ID: The title Stories From a Queer, Former Bartender- In the Wake of the Shooting at Club Q above and below an image of the logo from Club Q. The words New Blog Post in the lower right hand corner.
I have felt deep sadness over the Club Q shooting. I have vacillated between feeling numb and feeling angry. When I feel angry enough I have worked to amplify funds and hold space for collective healing. This morning I saw a picture of the bartenders (Daniel Davis Aston and Derrick Rump) that were killed, Daniel looking fun and cool and Derrick looking dapper as hell. I lost it and found myself sobbing. You see, I worked as a bartender at a very popular gay night. I have pictures of the DJ and myself dancing behind the bar. That picture could have been us. That gay night was my safe space for years. If not gay bars and nights, where are we allowed to exist, celebrate, and fall in love? Here are some stories from working a queer, club night. I share these stories to share queer joy. But I also share these stories to share what queer spaces mean for the LGBTQ community. These spaces thrive when allies show up and work hand in hand to support all aspects of our diverse, intersectional community.
After college, I worked in a restaurant, bar, and music venue complex. At the time there were 5 distinct rooms and 4 of them hosted bands/DJs. The room I worked in hosted a really popular gay night on Tuesdays. It was often nominated and occasionally won best gay night at the [City] Music Awards.
Working that night became the highlight of my week. I started as the door person, in part due to my appearance. Between my clothing choices, short Mohawk, and lip ring, I looked pretty gay. My job was mostly to check IDs. Our venue was on the main street and people walking by often asked what was happening on any given night. The name of the night didn’t scream queer so I was told to explicitly call it a gay night, especially if the potential patron seemed straight. The amount of straight guys that were drawn in by the incredible music and then jumped back when I said “gay night” was honestly hilarious and one of the best parts of my job.
I was also given an unofficial training by the head bartender, P. She explained that it was our job to make sure everyone in that room had fun and felt safe. This was her philosophy about all nights, but her added care for the queer community was palpable and part of what made our night so popular. If I ever felt unsafe, I was to get the most intimidating coworker from any room in the complex or the owner. On the rare Tuesdays that I did, they all knew why they were being called on for help and were quick to stand up for myself and our patrons, overwhelmingly queer people. If anyone expressed discomfort or complained about another patron, we were to immediately remove them. Mostly, this looked like the DJ’s exes causing drama. Occasionally, this looked like drunk, straight people coming in and harassing patrons. And sparingly, this related to bad behavior from assorted queer patrons. Like that time a queer woman asked every woman at the bar individually if she could buy them a drink. I watched this woman get shot down repeatedly and just turn to the next woman at the bar. It was hilarious, but combined with other behavior, I had to ask her to leave for the night. She came back the following week asking if I had seen the tattoo on the inside of her lip. I said no, and she flipped over her bottom lip revealing the word “pussy.” I was stunned as she said, “‘cuz it’s always in my mouth.” I had to take a breather in the kitchen to stop laughing.
Our restaurant served traditional, Middle Eastern food. So we got a lot of Middle Eastern tourists and businessmen. One Saudi Arabian ambassador and his silent bodyguard started coming in on Tuesdays to have dinner. As our kitchen closed and we began setting up for the DJ he would always gather his belongings and leave. After months of being a charming, ideal patron, we made it clear to him that he was still welcome after the DJ began. It was a queer dance night, but all were welcome. He explained that he understood the space was special and not for him and he wanted to respect that. We didn’t think we could like him more.
Months later, he approached the door alone and said hello to me. Then he paused and said, “Did you know the man that usually accompanies me is my bodyguard?” I feigned surprise, but it had been pretty obvious. This was the first time I had seen him alone. He told me that he had fired the man. When I asked why, he explained that after the last time they visited his bodyguard tried to make a joke about whether I was a man or a woman, so he fired him on the spot. As a non-binary person, I was honestly shocked. I expressed my gratitude and of course went on to tell the staff in the entire complex. He was truly a beloved patron, and ten years later, I can still remember that he always drank screwdrivers, and preferred Absolut vodka.
When I was 21, years before I worked at the bar, that Tuesday gay night was my first queer club experience. I had just come out and an older friend expressed how proud they were. She asked if she could take me out to a gay night to celebrate. She was straight but said she wanted to mark this occasion with me and she knew the door person, C, at a really popular gay night. It was honestly an incredible night. I danced, I laughed, and I met other queers who looked and acted “differently,” like me. It was validating in a way I didn’t know I needed. Working there years later was a true full circle moment for me.
Another beloved patron was a newly out trans woman. She began stopping in for dinner and staying for our gay nights when she began transitioning. At the time her ID and credit cards didn’t match her gender identity and the name she used. She explained that she had tried many other queer spaces but hadn’t felt safe or affirmed. P took this to heart and did a brief training so any bartender that might step in to cover that shift or watch the bar knew how to offer this person the best possible experience. We had an old system that required manually inputting names for all open tabs. Our policy was to use the name on the card so any bartender could step in mid shift. P always used this person’s chosen name in the system, remembering that it was correlated to a credit card with a different name. She asked that all bartenders use her chosen name in the system (which would appear at the top of her printed bill), remember the correlated name as it appeared on her credit card (so this person never had to remind us and/or use her deadname), and always properly gender all patrons. If P stepped out for a cigarette she would discreetly remind all staff of the correlating name to ensure that this patron never had to speak it out loud, especially in front of other customers. She taught respect through her actions both toward this customer and in training all staff.
Eventually I moved up the service industry ladder and began bartending. The head bartender, P, was straight and asked if I wanted to have Tuesdays. I was ecstatic. I learned that the night had been created by the DJs and the former door person, C, who I had met all those years ago. This former door person had moved away but would visit whenever they were in town. Over the years, between holiday parties and gatherings at P’s house I got to know them. One day, C pulled me and P aside to talk. They were ready to propose to their partner, who they had met at our Tuesday gay night, and so they wanted to propose at the bar that Tuesday. We were beside ourselves. With some prep, and the little distance a bartop offers, we watched as they dropped to one knee on the dance floor and their partner screamed yes.
Over the years I became friends with P. I believe she identifies as a straight, cisgender woman. I began attending the Pride Parade with a group of fellow queer coworkers and P. At the time, this Pride Parade was led by the elders of our community. We all know why the queer community lacks elders (government inaction related to the AIDS crisis), so we often revere them. We would rush to City Hall Plaza to watch the parade come in. This group of vibrant elders would march holding newspapers from the day that state legalized gay marriage. As I stood cheering, I noticed P was crying. When I asked if she was okay, she continued to weep and said something I will never forget. “It’s just such a beautiful outpouring of love.” It was at that moment that it all clicked.
Our night was so popular because people felt affirmed and safe to be there. It was a place to dance too big, sing too loudly, and get lost in a sea of people that were “different” like you. The experience of queer people going to a queer night or gay club is not the same as straight people going out to a club. Queer spaces are frequently hard to find and vanishing rapidly. It’s often not safe for me to be myself in public. At the time, the mohawk meant I was often harassed on the street for being queer and gender non conforming, but walking into that bar I always felt safe. I knew my coworkers truly had my back. They didn’t just say it was a safe place for me, they modeled it in their behavior towards all of our queer community. As queer people we are often looking out for each other. But there are only so many of us. That night thrived due to a serious and thoughtful collaboration between queer creatives and fiercely loving allies. We can’t do it alone. Whether it’s donating funds and/or time, writing letters, holding a space to grieve, or just calling your queer friends to check on them- find a way to reach out and support the queer community. I hope we can find our way to a new outpouring of love.
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