Prior to the attack on Pulse, a handful of other U.S. “We’ve had a lull where we didn’t have to think about it, and then something like this happens and we’re reminded what’s out there - an ideology of hate that’s directed toward us.” “We in the LGBT community have had to live with this threat of random violence forever,” he said. Nonetheless, the attack was sobering, he said. There were tears and hugs of love, not tears and hugs of fear and foreboding.” “It was exactly the right place to be - in my bar with all the people I care about,” said Ken Darling. “Everyone was welcome - no one was made to feel ostracized.”Īcross the country, many gay bars served as venues for vigils or commemorations honoring the victims of the Orlando attack.Īt LUSH in Minneapolis - where weekend brunches rival drag performances as favored attractions - patrons were brimming with emotion on Sunday as details of the Orlando shooting emerged. “It was such a wonderful, safe place,” said Bruno. A reunion picnic is scheduled for this August. There’s a Facebook page devoted to memories of the place. “I don’t think the community has ever rebounded from its loss.” “We still miss it,” said Michael Bruno, 60, who sometimes served as a master of ceremonies there. In Madison, Wisconsin, members of the LGBT community still harbor fond memories of the Hotel Washington, a building housing a gay bar, dance club, restaurant and music hall that burned down in 1996. That communal sprit was especially powerful at holiday parties, said Guequierre, recalling times when he would have Thanksgiving dinner with his family in a small town about an hour from Milwaukee, then drive back to the city for the nighttime revelry at a club. “You walk into a club as a young gay man, barely out of the closet, and see all these other people who were just like you, and you felt this sense of community that you didn’t know existed.” Paul Guequierre, now 38 and working for the American Constitution Society in Washington, D.C, says he has vivid memories of his first visit to a gay bar as a 21-year-old college student in Milwaukee. “When we do go, you still have that nostalgia,” he said. Two years ago, he married his longtime partner they go out to clubs infrequently, usually for special occasions. Now 42, Brown lives in Columbia, South Carolina, and works as a brain-wave analyst for a hospital system. “It’s where you go when you don’t want to lie… It’s where you go to connect, to experience community, forget your secret, and to combat the isolation that a secret of that magnitude can cause.” “I imagine that a lot of young gay people could feel the same way about their own regular weekend hot spot as I did about Hula’s,” Brown wrote in his post. He was stationed in Hawaii with the Army two decades ago as a 21-year-old, in an era when being outed as gay would lead to ouster from the military. The club that holds such a fond place in Jamie Brown’s memory is called Hula’s, in one of Honolulu’s edgier neighborhoods. Among them was a bouquet of white roses, accompanied by this message: “Never stop dancing.” A police raid there in 1969 led to violent street riots that emboldened gay activists nationwide.Īfter the Orlando shooting, clusters of flowers were laid outside the Stonewall’s door. Indeed, one of pivotal moments of the gay-rights movement revolved around a gay bar in New York City, the Stonewall Inn. “It’s where we can be ourselves, develop relationships, be with your community,” he said. “Clubs are terribly important to the LGBT community,” said Ken Darling, owner of the Minneapolis club LUSH. Sunday’s attack on the Pulse nightclub, in which 49 people were killed and gunman Omar Mateen died in a gun battle with police, prompted an outpouring of reminiscence and reflection on the vital roles that such clubs have played for many lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgender people across the U.S. He remembers it as a sanctuary.Īfter the nightclub massacre in Orlando, Florida, “it just won’t be the same,” Brown wrote in an emotional Facebook post. NEW YORK » Like many gay men across America, Jamie Brown has treasured memories of nights spent reveling at a gay club, a boisterous community gathering place where he could feel safe and be himself.