One of my earliest memories of queer space, meaning an establishment by and for queer people, was a lesbian bar I never set foot in. I grew up in Guilford, Connecticut, a small shoreline town about twenty minutes away from New Haven. I had a tight knit group of friends in High School and we spent a lot of time driving around, hanging out in the woods, bowling, going to the beach, going to concerts, a house party every so often, and drinking during all of the above. Gay stuff was not even remotely on our radar, except for the time a friend and I honed in on someone in our own circle we thought was a lesbian. We teased and tortured her about it like assholes and caused quite a rift in our group. You probably won’t be surprised to find out which two people in the bunch actually ended up being lesbians.
As I alluded, we did a lot of drinking and it wasn’t always easy to get alcohol. We were handicapped in our pursuit by the lack of years we possessed on earth. It was impossible to buy liquor in our small town because we were easily recognized as local high school students. We had to find other sources. One of the places we would go was a Chinese restaurant in East Haven that never asked for IDs when ordering cocktails with dinner. They had “dragon bowls” that were a mish-mosh of spirits mixed with super sweet fruit punch and a ton of ice. They would serve it in a giant glass cauldron nestled in an ornate red and gold plastic holder, plopped down in the middle of the table with a bunch of straws jutting out of it. There we’d sip and nibble on the side dishes of egg rolls or fried rice we purchased sparingly, and get buzzed on booze and sugar.
The other place we’d go to was a package store in New Haven notorious for selling to minors. We would always bicker about who looked the most grown that day and should be the one to go in to buy, but more often than not, it ended up being our girl Christina, who never seemed to be nervous about doing it. One time, on our way back home from New Haven, we drove past a brick building with a small neon sign at the top of it.
“I heard that is a lesbian bar!” one of my friends noted.
“Oh really? Where?” I said as nonchalant as I could while quickly twisting my head around to see where she was pointing. “Oh wow,” I murmured punctuating it with a semi-passionate “Gross!” as I silently noted the street name and surroundings, committing them to memory.
I was immediately curious and obsessed with this place. What would a lesbian bar look like inside? I had conversations with myself about why I was so intrigued. Why did I care? Was I a lesbian? Could I be? Once or twice a week I’d finish up the evening shifts I worked at Stop & Shop, and drive to New Haven just to slowly roll by the place. I never saw anyone outside, but that didn’t stop me from continuing to making this trek. I’d circle the block a few times hoping the door would open so I could catch a glimpse at what was on the other side. I never got to see it.
Until recently, I had completely forgotten about my lesbian bar drive-bys. I didn’t come out until a few years after I moved to Los Angeles, sometime in the early 1990’s. Coming out of the closet was such a life altering, pivotal moment in my life, that I had pushed all the steps it took to get there to a dusty forgotten corner in the narrative of my queer story. That bar cracked open a door for me. It made me say, for the first time to myself, am I gay? It began the slow process of starting to clarify and identify the confused mass of feelings that resided below my skin.
I told this story at the launch of an event series I’m organizing called Queer Spaces Storytelling Night. It is a night of queer people telling personal stories about their experiences in queer spaces, whether they be historical or contemporary, virtual or in real life. One reason I wanted to create this night was because I find it comforting to sit in a room full of queer people who, even though our stories might be quite different, can all relate to each other on some level. I also passionately believe that queer history needs to be preserved, and storytelling is a way we can keep it alive. Finally, I hope the night inspires people to create their own queer spaces. In a time when the “don’t tread on me” right-wing MAGA crowd seems to love nothing more than treading on us, we need community places to gather, share and unite in strength. The more they come into OUR spaces to intimidate and assault, the more they try to erase us through anti-LGBTQ legislation and by removing our history from bookshelves and classrooms, the more we have to stick together, maintain and expand our visibility on the landscape.
Follow these links to check out what these amazing storytellers are doing:
If you want to know more about Queer Spaces Storytelling Night, reach out to me at bookshowLA@gmail.com.