When you grow up gay in a small town, you inevitably face this choice: get the hell out of that small town the second you’re able or stay where you are and see what you can make of it.

I chose to stay, for reasons both professional and personal. And in the ten years since I made that choice, I’ve been able to make a life I’m both happy with and proud of. I’ve gotten to do some very cool things, and some pretty amazing people have crossed my path.

And I’m in Cajun Country, so I can guarantee you I’ve eaten well.

Staying also changes the way you experience “being gay” (whatever that is, really. There are so many ways to “be gay,” aren’t there?). When you’re living in the small town South, you don’t have the benefit of an organized, visible gay community to guide you. The connections you make to other gay people are personal ones, and while those connections are nurturing, they don’t carry much power or weight in the larger community. In the larger community, you’re basically alone – if you want to “fight the power,” you’re going to have to do it with an army of one.

That reality breaks some of us. It keeps us in the closet. It leads us to think the best solution is to marry and have kids. It makes us feel ashamed, inferior, purposeless. And I think for most people who don’t live here (or for that matter, those who left here as soon as they could) that experience is assumed to be prevailing one.

But it isn’t. I’ve lived here all my life, and sure, 15 years ago when I first came out, that was the most common story. But today, things are changing. Today, gay people in small towns like mine are starting to figure out that being an army of one isn’t such a bad thing.

Every day, out gay people in small towns like mine change the South. The changes are small – minuscule, even – but there are changes. Those changes aren’t happening in legislatures or city councils (although we small town gays need to get that ball rolling faster). Those changes are taking place in coffee houses, classrooms, neighborhood parks, living rooms and even churches.

We’re working from the other end of change. One on one. By unapologetically being who we are.

Yesterday, my partner Nathan and I grabbed a quick bite at a local fast food place (Raising Cane’s, a mostly southern franchise, famous for their chicken fingers). Behind the counter was this fabulous young gay man – early twenties, clearly in college – decked out in his work uniform, jeans, baseball cap, French manicured press-on nails, fake eyelashes and a shock of glittery blue eyeshadow.

Not the best application, mind you, but he’s young. He’ll learn.

He wasn’t waiting on us. He was waiting on a pair of standard-issue Louisiana jock boys, and they made no attempt to hide their snickering or rolled eyes. One of them even said in full voice to the other, “Dude, you know that’s a dude, yo?”

Did it rattle our fabulous friend behind the counter? No. In fact, I even think he straightened his spine a little. There wasn’t an ounce of apology in his face or his voice. He was who he was, and a pair of bubbas wanting chicken fingers weren’t going to change that for a second.

That’s who I think we are here. Jeans, a baseball cap and blue eyeshadow. Fighting the good fight, one bubba at a time.

Cody Daigle is the entertainment writer for the Times of Acadiana and a blogger on gay issues for theadertiser.com.