Almost Heaven, Almost Home: A Queer Journey Through West Virginia

I don’t know why it takes me so damn long to write posts about the incredible queer communities I get to visit on these trips … but it does. Maybe it’s the exhaustion that sets in after days or weeks of spectrumy hyperfocus on learning everything I can about a place, talking to dozens of people, and photographing a snapshot of their lives. Then I return home, and ADHD brain derails me for a bit.  Months pass while several pages of notes and the iPhone shots outside of portraits stay scattered on my phone.

I’ve been trying to get better. Lately, I’ve leaned on voice dictations and AI assistance to process these experiences in a less time consuming way that is still true to me.  But here I am again, finally pulling together thoughts and images from a 3-week October 2024 trip to West Virginia—months later.  In some ways, the delay feels right though. I’ve just wrapped up photo processing and story sharing for many of the West Virginia humans I met, making these reflections feel more grounded with time.

This trip probably deserves ten different posts, but I’ve gathered it into one. My interactions with people on this trip reflected a few recurring themes:

1. The inextricable link between queer and Appalachian identities
2. Tight knit communities that sometimes encompass a scarcity of organized and visible queer community, especially in rural areas.
3. A deep, complicated love for West Virginia’s land and culture in the Heart of Appalachia

Queer Appalachians: Identities That Can’t Be Separated

Being Appalachian can be so queer.

When I asked people about their gender identity, more than a few answered something like, “Well, I’m Appalachian, Queer and Transgender”—in that order, or something similar.  It was recurring pattern in getting-to-know-you conversations.  Being Appalachian wasn’t a geographic descriptor; it was a core identity, even more defining than gender or sexuality in many cases.

Appalachian identity—especially in West Virginia, the only state fully contained within the Appalachian region—isn’t something that queerness has to conflict with. It’s something queerness often grows out of, merges with, or reclaims.  And that initially surprised me.

When outsiders think of West Virginia, we often picture it as rigidly red.  But there’s an entire layer outsiders miss—queer folks quietly and defiantly living their truths among Confederate flags and hollowed-out mining towns. It’s a pride that doesn’t always announce itself with rainbow crosswalks (although sometimes it does!), but radiates through cultural survival and community-making in the margins.

An older trans woman I met in rural, southern West Virginia asked me a rhetorical question, “Did you know that West Virginia is a colony?   Let me tell you why …”   As someone who grew up here and came back after seeing the country and world, she explains West Virginia as place where outside powers extract everything—coal, labor, timber—then leave behind systemic community challenges like poverty, poisoned water, and crumbling infrastructure.

There’s an unspoken connection between the marginalization and oppression of queerness and Appalachian culture.  Many of the queer Appalachians I met had family histories deeply tied to extractive industries—coal mining, logging, steel.  And not just family histories; some still work in these industries or know many people who do.  In towns where the economy is built on industries that are NOT connected with queerness in the popular imagination, being openly queer comes with its own unique set of challenges and quiet bravery.   Queer people from all walks of life in West Virginia often straddle two worlds: one where silence can feel necessary to survival, and another where queer identity is deeply felt and expressed without reservation.

A Black Queer Appalachian I spoke with talked with pride about their family’s coal-mining history.  For their grandparents’ generation, the mines were a source of connection—a shared struggle that cut across race.  They described how coal mining built their community and erased artificial divides.  It’s a reality that contrasts sharply with modern assumptions that bigotry and racism define the Appalachian landscape.

Another person rattled off their family coal connections: “Oh yeah, a few cousins are still in the mines, and both of my ex-husbands worked in coal too…”

In many ways queerness here is not in conflict with being Appalachian.  The marginalized aspects of being queer and the exploitation of Appalachian communities are experiences that might resonate with each other.  Perhaps this is part of what makes queer Appalachian identities so complex and utterly unshakable.

It’s also what makes so many queer people here fiercely love their home state. They often see its failures and betrayals clearly—especially the political ones—but they also see its beauty, its grit, and the way people look out for each other when systems don’t. Over and over, folks told me: I love these mountains and hollers.  I love my people.  I want to stay.   It’s a fierce connection that’s palpable.  I feel the pull of this connection as an outsider too – the dark enchanting nature of the mountains, the complexity of the stories, the way survival and community intermingle.   Many Queer Appalachians emanate a type of love for their home that knows its flaws and often chooses to stay anyway.

WHERE are the Queer Communities and Safe Spaces in West Virginia? Everywhere and Nowhere

Yes, we – queer folks are everywhere, but sometimes visibility of organized queer community is more challenging to find outside of urban pockets here.

