From Figaro to Ferndale

Pride Bellingham and Ferndale

This Sunday is Bellingham Pride, and this year, I’ll be in the parade, squeezed into my wife’s tiny, fabulous Nissan Figaro (aka the Fig) alongside the president of the Bellingham Queer Collective. It’s the queerest little car in the parade, and I say that with affection and flair.

I love this weekend. I love the way our community shows up loud, proud, and tender as hell. I love the brief but brilliant feeling of being the majority in my city, of taking up space without apology.

But then something shocked me more than a drag queen doing cartwheels in six-inch heels: Ferndale, my conservative, cow-town hometown just ten miles away, is hosting its first-ever Pride next weekend.

I nearly fell out of my chair.

Growing up, I never would’ve believed Ferndale would touch a rainbow unless it was on a seed packet. But here it is, events, celebration, inclusion. Progress.

And then… I read the comments.

The same tired lines: “How is this taxpayer-funded?” “What about traditional values?” “This doesn’t represent us.”

That old pit-in-the-stomach feeling showed up, like a ghost I’d hoped was long gone.

But here’s the truth: Ferndale is changing. The fact that Pride is happening at all, despite the trolls and pearl-clutchers, is a seismic shift. It's proof that even in places where we once whispered, we're now raising flags.

This weekend, it’s me, the Fig, and a heart wide open. Next weekend, I’ll be watching Ferndale find its rainbow footing. Because joy is resistance. And community? That’s the quiet kind of revolution that changes everything.

See you Sunday.