewhere, but Naisbitt recalls a warm and generous group during her stay between 1975-1976.

"Most of the church members lived on a very, very tight thread," she remembers, and operating the church with few resources was a struggle in her role as clergy. Most of her labors included hospital visits and helping congregants to regain their confidence by erasing the notion that LGBTQ+ people were going to some erroneous concept of hell.

"They were looking for a place to become," Naisbitt concludes, and the "rich" experience of helping them has instilled in her a spirit of gratitude to this day.

Utah's Stonewall
By the time Bob Waldrop (1952-2019) arrived to take the reins as MCC's pastor in 1977, much had changed for gays and lesbians in Salt Lake City. By then, Joe Redburn (1938-2020) and Nikki Boyer had established the state's first openly gay bar with The Sun Tavern in 1973 and even organized gay celebration events in places like City Creek Canyon.

MCC had been responsible for the state's first gay-friendly newsletter with The Cricket, but since then, Utah gays and lesbians had established their own newsletters in the mid-1970s, like The Gayzette, The Salt Lick and The Open Door. The Imperial Court—which presented extravagant drag shows to raise money for charity—also began serving the community at this time.

To many in the larger public, gays and lesbians did not yet have a voice to which anyone felt obligated to take heed. In some respects, Waldrop supplied that needed voice at a critical time. Remembered as "a firebrand" by Williams, Waldrop was a key figure in a 1977 protest that scholars came to refer to as "Utah's Stonewall."

"[Waldrop] was taking on the government, taking on the state, taking on the [LDS] Church, taking on everybody," Williams said.

Waldrop's efforts came to a head when then-Lt. Gov. David S. Monson revoked MCC's approval to hold a dance in the Capitol, which coincided with a national, anti-gay "Save Our Children" campaign, spearheaded by singer/spokeswoman Anita Bryant. Working with the ACLU to sue Monson, Waldrop became, in the words of University of Utah researcher Charles Perry, "a dynamic spokesman for the gay community, articulating its aspirations and outrage."

Utilizing the networks afforded them through the local bars, MCC, Imperial Court and other groups, Utah's gays and lesbians came together to protest the lieutenant governor. And when Bryant was booked to appear at the Utah State Fair, enough was enough.

Waldrop brought leaders of various gay organizations together in the basement of the MCC to coordinate their response and prepare a protest at the fairgrounds, as well as other events like a dance and talent contest by MCC, an Imperial Court kegger, special programs by the Sun Tavern, Radio City Lounge and the lesbian bar Uptown, as well as a candlelight vigil in Memory Grove under the direction of the group Women Aware.

"The Anita Bryant protest provided myriad opportunities to heighten morale, gather resources and foster community," Charles Perry wrote of the occasion.

The protest invigorated local gays and lesbians and even found some sympathetic observers. However, the general solidarity throughout the gay community would be fragile, as divisions and fatigue took their toll.

Williams reports that Waldrop himself began to burn out, compounded further by the numerous death threats he personally received, the vandalism routinely directed at MCC, and the unsolved murder of his friend, Anthony "Tony" Williams (1953-1978).

The MCC moved back to the Unitarian building and was largely held together in the absence of an active pastor by committed members like Dan Wilcox (1940-1994), who appealed to local Utah publishers Jack Gallivan (The Salt Lake Tribune) and Wendell J. Ashton (Deseret News) to allow MCC to run advertising space in their newspapers again.

"The religious grounds for discrimination against gays are crumbling as scriptural research on the subject has become more responsible," Wilcox observed in 1980.

The silent tragedy of the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s devastated Utah as hundreds of gay men died in the absence of state and federal action. Dr. Kristen Ries was practically alone in diagnosing and providing care to these patients.

"Thank God for the women," Bruce Barton (1946-2017) related in an oral history. Numerous local women assisted Barton—who became MCC's pastor in 1983—to tend to the needs of the sick, whether they were congregants or not.

"We were so limited in what we could provide temporally, but we could provide people," he added. "We could provide emotional and spiritual support, which I think falls through the cracks."

