In the aftermath of last week’s massacre at Pulse, a gay club in Orlando, politicians and the public debated several themes. Radical Islam, gun control, what one politician said and how another responded all dominated the conversation.
Which made it easy to overlook the one big thing that was lost in the noise and the tragedy: a “safe space.”
No, not the kind of safe space referred to by progressive activists and popular on groupthink-obsessed college campuses where students’ primary concern is to be shielded from words. An actual safe space — where people can exist in physical safety.
That’s what Pulse and so many gay clubs around the country provide for their clientele. And that’s what Omar Mateen snatched away along with 49 lives. And though I’m not gay, that’s what gay clubs had long provided for me.
It was Latin night at Pulse the night of the shooting, and it reminded me of a club night from long ago in New York City: a Sunday night Latin dance party called Cafe con Leche. It was hosted by a drag queen named Perfidia, who also styled wigs at Patricia Field’s, a store that was the epicenter of fabulous New York in the 1990s.
Perfidia would joke, “I should have been born a Spanish woman,” and sing along with the Spanish dance music as if that’s exactly what she was.
I was young, a teenager. It was back when New York didn’t have a lot of rules; Rudy Giuliani wouldn’t become mayor for another two years. No one checked ID anywhere, teenagers mingled with grown-ups and no one said a thing.
My first-ever gay club experience was at the legendary Limelight club. I was 15. We got there after midnight, and it was a mind-blowing display of sequins and platform shoes. Though this was long before the era of Instagram — let alone even camera phones — people still seemed to be posing and strutting for imaginary cameras everywhere.
The place was filled with beautiful people having such a good time. Wednesday nights were the best nights, so I would wait for nights when I didn’t have school on Thursday and go back. By the time I was 16, I was working there for the now-infamous club king Michael Alig doing promotions.
The Roxy, Club USA, The Tunnel, Sound Factory — it was a golden age for gay clubs in New York City. The scene was one big party that wouldn’t end. The clubs were open until morning, and then everyone would move somewhere else for after-hours revelry.
Even though I was straight, gay clubs felt like my world — and gay people were my people. I was a good kid who didn’t do drugs and just wanted to meet interesting people and dance.
The clubs were comfortable and safe. No guy was going to grope me or slip something in my drink at these places. Fights never broke out like they sometimes would at straight clubs. Everyone was just so happy to be somewhere they could be themselves and free. No one was going to mess that up with violence.
And when I was away from home, I didn’t leave that safety behind. When I went away to college in Boston, my gay club was Quest on Boylston Street. Everyone I had known in New York had been out and proud, but there were so many young people at Quest who hadn’t come out to their parents yet. They lived a buttoned-up life all week and collapsed into the ease of being themselves when the weekend came around.
When I traveled, one of the first things I’d do upon arriving in a new place was seek out the gay clubs. Whether in Amsterdam or in Cardiff, Wales, I’d find the rainbow flags and go. It was like showing up at church: The fact that you’re there means you probably belong.
I hadn’t been to a gay club, or any club, in many years, before the shooting in Orlando. Last week, I wanted to show solidarity in the wake of the massacre, so I sought out my nearest gay bar.
I sat at the bar at Ginger’s, a lesbian bar in Park Slope. The mood was somber, the TVs played news of the Orlando tragedy on a loop.
The irony is that the safety I always felt in gay spaces was afforded to Mateen just the same. He used the openness of gay nightlife against itself. It’s going to take time for the gay community to heal from that — and every other community that’s benefited from the safe spaces afforded them at gay clubs.