Latest news with #MardiGras-style
Yahoo
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Sweet Pride Alabama: Celebrating LGBTQ+ lives in the Deep South
For two weeks each year, Birmingham, Alabama's streets fill with rainbow hues. In place of the usual traffic, crowds of people in vivid colors flood Seventh Avenue to the edges of the sidewalks. They inch as close as possible to floats and cars in the annual Pride parade — a Mardi Gras-style celebration complete with costumes, flags, and balloons. Keep up with the latest in + news and politics. Birmingham's first organized Pride event, Central Alabama Pride, has continued to show up for queer communities for nearly 50 years, bringing light into an otherwise dark place. In recognition of its significance, the organization has been awarded The Advocate's Communities of Pride Award, which honors a group that upholds the spirit of Pride by fostering connections between LGBTQ+ people from all walks of life. 'I'm beyond honored to receive The Advocate's Communities of Pride Award. In a time when LGBTQ+ people – especially in the South – are under attack, this recognition means everything to us,' says Central Alabama Pride President Josh Coleman. 'It says our work matters, our communities matter, and we're not going anywhere.' 'Getting to share this moment on The Kelly Clarkson Show was so surreal, but it also shows just how far we've come. Pride in Central Alabama isn't just a celebration, it really is a fight to be seen, to be safe, and to belong,' Coleman adds. 'For every young person in Alabama who feels like there's no place for them, I hope this moment reminds them that there is and that we're fighting every day to make it safer, louder, and prouder.' Central Alabama Pride began as a 'Day in the Park' get-together on June 24, 1979. Now in its 47th year, Pride in the city has evolved into a 15-day series of events attended by more than 20,000 people each June. While Pride events are often associated with large, liberal cities, Alabama has an estimated 173,000 LGBTQ+ adults, making up 4.6 percent of the population. This may be one of the smallest queer populations in the U.S., but the sea of people in Birmingham each year can't be written off as insignificant. 'Celebrating Pride in the Deep South is an act of courage, resistance, and love,' Coleman says. 'It's not just about rainbow flags and parades. It's about affirming our right to exist, thrive, and be visible in spaces that haven't always welcomed us. In states like Alabama, where LGBTQ+ rights are often under attack, Pride is a declaration that we're not going anywhere.' Alabama, which has seen seven anti-LGBTQ+ bills introduced so far in 2025, has one of the worst track records for queer rights. The state incorrectly defines sex as exclusively male or female, and it prohibits transgender people from using public facilities that align with their identities. The Republican legislature has banned lifesaving gender-affirming care for youth, though it permits the discredited and harmful practice of so-called conversion therapy. The state also has a "don't say gay" law restricting the discussion of LGBTQ+ identities in classrooms. It has barred trans students from participating in sports or using school facilities that most align with their gender identity, and it requires staff to out queer students to their parents or guardians. The weight of these laws doesn't reflect on the faces of the people who flock to Birmingham. The crowds cheer and applaud as floats with drag queens, advocacy groups, and local businesses roll by in an unabashed celebration of queer lives. For Coleman, Pride is 'a moment for our community to come together, celebrate our progress, and demand better.' 'We build and protect rural LGBTQ+ communities by showing up – consistently and intentionally. It starts with listening to local voices, providing resources, and making sure no one feels isolated,' Coleman says. 'Visibility is critical: When people in small towns see representation – whether it's a Pride event, a drag show, or a youth group – they start to feel less alone.' 'We also have to fight for policies that protect LGBTQ+ people everywhere, not just in big cities,' he continues. 'At Central Alabama Pride, we're committed to reaching beyond Birmingham and supporting our rural neighbors through partnerships, education, and advocacy. Because every LGBTQ+ person, no matter their zip code, deserves to feel safe, valued, and supported.'