Kelly Byrnes, who assisted Barton, relishes the spaghetti dinners, dances, workshops and regional conferences they held in those days. Most of all, he remembers the labors they undertook to support the dying and grieving.

"It was a lot of work, but it was good work," he said.

Barton ministered to people in the bars rather than waiting for them to come to him. He brought the renamed Resurrection-MCC, for the first time, to a building that they owned outright rather than renting from another. Re-settled in August 1986, this is the location the church occupies today at 823 S. 600 East, SLC.

An Opened World
Cindy Solomon-Klebba replaced Barton in 1994 and, until her departure, she provided continued aid and interfaith efforts to the community. She particularly cherishes the support that the church gave to local Utah high school students in their struggle with the state Legislature over establishing Gay-Straight Alliance clubs (a controversy covered by City Weekly in February 1996 under the Private Eye masthead).

"We're always going to be on the forefront of justice; that's what we do," Solomon-Klebba remarked. "We believe that being Jesus in the world means doing justice to the people in the world."

With Solomon-Klebba—and her successor, Dee Bradshaw—the renamed Sacred Light of Christ Church was a fixture at Pride events and even contributed floats for the parades.

Branches of MCC operated in Ogden and Logan concurrently with Salt Lake for several years, but by the 2000s, these additional branches had closed and the Sacred Light of Christ Church broke from the larger MCC Fellowship.

Today, Kay Sidwell and Korina Garcia serve as the new team ministry for the Sacred Light of Christ Church. Having implemented group meetings in person and virtually, they are eager to engage with and serve the community, whether LGBTQ+ or not.

And they are in good company, for much has changed since those earlier years.

Many more religious denominations today are welcoming people of varying colors of the rainbow, Sidwell and Garcia noted, and with increased iridescence comes added beauty, both to matters of the heart and to those of the spirit. Faith and sexuality, in their view, don't have to be an "either-or" situation.

"Once I came out, the whole world opened up because I wasn't hiding," Sidwell related. "I wasn't hiding part of who I was."

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Be a stronger ally through inclusive language and inclusive spaces
Hey Ladies
By Cat Palmer

"Table for two, ladies?" the host at a five-star Park City resort asked us. "Right this way, ladies," they directed as they showed us to our table.

My spouse and I were both wearing the types of suits one would most likely find in the menswear section of a department store. My spouse is gender-neutral, uses they/them pronouns, has been on testosterone for two years and has a gender marker X on their government documents.

We are not "ladies."

I eventually asked the host to use more inclusive language, explaining that we don't always know to whom we are speaking. And even if our intent is to flatter or be polite, there are many ways to do that without using gendered language. When I encounter service industry employees who already do this, I notice and appreciate it. That training and awareness makes me far more likely to frequent the establishments I know aren't going to misgender their customers.

Truth is—there are so many ways to be inclusive of everyone, and most of them will take minimal effort from you.

For example, words like "sir," "ma'am," "ladies" and "gentleman" are not as polite as they once were. I know many people mean well and it can be a hard habit to break, but the fact is that when you use these words, you may be shutting a large group of people out of the opportunity to receive your message at all.

Plus, you are assuming a person's gender based on how they look, and the sound of a person's voice does not always match their gender (even outside of the LGBTQ+ community). Please find another way of greeting people.

"Hello there!" is completely fine. When approaching a table, "Hello, friends," or simply "Good evening," will do. When greeting an audience, consider using, "Welcome, distinguished guests." When you're talking to a classroom: "Good morning, children!" Or, for any of the above audiences and more, take a page from the Southern handbook and just use "y'all." It's inclusive and fun to say!

Being aware of trans- and non-binary-friendly language is a form of allyship. If you work at, or frequently visit, a company that has outdated forms (looking at you University of Utah Medical Centers—love that rainbow U and your presence at Pride, though!), consider starting a conversation with HR or management suggesting the addition of boxes for gender marker X, non-binary, or simply "other."

