RVA Mag

Richmond, VA Culture & Politics Since 2005

Menu

Won’t You Be My Gaybor?

|

Topics: , , , , , , , , ,

Our 2019 Summer Pride Guide, in collaboration with VA Pride, is out now! Here’s one of our articles from that magazine, in which Wyatt Gordon examines Richmond’s lack of a gayborhood, and what that means for our city.

If I told you I went to a bar in the Castro, would you even need me to say I was in San Francisco? When you watch something set in New York City, do you realize how often you’re only seeing the West Village? Could you imagine going out in D.C. without spending time in Dupont Circle? 

Some neighborhoods become so famous (or is it infamous?), they can gain a reputation that rivals that of the city in which they are located. Across the world, many beloved and notorious neighborhoods were pioneered by people who today proudly revel in the label of being queer. All of which leads to an obvious question for those of us who live in Virginia’s capital city: does Richmond have a “gayborhood”? And if so, where is it? 

Many might argue that the capital of the Commonwealth is too small to sustain a gayborhood. San Francisco, New York, and Washington are all far bigger cities than Richmond. Could it be that predominantly queer neighborhoods only form once a city has graduated from mid-sized status and evolved into a true metropole? Portland, Oregon won’t let you believe that nonsense for a second. The avant-garde boutiques, trendy restaurants, and — yes — male strip clubs of Burnside Triangle have made the area into the hub of Oregon’s LGBTQ community since at least the turn of the century. And it’s not just the gays who have their own neighborhood. Portlandia’s feminist bookstore is far more than a fan-favorite sketch, it’s a comedic interpretation of Hawthorne, a neighborhood in the city’s southeast, which may be America’s most concentrated lesbian gayborhood. 

Photo by Sara Wheeler

So if size isn’t holding Richmond’s theoretical gayborhood back, could it be our Southern-ness? The South isn’t known for its progressive instincts, nor its inclination toward protecting human rights. Indeed, of the only 24 states in our Union with protections for sexual orientation and/or gender identity in the workplace, not a single one can be found in the South — Virginia included. Three southern states (North Carolina, Arkansas, and Tennessee) even go so far as to prohibit the passage and/or enforcement of non-discrimination laws ratified by localities. 

Despite the South’s prejudiced policies towards LGBTQ Americans, several of the region’s most iconic cities have established gayborhoods inextricably woven into their modern tapestry. Over a dozen gay bars with names like the 700 Club, Rawhide, and the Corner Pocket congregate around St. Ann Street in New Orleans’ French Quarter. For those who would write off the Big Easy as an Acadian anomaly, consider Nashville, the cradle of country music and the self-proclaimed “Athens of the South.” Less than a dozen blocks from the Tennessee State Capital and the Ryman Auditorium (the original home of the Grand Ole Opry) lies Church Street: Music City’s gay mecca. Nashville’s gayborhood has become so famously pro “bears” — slang for large, hairy men that project an image of rugged masculinity — that a local news outlet released a “Grizzlies Guide to Nashville,” chronicling the neighborhood’s top gay bars. 

Atlanta, the unofficial capital of the “New South,” may be the gayest of all. In the city’s last mayoral race in 2017, Atlanta’s first openly gay city council member, Cathy Woolard, came in third. The two remaining candidates released entire LGBTQ policy platforms to combat rising HIV infection rates, shelter the city from state-level discriminatory measures, and — most importantly — woo Atlanta’s queer voters. 

Not all Southern cities are as bold. Richmond has never had an openly gay City Council member, and our last gay candidate for mayor was Dirtwoman (who led a campaign widely derided as a stunt). Only last year did City Council vote to designate the LGBTQ community a protected people — and that decision only came in the wake of Alexandria, Charlottesville, Virginia Beach, and Newport News beating us to the punch. 

Furthermore, there is a debate as to whether the designation is little more than window dressing. Virginia is a Dillon Rule state, which means that cities must govern according to statewide rules, unless explicitly given permission to do otherwise. As our Commonwealth’s Human Rights Act does not include protections for sexual orientation or gender identity, most lawyers agree that local-level protections are meaningless. Much to the chagrin of NoVA’s swelling suburbs and the state’s increasing ranks of home-grown progressives, Virginia often acts more like the former capital of the Confederacy than a beacon of the New South. 

