OAJ Hot Take: Reflections and Legacy, The Stonewall Inn
Queer spaces are closing across the country, but the magic they bring their patrons has never dwindled, and the communities they create shape lives and history.
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The piece below is part of our weekly blog post series written by the Open-Air Journal team where we explore issues at Heller, current events, or whatever is presently on our minds.
Content Warning: This article contains discussion of queer and sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.
Last month, my mom and I visited New York City. We were going to see a Broadway show, stay the night, and take the train home the next afternoon. The show was phenomenal, but then we decided to go for pre-dinner drinks at the Stonewall Inn, where Pride began.
The conversations and the emotions that I had in that bar were unlike anything I have ever experienced, and the queer solidarity I felt was life-changing.
The Stonewall Inn is and was a prevalent gay bar in Greenwich Village in New York City. It was opened in 1967 by “Fat” Tony Lauria and was established as a “private” gay club. During the mid-twentieth century many bars, particularly gay bars, needed mafia involvement to function. The Stonewall management would bribe the New York Mafia, as well as police and Liquor Authority officials in exchange for protection or warning of raids. Early in the morning of June 28, 1969, police raided the bar – this time, without allies’ warning. Instead of complacency, people took a stand, and for the next six days, Stonewall’s patrons, neighbors, and the local queer community stood up. During the raid, the crowd fought back as clientele were arrested and dragged out, throwing beer cans, bricks, and various other objects at police. The demonstrations continued, and by the last night of demonstrations, there was a crowd of about a thousand. The Stonewall riots were a turning point for the modern gay rights movement and brought national attention to police violence, prejudice, and violence against the gay community, and the queer identities that surround it.
Flash forward to 2024. Winter. It’s cold, and the Stonewall is under construction, with pride flags peeking under scaffolding. I am 23 years old, I have been out as a lesbian for five years, and I have the support of my family, my friends, and a partner I could not be more grateful for.
I walked in and saw two men dancing together. I saw a group of friends at the pink pool table. I met a local, a wiry older man, in his 60s – the bartenders knew him by name. The ceiling was lined with pride flags of all stripes, the walls covered in mirrors and twinkling lights, radiating pink, red, and blue across everyone’s faces. The bar is not classy. The floor was sticky under my sneakers, the bathroom had paper towels strewn next to the garbage bin, and the bathroom light was flickering and dim. It is a dive bar, but I felt completely at home. My Mom and I settled into a table in the corner. I was proud to have her there. I grabbed our drinks, she got the special Stonewall beer, in a rainbow can. We reflected and we talked about my journey: the false crushes I had on high school hockey players, the way I began to find myself in my Gay/Straight Alliance, and the way I felt when we hung a rainbow flag in my school lobby. She goes to the bathroom, and I quietly cry at the table, overwhelmed with belonging and pride.
When Mom came back, I got a hug and got up to get a refill. Mom joined me, and we met two locals. One is a New York transplant in his 40s, moving after his family cut off contact with him for being gay. When he learned that my mom was my mom and not an older lesbian I brought with me, he immediately broke down. He was hugging her, thanking her for supporting her queer kid so wholly and completely. She is only about 15 years older than him, but I saw him revert to a lost 20-something, searching for an adult who valued him. I felt a wave of sadness, coupled with a wave of pride, grateful my mom is the woman she is.
The other is a queer person from South Africa. He explained a bit of his history to me and asked me what I am doing in the city and what I do for work, so I talked. I told my story, I said the show was great, and I explained that I am currently getting my second degree in social justice and policy, focused on queer liberation and sexual justice. He asked me a question I am not expecting – “Do you know what corrective rape is?” – it took me a second before I said yes. I then explained my understanding, which is, as the name suggests, forceful sexual interactions to “correct” female queerness. He looked at me, eyes wide, and said “I have lived here for six years, and you are the only person I have ever met who knew that.” I scoffed like that was not a possibility, but he looked right at me, and I felt the severity of what he told me land, and my scoff turned solemn. Six years to be seen, to be heard, to have trauma understood. He then hugged me, tighter than a stranger usually should, whispering “Thank you for fighting for us.”
Being at the Stonewall Inn at 23 gave me the same feeling that the Obergefell v. Hodges decision gave me when I was 15, and I was listening to “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang, my Grandma’s favorite song, playing on the radio after the newscast. Hearing someone thank me for seeing them, seeing someone clutching my mother after they were cast out, all of that is what queer spaces are meant for, and all of that is why we fight for spaces, for homes, and for communities that make us feel whole.
Support your local queer spaces. Donate to their fundraisers. Listen to queer stories, and learn queer history. One day, an almost-24-year-old living her own queer history, may visit that bar, and have the opportunity to be loved and to be changed in a space where she finally belongs.
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