Do you go to places with single-use restrooms that could easily be converted to any-gender restrooms? Many places in town have moved to this model, and it matters.

My spouse is one of many people who do not use the restroom when they are in public because of the number of cis-gendered women approaching them in the restroom to tell them they are in the wrong space. We recently discovered Refuge Restrooms, a website and app crowdsourcing non-gendered restroom locations—please use this and add to the growing list of safe spaces for our trans and non-binary friends.

My spouse had an awful experience at a certain downtown mall a few months back. They were denied the use of a family single-use restroom and were told they had to use the women's restroom by security. My spouse had to cross their legs, hold their pee and come home. This is not an allyship. (Speaking of restrooms, having period products available in all facilities is allyship.)

I know that it can feel strange at first when you shift your language. This is especially true when you're using new pronouns for a person you've known for a while.

I am still learning this lesson. Not long ago, I falsely assumed a person's pronouns were the same as they were when I last saw them. I apologized and got their pronouns correct for the rest of our time together, but I should have asked again that day.

People will not be offended if you ask their preferred pronouns. They will, instead, be grateful you're giving them an opportunity to be seen and heard.

And at the end of the day, isn't that what we all want?

I assume if you are reading this you are an ally who wants to learn and do better. For this, I thank you.

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AJ Irving, The Wishing Flower author interview
Utah author discusses writing for queer kids the books she wishes she'd had
By Scott Renshaw

The ongoing controversies over books for children and youth featuring queer content usually focus on those loudly announcing what it is they don't want their children to see. Far less predominant in the conversation is the idea of what gay children—which Utah author A.J. Irving once was—might have needed to see.

"I remember struggling to fall asleep at night because I loved girls," Irving recalled. "Absolutely, I wish books like The Wishing Flower had existed when I was growing up."

The Wishing Flower—a picture book featuring Irving's story and illustrations by Iranian/English queer artist Kip Alizadeh—follows a young girl named Birdie, an introverted child who finally finds a closeness she longs for when a new girl named Sunny comes to her school. It's a restrained but clear narrative about a budding sense of queer self-awareness, and wishing desperately to have that feeling of isolation go away.

Irving started work on the book in 2020 while still living in small-town Wyoming, before relocating to Salt Lake City. "The first words came to me on a hike, and I ran home and wrote the first draft that same day," Irving said. "I had the sense I was on to something special, because all of these childhood emotions came back to me."

The story is Irving's, but a picture book doesn't fully become itself without the work of the artist. Irving feels she hit the jackpot with Alizadeh. "In a lot of cases, the author isn't part of the illustrator-selection process at all; that was the case with my first book [Dance Like a Leaf]," Irving said. "But Kip was my No. 1 choice. While Kip was working on the art, I'd see sketches, and I'd make suggestions, but there weren't really that many.

She continued: "Seeing the art is always my favorite part of the process. ... As an author, I try not to picture it in my mind, because it's not my job to decide what the characters look like. Now, I couldn't imagine it any other way. I think Kip just brought Birdie and Sunny's story to life in such a magical way."

This magical children's story is a queer story, though, and, as such, it emerges in the middle of a difficult time for such content. Irving acknowledges that if she still lived in Wyoming, she would be more concerned personally about receiving hate mail, but the fate of the book itself remains the subject of possible challenges by conservative activists.

"It's absolutely terrifying; I feel like we're going backward," Irving said, "Moms for Liberty and Proud Boys—it breaks my heart. Sometimes I feel so helpless, but then I try to focus on what I can do and what I can control, and that's what I write."

She said the writing community is unified on the need to fight against censorship.

"We have a lot of conversations and a lot of webinars about how we can fight back," she said. "Most importantly, supporting books by BIPOC and LGBTQ+ creators. A lot of authors have bigger platforms [than I do]. I have not engaged personally, but I have a lot of colleagues that do. My biggest weapon is my pen, and I'm going to continue to write queer books for kids."

