As columnist Dan Savage wrote in the wake of the mass murder at Pulse: There are predators among us, agents of sexual assault and murder. We fight each other, attacks that are easily mistaken for hate crimes. (The last lesbian bar closed in 2015.) To be a woman or queer person of color or transgender person who visits bars is to mingle in “the community” that may not appreciate you or even want you, in cities where there is no place that is truly yours.īeyond these factors, which we talk about among ourselves and which occasionally surface in the gay press (itself in danger of disappearing), there are other dangers we pose to each other. The only gay bar for Latinos closed in 2014. The only gay bar for Asian men closed in 2007. In San Francisco I have discussed how the only gay bar for African-American men closed in 2004. Latin night at Pulse is so special because of the rarity of gay bars for people of color, not to mention for women. The risk of humiliation of being asked for multiple forms of photo identification at the door, being turned away at the door for no reason, of waiting at the bar for every possible patron to be served before you, of having your song request from the DJ being dismissed, perhaps with a comment about “ghetto,” of being ignored by every hot person in the place because of your race or your accent or your body.
Queers of color face more dangers, ones that often get lost in the talk of community. There are the likely ones that will happen to you at some point or someone you know: of blacking out, of being pulled over by the police, of being mugged while walking to your car, being roofied, or getting in a fight. There are the routine hazards of gay bars that happen to everyone: rejection, body-shaming, humiliation, indifference, or drinking too much. Many of the dangers of gay bars also come from us, from within the gay community. But they also draw those of us who find gay bars traumatic for personal but more pervasive reasons. These dangers have long drawn researchers to bars, including myself. The transgression of being around men making out or more, the possibilities of meeting someone, the temptation to go too far. The uncertainty from walking in a part of town people call bad. Of being seen by someone who doesn’t know you’re gay.
The heroics and professional response to the Orlando attacks thus may represent a turning point in relations between the police and the LGBTQ community.īut some danger is part of the attraction of gay bars. Just read the lawsuits and hospital records from the 2009 raids by Fort Worth police on the Rainbow Lounge and the Atlanta SWAT unit on the Eagle. Police, too, have historically been agents of violence. Gay bars have always been magnets to gay bashers. To be sure, violence, discrimination, and side-eye happen at straight bars, but straights can flirt with impunity at work, at church, on the bus, in all bars. There is a long history of violence at gay bars, and not just from terrorism. Gay bars are those things, and they deserve to be celebrated and defended, and they need our patronage and gratitude especially here in the Rust Belt, where their numbers have dwindled rapidly since the Great Recession.īut gay bars have also always been dangerous and continue to be.
In the wake of the massacre at Orlando’s Pulse, many writers have waxed poetic about gay bars as liberating sanctuaries, transformative sites of community, as refuges. This is what it was like for me to visit a strange gay bar for the first time.
Finishing my beer too quickly, I tried to look nonchalant as I returned to the bar-to a different bartender-to get a second, calming my beating heart and strategizing: Who would find me hot? Who was hot to me? Would I even approach them? How? Second beer finished, I planted myself as a wallflower at the edge of the vacant dance floor, waiting for more than three men to hit it so I could join them and maybe find abandon.
As I stepped through the door into the steaming, thumping din, I shot straight to the bar for a beer while scanning the room for a place to perch that wasn’t too close to any of the other men leaning against the wall but had a good view of the men passing from the illuminated bar into the shadows of the dance floor. This mix of excitement and dread did not flag when I noticed the security guard in his orange vest at the doorway who scanned the street behind me as he checked my ID. As I walked toward the door my heart raced, my hands went clammy, and I felt self-conscious about my gait. As I stepped out of the car I glanced through the windshield, making sure no jacket or loose change were visible that might cause a thief to smash the glass. I scanned the empty street looking for shadows in the dark storefronts or between two vans parked next to each other. When I parked down the street from Detroit’s R&R Saloon for the first time, I sat in my car for a moment.