The Shirt Was Never the Hard Part

This past weekend, I attended a Pride event here in Mercer County for the first time.

Now, that probably doesn't sound like a big deal. I've been out for years. I've written books about my life. I've stood on stages and talked about being queer. I've marched through enough personal battles that a Pride festival should have been the easy part.

But sometimes the little moments hit differently.

I pulled on a Pride shirt before leaving the house and caught myself looking in the mirror for a second longer than usual.

Not because I was nervous.

Not because I was afraid.

Just because I realized how strange it felt that at 51 years old, I was finally walking into a local Pride event completely as myself.

No explanations.

No qualifiers.

No carefully edited version of the story.

Just me.

Once I got there, I ended up doing what I always seem to do—talking.

I spent time chatting with several local politicians I've known over the years. Some knew me from community work. Some knew me from politics. Some knew me from church. A few knew me from all three.

Years ago, that combination would have terrified me.

Today?

Not so much.

The funny thing about finally accepting yourself is that you eventually stop worrying about whether everyone else accepts you too.

Then I met a few new people.

One conversation made me laugh.

Someone mentioned they worked with my former brother-in-law. In Mercer County, that basically means we're cousins by Jersey law.

At some point the conversation turned toward Pride, identity, and why we were there.

Without hesitation, I simply said:

"I'm pansexual."

No pause.

No awkwardness.

No internal debate.

Just the truth.

Now, technically, androsexual is probably the more precise label for me. But explaining androsexuality at a festival is a little like trying to explain Presbyterian church governance to someone standing in line for funnel cake.

You can do it.

But everybody's happier if you keep it simple.

So I said pansexual.

And nobody blinked.

Nobody gasped.

Nobody looked confused.

The conversation just kept moving.

For most people, that's probably an unremarkable moment.

For me, it wasn't.

Because I remember the years when saying those words out loud felt impossible.

I remember the years when I edited myself depending on who was in the room.

I remember the years when every conversation involved calculating risk.

This weekend reminded me how much freedom there is in not doing that anymore.

The shirt wasn't the hard part.

The hard part was the twenty-five years it took to become the man comfortable enough to wear it.

And standing there in Mercer County, talking to old friends, local leaders, and complete strangers, I realized something:

I wasn't attending Pride because I needed validation.

I was attending because I no longer do.

And honestly?

That feels pretty damn good. 🏳️‍🌈🧡

— August Quinn

Still Loud. Still Queer. Still Here.