Irving did note one unexpected response to writing The Wishing Flower as a queer book for kids—discovering that there were some readers who didn't interpret it that way.

"The thing that surprises me is the other side of this, bloggers who haven't been reading this as a queer book" she says. "My style of writing is very gentle; I've never been very blunt. But children pick up on things; they spend more times with the spreads."

Those children are the audience Irving wants to reach with The Wishing Flower, trying to give them the affirming story she didn't have as a child. It's a case for why representation matters, and providing kids with a sense that even when they're struggling with their place in the world, their own stories can have happy endings.

"I was Birdie," Irving says. "But just like Birdie, my wish came true."

A.J. Irving: The Wishing Flower
Under the Umbrella Bookstore
511 W. 200 South, Ste. 120
Friday, June 2
2 p.m.
undertheumbrellabookstore.com

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Portrait series celebrates LGBTQ+ Utahns as their truest selves
Every Day Pride
By Carolyn Campbell

Maddie Fox's Every Day Pride photo session was the first time she presented publicly as female.

She had first explored her gender identity through women's clothes, trying on the pieces her mother wore. It made Fox feel whole, she said, and the longing never went away.

"I started with underwear, then moved along to dresses," she said.

Later, she began meeting with a group of people—some of whom were transgender and some who wore opposite-gender clothing. In time, she met with a therapist who gave her the tools to approach and explore her gender identity.

And once Fox understood and accepted that she is transgender, she said, a weight lifted from off her shoulders.

Today, Fox typically wears gender-neutral clothing, but still likes to don feminine items when she can. She lives with her family, and they do not yet know she is transgender.

Fox sat for an Every Day Pride photo shoot in 2022, and plans to again. With the full treatment of a hair and makeup artist, and the eye of a professional photographer, she was made to feel as beautiful and feminine outside as she feels inside.

"Working with Every Day Pride was a great experience," Fox said. "It was gender confirming."

Asked what advice she had for others, Fox said to follow your heart. "You are who you are," she said, "and you are valid."

Blakelee Ellis founded Every Day Pride, or EDP, a portrait series featuring LGBTQ+ subjects. Last year's images are still viewable on the instagram account @every_day_pride and for the 2023 series, Ellis plans to post a new photo every day during June's Pride Month.

Ellis said the project originated in part from her personal experience with an unusual family dynamic. Ellis is the middle child, and only straight child, in a family of three children.

"My brother and sister both identify as gay," Ellis said. "Watching them deal with prejudice, homophobia and societal pressure has rocked me to my core."

Ellis said she experiences Pride as an ally to her siblings, and that she hopes to be an ally to others through her photography.

Her EDP project seeks to capture and celebrate LGBTQ+ individuals' truest selves, she said, and to help them feel beautiful in their identities and to elevate their voices.

"As your ally, I will be with you as you fight queerphobia," she said. "I can't wait to highlight each individual and show how phenomenal they are. LGBTQ people are not a monolith. There is no specific way to be queer—just a way to be you."

In Focus
Each Every Day Pride photo shoot begins with the photo subject sending Ellis an introductory bio.

"I leave it up to them to say as little or as much as they want," Ellis said. "There can be a lot of self-struggles. While society is improving, there could be self-hate resulting in internalized homophobia, especially if they were raised with the idea that homosexuality is a sin."

However, she adds that many of her subjects knew themselves at a young age—say 7 or 8—and that they were somehow different. "They describe what their journey has been like, how they came to accept themselves for who they are, where they have landed now, and what their dreams are," Ellis said.

Alicia Anderson, a dance teacher and one of Ellis' lifelong friends, said the photos are all about the subjects. Ellis is also willing to photograph subjects who don't want their pictures displayed on her Instagram

"Blakelee asks if there is certain music they want to play during the photo shoot," Anderson said. "They can invite friends, family, anyone who will make them feel the most comfortable."

On her parents' 39th wedding anniversary, Ellis featured an EDP photo of her brother, Chase, who says his journey has been long, and "honestly, being gay is only part of me." He said he feels blessed and lucky to have a family where his sexual orientation wasn't a huge issue.