Could the South’s culture of conflict-avoidance and bad track record protecting the rights of minorities mean that Richmond’s gayborhood is out there, but hiding below the surface? Local civil rights activist and author of Lesbian and Gay Richmond Beth Marschak doesn’t disagree with this idea. “Back in the 1970s there were fewer people in the South that were very out,” she said. “It was more of an open-secret style of being out: people were never gay, they were ‘eccentric.’ Being closeted like that impacts what people are able to do, and how they are able to organize.” 

It also impacts whether or not you’re willing to out yourself to your neighbors. Something we see  as benign today, like hanging a rainbow flag from your porch, would have been an unthinkable form of protest half a century ago. Culturally, Marschak doesn’t feel that much has changed, either. “Even if you were to walk around in Richmond’s gayest neighborhoods, are you going to see a lot of rainbow flags? Not really — you’ll see a few, but not a lot,” she said. “You’re not going to see a real visible LGBT presence anywhere in the city.” 

Photo via The Valentine Historical Archive

Alas, Richmond has long been a city adept at covering facts with a sheen of alternate reality. After all, until the year 2000, we pretended a holiday simultaneously celebrating two Confederate generals and the leader of the Civil Rights Movement was normal. In the state that chose the term “Massive Resistance” to describe its stance on school integration, it should come as no surprise that gay liberation was only won thanks to a generation willing to storm the streets, risking their lives, livelihoods, and — gasp — reputations. Queers thrived in Richmond since before the days that word was used as a slur against them, and long before it was reclaimed as a proud banner for our full community of societally-dubbed misfits. 

Ask any gay elder about “the Block” and you’ll quickly give up any notions that previous generations were comprised of prudes. During WWII, downtown Richmond teemed with rambunctious men, as Broad Street Station and the USO brought an influx of restless young soldiers on leave, or waiting to ship out. In Rainbow Richmond, her extensive history of LGBTQ Richmond published on OutHistory.org, Cindy Bray tells us that “…the gay male cruising scene that developed or became more visible in the 1940s and 1950s… Mark Kerkorian (a pseudonym) recalled the military personnel were ‘ready for anything’ if they hadn’t picked up a girl by 11 or 12 at night and that there were lots of places to take them like the basement of the hotel across Broad Street from the USO, or the men’s room in the hotel or an alley behind the Colonial Theater. ‘…there were nooks and crannies all over downtown.'” 

The nickname “the Block” was finally coined in the 1950s when the area bounded by Main, First, Franklin, and Foushee Streets earned a scandalous notoriety as a magnet for hustlers, prostitutes, and homosexual acts — the latter of which was the police’s top priority. Until 1993, Section 4-37 of Virginia’s ABC codes warned business owners that “a bar’s license may be suspended or revoked if the bar has become a meeting place and rendezvous for users of narcotics, drunks, homosexuals, prostitutes, pimps, panderers, gamblers or habitual law violators.” The threat proved more than theoretical. Renee’s and Rathkellers’ — two gay hotspots — were both shut down in 1969 after eyewitness testimony from an undercover ABC agent described “men wearing makeup, embracing and kissing in the café.” 

Despite being straight himself, Leo Koury realized gays would pay a premium to socialize in a bar beyond the reach of the long arm of the highly-prejudiced law. In order to establish a monopoly over Richmond’s gay bars, the “godfather of the gay community” bribed police, ordered a drive-by of a rival club, and instigated the murder of one of its bouncers, which later came to be known as the Dial Tone Murder after his most prominent club. Koury’s crimes led to his disgraceful downfall, revealing that the intense, state-led persecution had created a dangerous black market for gay spaces in the city. 

In this atmosphere, open-air gathering spots like the Block served a purpose beyond the ubiquitous cruising depicted in the salacious tales most vividly remembered today. The fact the Block was a purely public space meant that any and all could congregate there as they saw fit, free from police stings and mafia racketeering. Such off-the-grid sites became small oases of queerness in a world of strict conformity, thus allowing LGBTQ people of the day to form a fledgling sense of community in an era of suffocating discrimination. 

