My mother said there were no gays in her hometown — how wrong she was

‘But there aren’t any gay people in Limerick,’ my mother insists when I tell her I’m going to Pride in the Irish city where she grew up.

Of course, I know this isn’t true. If I’ve learned anything on my journey to experience Pride on seven continents, it’s that queer people exist in every corner of the world.

What varies is visibility.

Many LGBTQ+ people are forced to hide who they are, and it seems that’s how things used to be here in the west of Ireland.

‘I’m sure things have changed a lot,’ my mother says. ‘Just be careful.’

I decide to take her advice. Thirty-five years living as a gay man has taught
me to mask my identity in unfamiliar environments, and so I go in with my guard up. It’s a safety precaution adopted by many.

A study from Booking.com found that 41 percent of LGBTQ+ travellers have created an alter ego when travelling.

Whether that’s necessary here, however, is an entirely different
question.

Ireland’s marriage equality referendum comes to mind as my taxi rolls over the Shannon Bridge and into the heart of the leafy green city.

In 2015, the small country of 5.3 million became the first in the world to legalise same-sex marriage by popular vote.

Progress has been building in the decades that my family has been away, and spotting a rainbow flag billowing along the waterfront is the first sign that things have clearly changed.

That Pride flag is just one of dozens that I find flying around Limerick.
Outside cozy pubs and charming stone cottages, I even find a rainbow crossing painted proudly outside the cathedral.

The flags aren’t everywhere, not on every street like they were in Sydney or San Francisco, but there are enough to make any queer traveller feel at home.

Stepping inside one of the breweries, I’m pleasantly surprised to find crocheted trans and Palestinian flags hanging in pride of place.

‘The rainbow flag isn’t finished yet,’ the bartender calls, spotting me admiring the craftsmanship. ‘But we’re gonna put it up right there.’

Evidently, my attempts to mask my queer identity have failed.

I spot a sticker on the wall that says ‘support your local drag queens’ and another that says ‘mammies for trans rights.’

I wonder if I’ve accidentally wandered into a queer brewery, but I already know there aren’t any official LGBTQ+ bars anywhere in the city. This is just how the people of Ireland show their support. It leaves me wondering if things were ever really that bad.

I find my answers at Rainbow Roots, an evening where queer elders and
changemakers speak about their experiences growing up in Limerick. The city has held its pride parade since 2007, but before then, I’m told that queer visibility was rare.

The panellists sit around a table, drinking pints of Guinness and passing the microphone back and forth as they tell old stories of queer hardship and queer joy.

Stories of hidden bars and illegal lock-ins, hiding in back rooms and evading local gardaí (police).

‘In my life, I’ve seen so many changes,’ Myles Breen, a local actor and LGBTQ+ activist says.

‘Gay kisses on Irish soaps. Boy band members, hurlers, and rugby players coming out to huge cheers. Beatnik gay clubs full of shiny, happy people, no longer shoved down tiny streets. If you’d told me all those years ago, that Ireland would be the first country to legalise same sex marriage by popular vote, I would have laughed in your face.

‘That’s how far we’ve come in my life. Ireland voted for us.’

This is why small Pride events are so important. They help bring queer
visibility to places that might not otherwise have any. Limerick’s LGBTQ+ community is currently bidding to host Europride in 2028.

You may wonder why such a small Pride is in the running, but it’s not all about size. They’re small, but they’re mighty, and for the local community, winning the bid would be life-changing.

Limerick gives me a glimpse into how far Ireland has come, but like many
countries, it’s still far from perfect.

Transgender Europe (TGEU) ranked Ireland as having the worst transgender healthcare in the EU.

Trans rights have fallen by the wayside, and that’s why it feels important to make Dublin Trans Pride the next stop on my journey.

As blue and pink flags fill the city, I’m shocked by the turnout. Trans people
are a small minority in the Irish capital, but their numbers are bolstered tenfold by allies from across the LGBTQ+ community and beyond.

It’s not just people showing up for their trans friends and family members, either. I speak to a pair of women who tell me they’re not part of the community and don’t personally know any trans people; they’ve just come along to show their support because it’s the ‘right thing to do.’

In fact, so many people turn out that it causes a problem for the organisers.

People are spilling out of the designated meeting point and inadvertently blocking the roads. Signs reading ‘cis dykes for trans rights’ and ‘gay blokes for trans folks’ wave proudly, and as the crowd swells, I realise it’s perhaps the greatest display of allyship I’ve ever seen.

‘The billionaires use their money and their influence, and we will use the
streets and we will show that we are stronger,’ Jenny Maguire, a local transgender writer and activist cheers the crowd as the march descends upon the city.

‘Demand the Ireland that we want to see. Ireland for all of us.’

A record-breaking 10,000 people show up in the streets that day. Despite
Ireland’s relatively small population, it cements the Dublin trans pride march as one of the largest in the world.

It goes a long way towards showing how inclusive and progressive the country really is. There are still problems at a government level, but
the people have made their feelings loud and clear. By voting for us, by marching with us, by choosing to fight alongside us.

Ireland isn’t perfect – nor does it claim to be – but if there’s one thing that I’m certain of, it’s that they’re wholeheartedly on our side.