As I networked with people ahead of this trip, I encountered some huge hits and misses when it came to finding visible queer community.  An overwhelming 70+ people responded to an outreach post on Instagram over 2 weeks, but my posts in a range of West Virginia Facebook groups either sat in limbo – either not approved by moderators or going mostly unnoticed.  Other LGBTQ groups, such as various queer nonprofits and Pride organizations, were mostly unresponsive, inactive, or perhaps understaffed.

There’s a noticeable lack of diversity here in queer special interest communities.  A few people I met mentioned kink, BDSM, and furry interests, but usually travel hours to neighboring states to find welcoming, safe and organized spaces.  These are interests that are often riskier to explore without social structure or safety nets, so travel to larger, organized communities is a necessity.

My road trip roaming the heart of Appalachia fell within the month leading up to the presidential election in November 2024, and an undercurrent of fear ran through many conversations.  A minority of the people I talked to were debating whether to stay or leave. A queer couple I met in the northeastern panhandle was having a moving sale the same day I photographed one of them.  Not from West Virginia originally, they didn’t feel as tied here.  “We’re heading to New Jersey,” they told me. “Before the election, if we can.” They had researched nearby states with better trans protections and picked New Jersey partly because of a family connection.   They both described regular harassment living in WV that they tried normalizing to a degree: “People spit on my car,” referring to their trans-pride bumper stickers. “And it’s tobacco spit too,” she said with disgust.

Another person told me how often customers in their workplace questioned the name on their nametag not matching their outward gender presentation.  They described with a sense of humor older co-workers and customers who take more passive aggressive approaches to voicing displeasure over their chosen name:  “Frank can’t be the name your mother gave you … she must be nicer than that.”

It’s a real possibility for people’s smaller microaggressions to escalate into violence.  I briefly corresponded with a local activist who was interested in the photo project, and our timing to meet did not work out.  A short time later, they shared on social media that an interaction had escalated into physical violence, resulting in minor injuries after someone attacked them trying to use a public bathroom.  Within weeks, they then made the challenging decision to flee their home state to a politically blue state in search of a greater sense of safety.

On more hopeful notes, one mom of a trans person I talked to, is a local bar manager, and said it’s made a difference just to speak up. A guy came into her bar using the f-slur, and his girlfriend quickly corrected him: “You don’t use that word in her bar.”   She believes ignorance, not hatred, is the biggest issue. “Sometimes they just don’t know better yet,” she said.

Morgantown and Huntington, both college towns, are two modest urban pockets with vibrant queer scenes.   A trans artist in Huntington noted that many West Virginians sometimes mockingly call the city “the San Fransico of West Virginia.”   He doesn’t take it as an insult – that makes Huntington (with the highest HRC score in the state) a great place to be queer.   The state capitol of Charleston also seems to have a small LGBTQ hub, but in the short time I spent here left with the impression that it was relatively quiet.

At the time of this trip, THIRTY-FIVE anti-trans bills had been introduced in the West Virginia legislature during the year 2024. Some had passed. Some failed. Others were still in limbo.  The enormous amount of effort expended by state leaders on targeting trans people spills downward to creating more challenging social climates in communities suffering from REAL issues – none of which are caused by Queer Appalachians seeking safe spaces.   The safe spaces are still here regardless, but some less visible than others.

A Complicated, Deep Love for West Virginia

Each time I’ve visited West Virginia, I find myself appreciating the local queer love of Appalachian communities more and more.

It’s a region so different from where I live on the Virginia coast. And yet it’s so close—only a four-hour drive to the nearest part of the West Virginia border. The culture feels ALMOST as distinct as crossing a national border, like in the same way you feel a subtle cultural shift crossing the Canadian border.  Sometimes, it even reminds me of Alaska.  During a summer trip through the West Virginia mountains, I swore I was being transported to the Alaskan tundra.  Sure enough, a sign at the top of the road explained that the high-elevation bog was similar to tundra ecosystems in northern Canada and Alaska.  Complete with blooming fireweed in July… maybe minus the frequent bear and moose sightings.

West Virginia captivates me in ways I can’t quite explain.  The roads twist and climb in a way that feels both dizzying and grounding.  People greet you with stories that take pride in their heritage.  It’s a place that dares you to underestimate it.

Every part of West Virginia is geographically part of Appalachia, a claim that no other state can make.  Road trips mean driving endless hours on winding roads through hollers and over ridges, with both active and ghostly remnants of coal infrastructure dotting the landscape. There are abandoned homes beside family-run businesses, and church signs laced with homophobic undertones next to drag show posters tacked to bulletin boards.