Photo by Sara Wheeler

The Sexual Revolution unleashed by the Baby Boomers brought new freedoms, triggered a more laissez-faire approach to homosexuals, and led to a permeation of queer spaces across the city. Fans of Scandals might attest that Shockoe Bottom, the neighborhood occupied by that bygone Richmond gay bar, became the epicenter of the city’s gay culture in the 80s. However, despite legendary performances on their stage by icons like Grace Jones, the heart of Richmond’s queer community seemed mainly to reside closer to the Fan. 

Whereas in the 1970s five or six gay-friendly bars flew under the radar in Carytown, the 1980s witnessed an explosion of LGBTQ venues in the area, so that by the end of that decade the number of gay nightlife choices reached over a dozen. Marschak believes “a gayborhood is not just a place where gay people live, it also has cultural connections and things to do.” Although Carytown was more of a cultural and nightlife grouping than a distinctly-identified gayborhood, Marschak said, “There were more displays of affection along Cary Street than anywhere else in the city, which is probably still true today. Carytown filled the need that people have for a place that’s identifiable — where you can go to see and be seen.” 

Babe’s may be the last remaining bar from that era of raucous rebellion, but new queer-friendly spaces have moved into the area. One is the Tottering Teacup, a community-minded bakery and tea house owned and operated by a non-binary person and featuring displays and menu items focused on the colors of various Pride flags. The continued role of Carytown as a center of LGBTQ culture in the city makes sense given the corridor’s proximity to the Fan, the West End, and VCU — all historic hubs of “eccentricity” in the city; however, before you label Carytown as Richmond’s gayborhood, Marschak would warn you: “Just because a city has a gayborhood doesn’t mean all gays live there.” 

Bill Harrison, Executive Director of Diversity Richmond, wholeheartedly agrees. In a recent interview, he recalled an illustrative anecdote: “A woman once asked me if the gays in Richmond all lived in the same neighborhood, and I said, ‘No we’re everywhere — just spread all over the place, and I like that.’ I like that we’re integrated into all neighborhoods of the city.” Indeed, when hunting after Richmond’s elusive gayborhood, I received a wide range of answers from the queer people I asked: Westover Hills, Bellevue, Church Hill, Downtown on Franklin Street, Forest Hill. Even Marschak, Richmond’s premier queer herstory expert, couldn’t pin down Richmond’s gayborhood for me: “LGBTQ people are all over the place here!” 

The increasing acceptance of queer people in recent years may even mean that Richmond’s gayest neighborhoods will become less so going forward. As the potency of homo- and transphobia gradually wanes, our community may begin moving into areas that would have been deemed unsafe for LGBTQ people a decade ago. One need only consider the growing number of gay couples buying homes in Northside or the East End (known as Church Hill North to gentrifiers) to realize the truth behind this trend. The irony of societal acceptance is that queer people may begin to act like straights always have, and move into those neighborhoods across Central Virginia where they feel most comfortable for socioeconomic, racial, and familial reasons. Could the decreasing threat of harassment from outside the community paradoxically mean the end of the gayborhood as we know it? 

Similar alarms have already been sounded for another pillar of queer culture: gay bars. Considering the modern gay liberation movement began in a bar (Stonewall), it’s understandable that LGBTQ people would be concerned about losing spaces that have often been at the heart of our community’s social support structures, political organizing, and search for love and partnership. There are a wide range of hypotheses behind this phenomenon: the rise of dating apps means people don’t have to go out anymore to meet someone; same-sex couples are getting married, having kids, and moving to the suburbs just like straight people do; bars no longer function as places of political organizing because current political challenges like trans discrimination don’t impact most of the community; LGBTQ people are more accepted now and just go to straight bars; many gay bars are not compatible with the #MeToo era and inhospitable to lesbians, trans people, and women. 

Those concerned about the disappearance of gay bars quote the recently compiled statistic that 12% of all gay bars closed between 2005 and 2011. But does that statistic prove queer nightlife is in crisis? No. The exact same study shows that 11.1% of non-gay bars closed over that timespan as well. Millenials and Gen Z kids drink less, and they have fewer sexual partners than previous generations. Gentrification is raising rents in lots of urban neighborhoods, and pushing bars, clubs, and (predominantly low-income) people out. 