"At the time it was, but we all tried to handle it the best we could, and it turned out great compared to others I know," he said. "I've lived and grown through coming out, being a homeless drug-and-alcohol addict, and figuring out my mental health disorder."

Julee Iorg—Chase and Blakelee Ellis' mother—says that her Latter-day Saint upbringing focused on "What would Jesus do?" and helped her maintain loving relationships as she understood that two of her three children are gay. While she never imagined hosting a gay backyard wedding, a family-only ceremony evolved naturally after years of unconditional love toward her children and their LGBTQ+ friends.

"We had a curfew. There was no drinking, smoking or premarital sex," Iorg says. "Other than that, my house was always open to whoever visited—I wasn't going to take that away from [my children]."

When Ellis was 13, pancreatitis sent her to a hospital intensive care unit for six weeks and afterward, Iorg prayed that she wouldn't have to lose one of her children. Later, she recalls seeing a statistic about the high rates of suicidal ideation among children who are conflicted about their sexuality, and she vowed that it wouldn't happen to her family.

Today, Iorg views the experience of almost losing her daughter as a form of preparation for acceptance when her son came out. She'd heard of parents who asked their children to leave home and for Iorg, that was never in the cards.

"I saw how some people treated their gay children back in 2000," Iorg said. "I wasn't going to lose Chase—no matter what."

Troy Williams, executive director of Equality Utah, said the best tool for advancing equality is the sharing of authentic stories. And he added that art can be a powerful way to reveal and celebrate the humanity that all share.

"The more we can courageously open our lives to others, the easier it is to dispel the cynical myths and stereotypes that some people hold," he said. "Humans are wired to make genuine and meaningful connections with people. We suffer when we are disconnected and isolated."

Close-Up
Evie Roberts (who requested her name be changed for this article) came out only to herself and a couple of friends before participating in Every Day Pride last year. Back then, she perceived herself as asexual.

"I thought if I didn't like guys, I must not like anyone," she said.

Roberts said Ellis' kind acceptance helped her feel comfortable at her photo shoot even though she hadn't yet come out publicly. She thanks Ellis for helping her practice bravery.

"Telling everyone in the form of an Instagram post was scary," she said. "I didn't know how some people would react, but being brave is another label I try to embrace."

Over the past year, Roberts has embraced her attraction to women, reaching an understanding that she is not asexual. During a Latter–day Saint ward party, she saw a woman she always liked as a friend. "It hit me like a sack of rocks that maybe this was more than me thinking she was cool, and maybe I would like to be with her," Roberts said.

The more Roberts considered the idea that she could be gay, the more the possibility made sense to her. "It was like puzzle pieces clicking together," she said.

Roberts considers herself to be a devout Latter-day Saint. But, she adds, "it's wonderful to see how much progress I've made spiritually as I have accepted being gay."

She said she feels much closer to her heavenly parents, and that she can better connect to her LDS patriarchal blessing if she rereads it from the context that she is gay.

"It's as if God is saying, 'I knew you were gay before you knew you were gay,'" Roberts said. "This reality was a part of my path, and it was intentional."

When Roberts told Ellis she had resolved her identity since last year, Ellis replied with "congratulations." It struck Roberts that she was more used to talk of being "tempted by same-sex attraction."

"This experience was my first time viewing it as celebratory," she said.

Colette Dalton is a therapist and owner of Queerful Counseling. She participated in the Every Day Pride project last year. She recalled how Ellis was accompanied by a couple of "hype women" who offered praise and encouragement.

"They would say, 'Oh, you look so good!'" Dalton said. "It was so much fun."

She also said she appreciates how Ellis, as a straight person, utilizes her privilege to elevate marginalized voices.

"It was very empowering to share my own story and not have someone else share it for me," she said.

"There are so many wonderful allies." Dalton continued. "When people are learning allyship, they sometimes forget to step aside and realize that sometimes we don't need help—we need the microphone."