New York Times
05-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
A Fantastical Parade of Mobile Sculptures Races Through Baltimore
Visuals by Matt Roth Text by Simon J. Levien The Baltimore Kinetic Sculpture Race, a psychedelic Mardi Gras-style triathlon, drew thousands on Saturday to watch 29 wacky, human-powered contraptions tackle obstacles over a 15-mile course with uphill climbs, sand, mud and a plunge into the city campy race — now in its 25th running — celebrates visionary art, works that transcend the physical world. Some sculptures take a year to build and test; others were welded together days before, but all must pass safety checks. The host of the race, the American Visionary Art Museum, kicked it off with flair: A man dressed as a nun blessed the racers' feet, a gong sounded and the costumed participants ran — or tumbled — down Federal Hill to their much of the route, the race was a lumbering parade that snaked through the city. Supporters waved from porches, drivers rubbernecked and honked, and al fresco diners gawked with bewilderment. 'You're pedaling furiously and not a lot is happening. That's the kinetic sculpture race!' said Aaron Bard, whose MacBath vehicle was a cross between Shakespeare and a bathtub. Fifi, a 15-foot sculpture of a pink poodle that was the museum's vehicle and mascot, crashed into tree branches and raced onward with a crooked head. Many teams made pit stops for repairs, and rule breaches were often smoothed over with bribes to judges — gifts that included BLTs and rubber ducks. David Hess, 60, has entered every race since its 1999 inception. His team's elaborate two-ton, nine-person Scottish platypus float, fitted with parts from a Suzuki off-roader, won the esprit de corps award. (Platypus, by the way, stood for Personal Long-range All-Terrain Yacht Proven UnSafe.)Mr. Hess, a metal sculptor from Phoenix, Md., said that the race was sculpture in its purest form. 'It's not monetized. It's a gift to spectators,' said Mr. Hess, who was wearing a kilt. 'It's what art should be.' Hundreds of onlookers hollered as three teenagers pedaled a bright purple sculpture of a giant cardboard bear on wheels and crashed it into Baltimore vehicle, Bear Essentials (a bunch of bikes rigged together with flotation devices and a platform between them), turned out to be not so buoyant. The riders, students from the Park School of Baltimore, plunged into the water as the bear split from the chassis, which turned on its side. Crew members dragged out of the water the sopping wet bear, which began disintegrating and later became headless. Another team member pumped its chest in a futile act of CPR.'It was epic!' said Danielle Nekimken, a Park teacher and team member. 'Everyone loves a good fiasco.' The race is not the only such event in the country. The most extreme competition, the Kinetic Grand Championship, is held annually in Humboldt County, Calif., spans three days and covers about 50 miles. In Baltimore, 'mud doctors' — volunteers wearing white coveralls mimicking the look of hazmat suits — readied the final obstacle of the race: a shin-deep mud pit in Patterson Park. With a rope tug or a hearty push, many vehicles navigated the uphill slog, but the last team to arrive was the one that won fans' hearts. A five-person Lego-themed vehicle, Kinetic Cruiser, from the Jemicy School in Owings Mills, Md., got stuck in the muck. 'Heave! Heave! Heave!' teammates shouted, inching forward for about 20 member jumped atop the mud-caked wheels and forced them to turn. When the sweat-soaked team finally broke free, the crowd cheered. Not every vehicle finishes the race. Last year, the Park School of Baltimore's bear-themed Statue of Liberty broke an axle at the starting line, earning the Golden Dinosaur, an accolade for the earliest breakdown. One race rule requires that teams carry a homemade sock creature on entrant, 'Sorry for Party Socking,' was a huge sock monkey marionette that Adnan A. Khera, a Baltimore anesthesiologist, made with the hope of winning best sock creature. Unfortunately for his team, Theo Plum, the 5-year-old judge for that award category, was unswayed. Dr. Khera also hoped the sculpture would float in the harbor. When the monkey marionette reached the water, team members folded it up onto rafts carried by swimsuit-clad pallbearers. Then they unceremoniously flung the sculpture off the ramp. 'Now, it's a pile of laundry,' said Luke H. Clippinger, a contest judge wearing a barrister's wig and robe. Well, who won Saturday's race? Every team took home some hardware. But the top honor, Grand Mediocre Champion, went to Wheel Horse, a red tractor-like contraption with fins, for finishing in the middle of the pack.