Gayborhoods — like the gay bars they support — aren’t disappearing. Society as a whole is changing. The shift in American public opinion towards LGBTQ people, from a position of prejudice and persecution to an increasing attitude of empathy and understanding, is a transformation unlike anything seen before. By coming out en masse, the generations before mine did the heavy interpersonal, familial, and societal lifting required to unleash a sea change of tolerance and growing acceptance. It makes no sense that queer-friendly spaces would begin to decline when ever more of society is identifying as such. Whether we were in our teens or our fifties, all of us remember the weight lifted from our chests the first time we walked into a predominantly queer space. In a world of persistent discrimination and ignorance, our need for spaces in which we can be ourselves — free from the wider world’s judgement — remains unchanged. 

Whereas Richmond’s lack of a gayborhood may once have indicated the all-too-common prejudice that kept us hidden and underground, today the lack of one neighborhood where LGBTQ people feel they must cluster in order to live safely should be taken as a sign of the movement’s success. In today’s Richmond, every neighborhood where two or more queers are gathered is a gayborhood.

Top Photo by Sara Wheeler

The Triumphant Return of Richmond’s Beloved Queer Dance Party

|

Topics: , , , ,

Years after making waves at Babe’s of Carytown, ANIMAL is lighting up the River City once more at The Hof.

You know the place.

Pulsing bass and treble under your feet, around your head. It feels like it’s coming from deep inside your body. Spurts of fog blast out from under the stage, and wisps linger around technicolor lights. It’s all aglow — and people are dancing. You’re dancing. Suddenly pulled into a unified body, you’re swaying, arms flying, and smiles flash through the crowd in strobes.

This is the essence of an ANIMAL dance party, an all-inclusive staple in the Richmond queer community and beyond. Some Richmonders remember ANIMAL’s humble beginnings, a weeknight event at Babe’s of Carytown in the long-gone days of 2012. But seven years later, the collective has evolved into an ever-anticipated weekend bash: theme nights, interactive props, and collaborations with legendary artists such as Mykki Blanco and Big Freedia.

“The best thing about ANIMAL has always been our community, and the energy we create together,” founder and DJ Conley Thurston Billings said.

Billings has seen major life changes in recent years, and has been slowing down ANIMAL events (he, for one thing, is a new father). While enthusiasm and participation stayed high, 2018 saw ANIMAL parties slip to a trickle. The annual Halloween party couldn’t be passed up, held at the self-described “goth, industrial, fetish club” Fallout and boasting a competitive costume contest. There was also a wild, emotional send-off for Strange Matter, held in the beloved venue’s final days — where were you when Strange Matter cut the soundboard and locked its doors for the last time?

It was somebody, somewhere, who once said that all good things must come to an end. No matter how wild and crazy. No matter how inclusive and diverse. Endless nights of dancing where anyone and everyone can be exactly who they are, and that’s okay. No, it’s more than okay. It’s preferable, actually. It’s perfect.

Time marches on. Years pass. Things change and eventually end. According to Billings, this is a given of life. And someday too, ANIMAL will meet this same fate.

But not yet.

After an extended hiatus, ANIMAL will be back this Saturday with Dancing in the Darkroom at the Hofheimer on West Broad.

“So there’s a lot of compartments to that venue,” Billings said, “but they opened up a new spot called the Darkroom, and it’s a much smaller room. For me, that’s more exciting — to do something a little smaller.”

The stylish, intimate space will feature the usual ANIMAL amenities and performances from local musician Baby Momo and Billings himself under his DJ name Dirt Thurston.

“Mark yr calendar!!! Expect booty-shaking beats and dancing with friends!” the event page reads.

It seems that the time off for ANIMAL has only lit the flame brighter. As the weekend quickly approaches, over 300 people have marked themselves “interested” in the event on Facebook — nearly three times the capacity of their chosen slice of the Hofheimer venue.

According to Billings, the idea for the event came almost on a whim. It had been months since ANIMAL’s last event, and on a drive to Portsmouth with his wife, the couple passed the time by discussing ANIMAL, and eventually, planning the party.

“Before you know it, I’m booking the reboot in the Dark Room at the HOF before we’ve even gotten off of Interstate 64,” Billings said.

This is all, obviously, very exciting for many people. But before we punch our time sheets Friday evening, before our hallowed Saturday afternoon, thumbing through magazines and chatting with friends on front porches.. Before we gear up, and pile into a brigade of Ubers and Lyfts destined for the Hofheimer, let’s circle back and examine the man who made it all happen.

