A Regional Rainbow Perspective
Originally published in the Country Network newsletter, 2023. Edited and updated for this blog.
In South Australia, physical barriers like rivers, mountains, and tunnels arbitrarily defined where things started and ended. These barriers also shaped the way communities connected—or didn’t. I happened to live east of the Adelaide Hills, south of the ranges, and the geography of my life had a profound impact on the choices I made.
Growing up in the Adelaide Hills, the opening of the Heysen Tunnels in 2000 made city access easier, but the psychological divide remained. Despite being just 15 km from the CBD, the city still felt distant. New friends were reluctant to visit because it was deemed ‘too far’—on the ‘wrong side’ of the Tunnels. This mindset created a form of isolation that had little to do with actual distance.
In The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (1994), there’s a line about the suburbs being designed to keep them out and us in. The further east you went, the more rural things became. Although only 40 km from the city, the Adelaide Hills were still considered rural, with services thinning out the further you traveled. This dwindling infrastructure increased isolation, particularly for those in marginalized communities.
A small country town in South Australia typically had a few staples: a pub, a church, and a footy team. The town I now call home has nine churches, multiple pubs, and several footy teams. There is also a mix of generational locals and professionals on short-term teaching or nursing contracts. It is a blend of stability and transience, which shaped the culture and attitudes of the region.
After six years at university, I left the Hills to pay down my HECS debt. I landed a job because I knew the town’s location, the name of a nearby hamlet, and that local shopping hour restrictions might be a talking point. But my timing coincided with the growing backlash against the LGBTIQA+ community in 2017, when the marriage equality debate emboldened some to express hostility openly. I worried for the young people who were still unable to be their authentic selves. In response, we held our first rainbow flag raising at the high school. It was small but significant—and it grew each year after.
As a teacher, I had the opportunity to broaden young people’s horizons, but that responsibility came at a cost. It meant balancing work-life demands and navigating daily challenges to my values. I taught subjects ranging from C# programming to colour theory (and strongly advised against using Comic Sans). I took country kids to Melbourne for pottery classes and art appreciation, exposing them to a world beyond their town. We talked about what it meant to live in a rural community—how it functioned, how it connected, and where it could improve.
For at least a decade, there had been an annual push for local governments in South Australia to fly the rainbow flag on days of significance. Progress was slow but steady. Yet, each year, a handful of councils recycled tired excuses for refusal, likening the flag to extremist symbolism. In January 2023, Wattle Range Council revisited the issue after complaints from a local Baptist group. These conversations were exhausting, but they reinforced the importance of visibility.
Geographic barriers, distance, and limited services amplified isolation in rural areas, making it harder for people to find their community. But that was why initiatives like rainbow flag raisings mattered. They provided a visible marker of inclusion, a signal to those who felt alone that they were seen and valued.
Living regionally had its challenges, but it also offered opportunities to build strong, tight-knit communities and drive meaningful change. Whether through symbolic acts like raising the rainbow flag or deeper conversations in classrooms, there were ways to bridge the gaps. I saw firsthand how communities could come together to create safe, welcoming spaces—and I know they will continue to do so.
Connecting to Pat Smith Art and Future Projects
The experiences I had as a teacher and community advocate have directly shaped the mission of Pat Smith Art. The need for inclusion, visibility, and connection—so evident in my time in regional education and activism—has fueled the growth of my art practice and upcoming projects.
Through creative expression, I aim to continue advocating for marginalised communities, providing a space where queer and neurodivergent individuals can find representation and belonging. The next phase of my journey includes offering social art groups, mobile mentoring programs, and creating art that tells the stories of those who have been historically overlooked.
Pat Smith Art is not just about artistic practice; it is about fostering community, creativity, and meaningful change. My work will continue to be shaped by these regional experiences, ensuring that art becomes a powerful tool for connection, advocacy, and transformation.
