Like the gay community, gay nightlife has always been around, "since time immemorial," as poet Allen Ginsberg would say, in one form or another. A man holding an American flag stands outside Ramrod, a gay leather bar on Christopher and West 10th Streets in the West Village in New York, Dec. Decades of discrimination and hate haven’t stopped places such as Pulse from serving as community beacons, and now seems like an especially unlikely time for any to begin backing down. The community never stopped pushing back. The 1977 Save Our Children campaign, led by singer Anita Bryant, the celebrity face of the movement and orange juice spokesmodel, successfully overturned a local ban on housing discrimination against LGBTQ people. The notorious "Purple Pamphlets" disseminated by state Senator Charley Johns, who had led witch hunts against gays in state government and led investigative committees that fired hundreds of gay schoolteachers, portrayed the culture as deviant and dangerous. Just a little more than 60 years ago, infamous police raids in Miami attempted to shut down the city’s gay nightlife, resulting in newspaper headlines such as " Perverts Seized in Bar Raids," "Crackdown on Deviant Nests Urged," and "Great Civilizations Plagued by Deviates." Just a day after the vigil, an anonymous caller made threats to The Monster.īrief moments throughout Miami’s gay history suggest as much. Like any safe haven in a tough world, these venues had to develop tough exteriors to protect the valuable community inside they’ve always bravely battled harassment, bounced back, and rebuilt or relocated despite overwhelming odds. It’s no surprise family and friends of the victims at Pulse compared the attack to the invasion of a church or sacred space, because that’s what these institutions have always represented for the LGBTQ community, both in Southern Florida and around the world.
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The worldwide rallies honoring the Orlando victims, often at places similar to where their lives were cut short, underscores the importance of gay nightlife over the last half century.Īcross the country, LGBTQ Americans turned to bars and nightlife to provide an escape from pervasive prejudice, and to carve out spaces of their own. The people behind these places have sparked political activism ( Joe Scialo, the late former owner of The Monster, supported employees in the ‘80s fighting AIDS and even traveled to Mexico to bring back life-saving drugs) and have fostered music and creative expression for decades (gay clubs such as the Warehouse in Chicago and Paradise Garage in New York gave birth to house and various strains of electronic music). While the protests and marches at The Stonewall Inn turned the bar into a symbolic headquarters for the Gay Pride movement, gay nightlife has always served as vital space for community building and escaping societal persecution. But the community and camaraderie made the bar’s buzz of activity special, and (thankfully) ordinary: Space to socialize and celebrate at a gay bar in 2016 isn’t hard to find.ĭespite the massive strides the lesbian, gay, transgender, bisexual, and queer communities have made in the last few decades, the shocking horror of the weekend’s shootings made clear the continued relevance and importance of these bars and nightclubs. Certainly, sober conversations and discussions around the televisions on the wall suggested nobody was unaware of the significance of the activities outside. Just one of a string of gay bars in the immediate neighborhood, The Monster was in the midst of a normal Monday. At the crescendo of one particular lyric-"that's the story of, that's the glory of love"-a crooner from the crowd, his square, white sunglasses askew, flashed a smile, adding contagious enthusiasm to an already buoyant singalong. In the corner, pianist Dan Daly was entertaining the crowd with classics, sipping a Perrier set atop his frosted glass-covered cocktail table, as patrons circled up and joined in on every number.
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Near the entrance, the bartender-in between giving hugs to friends and regulars-was running up and down the line, greeting regulars and reminding everyone of the 2-for-1 special tonight. Inside The Monster, a gay bar around the corner from Stonewall, where the event played out on video screens, it was difficult to hear for a different reason. The occasional Orlando t-shirt slid through the crowd, a physical reminder of how close many of the assembled were, and felt, to those who were murdered less than 24 hours earlier.Īt the edges of the thousands-strong crowd, it was difficult to hear the speakers, or make out the shouts of solidarity. A man with rainbow-colored angel wings stood watching the scene unfold.