Salad Days

Like a familiar backdrop, music has always been a part of Billings’ life.

“I can remember growing up listening to records and all dancing in the living room,” Billings said. “My mom would always throw in high kicks to make us laugh. Those are some of my most treasured memories.”

Middle school brought Billings his first musical identity. Memory fades and blends as time passes, and for Billings, it’s a haze of rubber wheels, slick rhymes, and the throb of a stereo system.

“By the time I was in middle school, I was really into hip-hop and loved roller skating,” he said. “I can remember pre-ordering the cassette single Jump by Kris Kross from Kemp Mill records, and bringing it to the skating rink to give to the DJ (because I had it before they did).”

The archetypal younger sibling, Billings found himself rummaging through his older sister’s room one day when he unearthed Ramones and Violet Femmes cassettes. He instantly fell in love, he said, adding punk rock to his list of sonic obsessions and garnering a new respect for his sister.

“I was into hip hop and punk, so it was kind of a weird mix at the time,” Billings said.

“I like being all over the spectrum.”

By the mid-90s, some dance music tracks started creeping into his tape deck, and he remembers attending a RISE rave in Baltimore, where he lived at the time.

“Dancing to techno music took it to a different level, and sometimes was more like storytelling,” he said.

“Being yourself, letting go of your inhibition and becoming one with the music — your movements become fluid and your energy becomes part of this organic experience.”

Fast forward a decade, and Billings is becoming a house show veteran, building his music collection with artists such as Glass Candy, the Need, Erase Errata, Le Tigre and Tracy and the Plastics. In 2005, he witnessed the birth of Are We Not Men, a queer dance party at The Depot in Baltimore, and soon, he was guest DJing there. He later became a full-time resident act.

“It wasn’t until then that I would get the opportunity to be a part of a queer dance party, guest DJ, and play a bigger role in the queer music scene/community outside of my house and in a club,” he said. “That was when I realized this was something I really wanted to do.”

In 2007, Billings’ sister passed away after a long battle with kidney disease. He took a pause and stepped back from city life for a number of years, buying a house in Manassas.

“It’s hard to get up and go dancing if you’re sad,” he said.

Though he bought his own DJ equipment — and, after a while, began hosting house parties — it wasn’t until he moved to Richmond in 2011 that Billings delved back into the large-scale dance scene.

“I knew before moving here I wanted to host a party of my own, and focus on doing more for the community by having fundraisers and benefits as well as parties. I just needed to get things in place.”

A whole ‘nother Animal

A new face in the River City, Billings debuted ANIMAL one humid July night at Babe’s. It was slow at first, and some changes were in store before the party would grow into the collective it is today. Almost immediately, Billings met Joseph Whitfield, a recent VCU Sculpture graduate at the time. They had actually met months prior, when Whitfield and his partner bought a couch from Billings on Craigslist.

“That was our first interaction and we didn’t know that a few months later we’d actually run into each other and end up working together on ANIMAL.” Whitfield said.

Billings invited Whitfield to a show, handed him a flyer, and when the day came, he was there. Remembering that night, he said he was excited by the diverse, progressive music (stuff that was perfect for dancing), but that the Thursday night was a “hard pull” for a new face like ANIMAL.

“I was like: oh, this is really cool, but no one’s here,” Whitfield said.

He became ANIMAL’s “cheerleader,” taking point on marketing, branding and kindling their social media presence, learning as he went, “ad-hoc,” “DIY.” It was the birth of a dynamic duo: Billings on the ground, in the thick of things DJing and working with artists, and Whitfield behind the scenes.

“[We have] a lot of similar interests, although he’s much more booksmart than I am,” Billings said, laughing. “But music-wise, style-wise… we click.”

It’s nearing 2013, and things are starting to pick up.

“From there, we started developing our queer collective by planning bigger monthly events through benefits, themed events, guest DJs, MC’s, bands and collaborators,” Billings said.

Billings was hit with another tragedy in 2013, when his mother died from ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

“There really are no words to comfort the devastation and heartbreak of losing a loved one,” Billings said.

He took the summer off to process, and returned when we was ready later that year for a PRIDE celebration.