One of the people I photographed pointed out a recently burned-down business between two historic stone buildings. “You’d never know it,” they said proudly. “The whole town raised money for the owner. Helped her rebuild everything. That’s how we are here.”

There’s an ongoing tension for many queer Appalachians: Should I stay or go? Some are rooted deeply and feel less conflict over this question.  Others dream of leaving, but feel unsettled roaming too far from their roots, often feeling the pull to return.  The fight between loving your home and surviving in it is real.

Queerventure Highlights and West Virginia Weirdness

Then there’s the weird. Like the mysterious “West Virginia mafia.”   A couple people I photographed first mentioned it to me in the northern half of the state.  I took the hushed mentions with a huge dose of doubt; until I stayed with a kind stranger in a rural southern West Virginia town who spent hours divulging the spicy details of their alarming and traumatic entanglements in an unlikely industry that I won’t name – just in case.  I left with gratitude for their hospitality while in absolute bafflement – they had brought to life the myths that elements of the West Virginia mafia were for real in a way that was completely unexpected haha.

The Mothman is another regional myth that is brought to life in a different way at the Mothman Museum on the western edge of the state – enshrining encounters with the Mothman through presumably real local newspaper clips and police interviews.

Lastly, a few other random queer and quirky corners of West Virginia where I found joy on this trip:

• I got a sneak peek at a queer bar reopening in Morgantown – one of the only queer bars in the entire state (side note – what’s going on with so many sizeable West Virginia businesses not having websites??)  
• Monkey Wrench Books in Morgantown was stocking Country Queers (I just missed the book signing event!), a book of rural queer stories collected on the road by a queer West Virginian
• Hauled my out of shape butt to the top of the Maryland cliffs – technically in Maryland, but with an epic view overlooking Harper Ferry‘s waterways soaked in revolutionary history where Virginia, Maryland and West Virginia converge together.
• Photographed “Wort” (a cosplay character) playing the clarinet on the Shenandoah River at sunset – do photoshoots get more queer than that?  Well, I don’t know actually … all of my photo shoots are pretty queer by default;)
• Walking thousands of steps down the steep slope of New River Gorge alongside an abandoned coal mining network.
• A free foot soak in the public hot springs canals of Berkeley Springs, WV … just chilling under the autumn foliage … and watching people (mostly locals plus a few assumed international tourists??) fill 5 gallon containers with the presumably therapeutic water and drag it back to their vehicles. A rare resource that is still free for public consumption and use in capitalist America?
• And the epic mountain views that were just …. Everywhere.
• Biggest highlight – always the people. I met queer people and allies all over the state who were planning drag shows, art events, mutual aid collectives, youth meetups, designing food forests – planting seeds, even in the toughest soil.

Conclusion

I came to West Virginia curious about queer life in a place that’s often dismissed. I left with a heart full of contradictions—stories of resilience, frustration, joy, trauma, pride, and deep-rooted love.

One of the last West Virginians I met with for photographs was an older trans woman who took me on a detour to a small, sleepy town that she hadn’t been to in awhile, but was a place she loved and at one point knew everyone well.   We walked the main street looking for a place to eat that she was familiar with, but found that one business after another was closed.   I had actually visited this town only a few months before to go hiking, and suggested stopping at a newer multipurpose business I had enjoyed – a small coffee shop/plant/florist/board game hub.  She hesitated – she knew a lot of people in town but I suspected she was selective in where she went as a visibly trans woman.  The business was relatively new and she wasn’t familiar with it.  A lot of our conversation that day had revolved around the challenges of being visibly trans in this region.     

We walked in and she recognized the shop owner as someone she went to school with.  Comfortable in her own skin and story, she didn’t hesitate to mention her former name as one of the town’s past football stars to establish familiarity.  The late-middle aged man behind the counter nodded, saying he remembered her name.  He stuck out his hand and said to my very feminine presenting friend, “It’s nice to meet you John!”   “Oh no, it’s Janine,” she said with a smile.  He didn’t miss a beat, apologizing quickly, and warmly said, “it’s really nice to meet you Janine.”   She smiled with a possible undercurrent of relief, and they continued to carry on a friendly and nostalgic conversation. It might seem insignificant, but sometimes the smallest affirmations and cues make a monumental difference in knowing where your safe spaces can be.  

So… is West Virginia “almost heaven?”   Maybe not always, as the state’s motto goes.  But definitely almost home—because for so many Queer Appalachians, this is home.  People choose to stay, not in spite of the challenges, but because of a profound connection to land, community, and culture. Their queerness doesn’t cancel out their Appalachian identity – it grows from it. That love, fierce and complicated, is what keeps people here, and draws people back.

West Virginia Roaming

October 2024