For nearly 83 years, the West Virginia Strawberry Festival has served as a crown jewel of small-town America. Held each spring in Buckhannon, West Virginia, the festival was initially founded in 1936 to celebrate the local strawberry harvest and showcase the state’s agricultural heritage. Over the decades, it has blossomed into one of West Virginia’s largest and most beloved annual events, a weeklong celebration featuring carnivals, concerts, craft shows, pageants, and parades.
The signature event of the week is the Grand Feature Parade, drawing thousands of spectators from across the region. Stretching along Main Street, the parade features everything from high school marching bands and antique cars to floats, fire trucks, and royalty from local and regional pageants. It’s often considered a rite of passage for many West Virginians—an opportunity to honor tradition, promote local organizations, and come together as neighbors in celebration.
Sadly, I didn’t expect to become a symbol of controversy.
I just wanted to ride in that parade, wave to some friendly faces, and toss a little candy to smiling kids. I wanted to celebrate an achievement I worked hard for—the opportunity to compete on a national level. Instead, I was met with a cruel reminder of why so many LGBTQ+ individuals leave the Mountain State and why so few return.
What began as a simple Facebook post thanking my sponsor and announcing my participation in the West Virginia Strawberry Festival Grand Feature Parade quickly turned into a firestorm. My title, Mr. Gay West Virginia United States, is a state-level honor within the Gay United States Pageantry System. This inclusive national competition platform celebrates the talent, service, and visibility of LGBTQ+ individuals. Contestants in the Mr. Division are judged not only on their stage presence, style, and talent but also on community involvement, advocacy, and leadership. The pageant system aims to uplift LGBTQ+ voices and promote positive representation across the United States. As Mr. Gay West Virginia United States, my role is to serve as a representative for the state in the national competition. I use my platform to promote inclusion, celebrate queer identity, and give back to the community through outreach and public engagement.
However, because my title included the word gay, the backlash was swift, targeted, and vicious.
One morning in May, I woke to a flood of hateful messages and social media tags. My stomach turned. I’ve spent years volunteering in this community, dedicating my time, heart, and energy to making Upshur County a better place. I’ve organized support groups for families affected by addiction, created safe spaces for LGBTQ+ youth and their loved ones, and poured my efforts into everything from community theater to local service projects. And yet, none of that mattered to those determined to see me as nothing more than a label to be ridiculed.
For years, I believed in the possibility of change in West Virginia. I stayed. I worked. I advocated. I thought we were moving forward. But the reaction to my presence in a local parade—something so small, so joyous—has made me realize how fragile progress is and how quickly it can be undone by fear and hate.
Behind closed doors, many people messaged me privately to offer support, including members of the festival board of directors. They told me they were sorry and embarrassed. That they believed in me despite the onslaught. And I appreciate those words. However, it’s not enough to sympathize from the sidelines; we need allies who are willing to stand up publicly and challenge hate, even when it’s uncomfortable.
I’m not just a title: I’m a husband, a father, a neighbor, an uncle, and a proud West Virginian. The growing influence of far-right extremism and performative Christianity has warped the values of what I know to be good, kind-hearted people. The very faith that teaches love, compassion, and justice has been hijacked by those who weaponize scripture to justify their prejudice.
I grew up being taught that Jesus Christ walked with the marginalized—prostitutes, tax collectors, and outcasts. I believe he would’ve walked with me, too.
I will continue to speak out, not just for myself, but for every LGBTQ+ person in Appalachia who feels like they have to hide to survive. And to those watching this unfold from afar, let my story be a wake-up call. Representation still matters. Equality is far from achieved. And the fight is far from over.
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This article originally appeared on Advocate: How a parade invite became a fight for LGBTQ+ visibility in Appalachia