Before its ultimate growth spurt (peaking between 2014 and 2016, according to Billings), ANIMAL metamorphosed, spreading out to venues across the city rather than being rooted in a singular place. This change was practical as well as symbolic. ANIMAL became more of its own event, and was able to experiment more with music outside of the typical bar or club range.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Billings said, “I like chart busters, but I prefer to sprinkle them into the mix. For me, discovering new or underground music and sharing those tracks is more fun than playing or listening to songs you’re likely to hear over and over on the radio.”

The half-life of a movement

After creating ANIMAL, Billings, who is transgender, made the decision to transition. Although he said involvement with the collective was not the reason he decided to make the step, he is thankful for the support of his friends and ANIMAL.

“Ultimately you need to make sure you’re keeping yourself happy,” Billings said.

“Realizing that every day is a gift, and you’re not guaranteed the next, is something everybody should live by.”

Billings said he dubbed the collective ‘ANIMAL’ because of the way he sees animals: “androgynous” and not held back by gender constructs.

“They’re not judged based on their gender,” Billings said. “I liked that name; I thought it felt right.”

ANIMAL, and the people who made it happen, have seen their fair share of ups and downs and major life changes. They’ve slowed down, but with an explosion of queer-friendly events and dance parties spanning the city (PurpleLife, BodyTalk, Ice Cream Social, Formula, Movement, Behavior, Weird, Party Liberation Front), and with Dancing in the Darkroom just days away, it’s safe to say their spirit — and their movement — is still going strong.

Whitfield will be moving out of Richmond soon, and another major collaborator, David Riley, is working through his degree at VCU.

It’s hard to say what the future holds for ANIMAL. Billings is careful to make no promises.

“There are multiple trans and queer parties in this city now,” Billings said. “There will never be too many, but at least there’s comfort in knowing that no matter what, they will exist. I’d like to book a few gigs this year, including an all-ages rollerskating party.”

This is what makes a city like Richmond special. When ANIMAL eventually ends, there is a new generation already honing their creativity and skill, ready to pick up the slack. Until then, they’ll work together to keep the city alive with excitement, inclusivity and art.

“I think it’s just part of evolution, I think that’s just the way it goes. It’s the way the music industry always goes… what’s happening today might not be happening later,” Billings said.

“It’s important to support each other and to go have those good experiences in case it does stop.”

Photos courtesy of Joseph Whitfield (ANIMAL) and Wes McQuillen (Colorful).

Back-Of-The-House Babes: Richmond Women Dominate Their Work In a Male-Dominated Restaurant Industry

|

Topics: , , , , , ,

*This article originally appeared in RVA Mag #35, on the streets now at all your favorite spots.

Out of more than 660,000 restaurants in the U.S., less than 7 percent are led by female chefs.

The food and restaurant business has an inherent bias against women, and years of discrimination in the industry have made it hard for them to climb to the top of the ladder. But despite the odds, women are picking themselves up — as they always do — and rising from beneath the weight of their male counterparts to make a new name for themselves.

This holds true for Secco Wine Bar head chef Julie Heins and her battles with sexism and misogyny pushing against her success. While working long hours, Heins has had to sacrifice things that many would deem crucial to a happy life.

Like most, Heins got her start in the industry as a dishwasher, then moved up the chain while working under a pastry chef over several years. The chef taught her all the ropes, but steadfastly refused to promote her to the actual position. When Heins realized her setbacks were due to her gender, not her ability, she went off to culinary school; a decision she credits to evening the playing field for her later career.

18 years later, Heins is an experienced chef in a city that’s been named a “Top Destination for Food Travel” by National Geographic. But the field is not friendly.

Constant sexual misconduct in the workplace and almost-nonexistent family leave policies teach women across the service industry that it takes thicker skin, and harder work, to make it.

“Don’t let them see you cry,” Heins explains. “Being a woman, you get judged on attitude and appearance.”

With an average work day of 12 to 14 hours, the idea of having children is often just an idea. Women are left with a difficult choice to begin their families in a situation where most jobs have no maternity leave, and temporary leave can result in positions lost.

“There is an expectation that a woman will, eventually, leave to start a family,” Heins says. “If management already thinks you have a timeline, they won’t invest in you the same way they would a man.”

Kitchens are already a difficult world to navigate as a woman, but the stakes are even higher for people of color and LGBTQ people who are brought into the mix.

“Women from marginalized communities have had to endure racism, misogyny and sexism while working in the industry,” Heins explains. “It’s crucial to make room for them with intention, and to do the work to be inclusive.”

