August is supposed to be fully clear of Pride month, according to the calendar. But when I popped by a popular harvest festival in my neighborhood, it looked like summer had surrendered to the rainbow flag.
Picture a sweet 3-year-old girl wearing a green tutu and glittery stickers clapping alongside a parade of high school marching bands writhing to Penthouse-style routines, at the instruction of male choreographers who stepped out in full faces of makeup. At the same moment, a (drunk?) man I didn’t know made a joke by purposely touching my backside after I apologized for accidentally bumping into his. An eye for an eye. He said he was sorry. I’m an adult; I said it was fine.
What was happening? This was a freaking vegetable festival at 9 a.m. on a Saturday. Calm down, Nashville.
An hour later, EDM blared from a popular gay bar as a tomato red disco ball glimmered in the sunlight. A couple running their homemade gelato cart tried to make the best of the heart-thumping beat spilling onto the street. Small children looked on as revelers dressed in booty-baring festival garb gathered with friends. At least the bar got the memo on the theme. The Bloody Marys and micheladas on the cocktail list featured tomato-ish ingredients.
Fifteen minutes in, things were going off the rails.
Every August, the historic Five Points neighborhood in East Nashville cranks its eclectic spirit up to an 11 for the Tomato Art Fest, a two-day event that goes all in on the savory fruit. Now in its 23rd year, the official motto declares the tomato as “A Uniter, NOT A Divider! Bringing Together Fruits & Vegetables.” But I’ll be the judge of that.
Just like the first time I voted for Obama, I was filled with hope. (Leave me alone — I’m a tomato fest survivor.) After moving to the state several months ago, I was desperate to dive into local tradition. And how cute! A festival based on the season’s harvest. Coming from the dirty, soulless streets of Los Angeles where I learned that “stronger together” means “every man for himself,” I imagined a cozy farmers market-style craft fair with tomato-focused foods from local farmers. Fried green tomatoes! Wood-fired pizza! Gazpacho! Weird heirloom varieties we never see in stores! Tomato ice cream! Tomato beer! A blue ribbon for whoever can grow the biggest tomato! The Hallmark Channel works.
Instead, the few ripe tomatoes I saw all day were strung together as a necklace by a guy in a t-shirt that used to be white. Bless his heart. (I’m learning.) Call me crazy, but acai bowls, mac and cheese, and barbecue aren’t exactly screaming “tomato fest.”
Per usual for a warm weather celebration, the “all are welcome here” crowd turned out. In reality, the unspoken guest list for this kind of party is pretty restrictive. But please enjoy social bonus points for having a thing for fishnets, vodka sodas, socialism, and an insatiable need to get away to Palm Springs. You seem fun.
I got a hot dog (they were out of ketchup) and watched an LGBTQ marching band squawk its way through a song the Girl Scout troop parading behind them would have played better, even if they had to form a band from scratch on the spot. Several trans-identifying men passed by me in the crowd. I handed one of them a paper fan I wasn’t really using. We smiled at each other. He was kind. Would he hate me for writing a feature on Chloe Cole for work? Are we all really welcome here, like, with our thoughts and everything?
You know those neighbors who keep Christmas trees up all year long? Some people around these parts display tomato signs in their yards 365 days a year. Now I see why. The concept started out earnestly, as far as I can tell. The tomato has served as Tennessee’s official state fruit since 2003 (so what if the Supreme Court classified it as a veg in 1893), and the festival grows bigger every year, promising a weekend of wholesome fun for the whole family that includes a costume parade, 5K race, full roster of live musical performances, arts and crafts vendors, kid-friendly science experiences, portrait painters, food trucks, and drink tents for fun aunts.
I tried really hard to conjure the collective kumbaya I assumed was baked into the neighborhood’s biggest event of the summer. But it remained elusive. Political campaigns dotted the parade for candidates I don’t know yet. A small leftist organization shouted something about voting and planting seeds. Tomato-ish, but I assume they’re talking about voting only one way. Another woman seemed better suited for Coney Island’s Mermaid Parade dressed in a fish tail and tomato bikini instead of seashells. She and her cool bikini friends navigated large groups of children representing their magnet and charter school programs.
I was having trouble wrapping my head around the “heartland risqué” aesthetic. I wondered if Spain’s La Tomatina festival — the one where 20,000 people throw tomatoes around for an hour until everyone looks like human meatballs sloshing around in street pulp — has a more cohesive je ne sais quoi.
Maybe what was missing were the actual tomatoes. I know they’re out there. The devil works hard; that tomato vine in your backyard works harder.
But I was also missing a real sense of community. I’m new here, but I can already feel the neighbors picking sides. The “Pride” vibe can be exclusive, weaponizing the rainbow — a promise that was meant for everyone — as a symbol of one particular team. With all the LGBTQ venues opening in my neighborhood, Tomato Fest will likely become an all-rainbow party someday. I watched it happen in my Los Angeles neighborhood. Families will still go, but they’ll be consuming 100% more drag in order to do it. (And even fewer tomatoes.)
Later that afternoon as the festival rocked on, black storm clouds rolled in, and a sudden crack of thunder unleashed a downpour. I wondered if this is what everyone not in Noah’s Ark felt like, back in the day. I imagined all of those ancient folk somewhere on the other side, throwing tomatoes at each other, with some divine understanding of where it all went wrong. Sure, we’ve been promised no more epic floods. But we definitely needed to be cleansed from whatever just happened at Tomato Fest.
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