Historically, in all aspects of society, women of color and queer people receive lower wages, have more limited resources, and must fight systemic oppression in day-to-day life. In the service industry, these setbacks present added challenges in an already-competitive field that doesn’t do them any favors as they attempt to move forward.

Many, including Heins, believe a path to stop misogyny across restaurant workers is through mentorship: The women who have “made it” teach new women as they get their start. It is essential to create equal opportunity for all, for those who have made it before to push for more women and people of color to hold positions of power.

Babe’s of Carytown, one of Richmond’s oldest gay bars, is one of the few places practicing this idea of inclusion: Hiring and creating a safe space for women, people of color, and LGBTQ people, Babe’s has served for years as an example of how to do it the right way.

A jack-of-all trades, Kat Ray has worked at Babe’s for more than four years. From bar-back to cook, fixer-upper, and security guard, Ray has done and seen it all in the industry, and understands the implications the field has for the marginalized groups who take part in it.

For over a quarter of a century, Babe’s has been an outlet for women and the LGBTQ community to thrive alongside a family of regulars and employees alike. The kitchen at Babe’s is comprised of mainly queer women, and its owner, Vicky Hester, has made it a point to create a safe space for these groups over her years operating the business.

“People gravitate to Vicky — and to that space,” Ray says. “It’s where they feel safe.”

Babe’s is a sanctuary, often for those who need it most. The 33-year-old bar is known for its inclusivity, and staff “that doubles as a welcoming committee for anyone who stumbles inside,” as Thrillist wrote when naming it the best dive bar in the state. From its start, Hester has ensured the space served as a home for Richmonders of all walks of life, and three decades later, it stands strong.

For the women running the service industry across the nation, the future is looking better as earlier successes are paving the way for those to come. The number of women-owned establishments, like Babe’s, has increased more than 50 percent in the last decade. Women are rising to the top of their field, and for the first time, the Culinary Institute of America saw more women enroll than men in recent years.

To Heins, in the back of the house, nothing matters more than your skills.

“My favorite thing about kitchens is it’s a great equalizer — You can either cook or you can’t.”

Richmond’s New Generation Of Drag Queens Are Making Their Mark

|

Topics: , , , , , , , ,

*This article originally appeared on GayRVA.com

Lip-syncing across the stage, 22 year-old Fredericksburg native Shanita Quit reaches for dollar bills from people’s hands as they cheer her on at Richmond’s newest drag venue — New York Deli in Carytown. Relying heavily on visuals, Quit is dressed in her self-developed style, which she refers to as “good from afar, far from good.”

Despite the challenges, Quit has been working in the Richmond drag scene for more than two years. It’s a competitive field that has the potential to make money, but only if the drag performer has a high following.

Long before the hit television drama RuPaul’s Drag Race began in 2009, bringing the world a competition in which drag personas battle one another to determine the next “drag superstar” for 10 seasons and counting, Richmond’s own drag scene was alive and thriving. Forming in nightclubs around the city, the drag community grew as LGBTQ populations flocked to see and become a part of this diverse and multifaceted family.

Although the drag scene in Richmond has adapted to the changing style and pace, it still holds ties to its’ sense of family and traditions, a practice that keeps emerging drag personas in the city. “Richmond features a lot of unique drag,” Quit explained. “There is a mix of old and new, and performance and pageant.”

Drag is a complex and open community for people to explore their art forms. This includes performances, theatre, comedy and pageant. Performance drag is defined by lip-syncing and dancing to songs. Theatrical drag is based in Broadway-type musical renditions, as performers celebrate drag in its earliest form. Comedy drag is a broad landscape of stand-up, theatre, and even performance; it is often defined by its campy appeal. Pageant drag is similar to Miss America pageants, where drag personas must prove themselves in style and talent.

Shanita Quit, like many other local queens, understands the amount of competition it takes to make it in the drag world. In a changing scene, people are constantly coming up with new ideas in order to get bookings. Quit explained that it is important to become someone who can do it all, including knowing how to sew.

“Performing on a stage is just 10 percent of the work,” Quit said. “Most of the work is marketing, and making sure your brand is good.”

Drag is an expensive art form between buying make-up, clothes, materials to make costumes, and other essential performance-related materials, the cost of doing drag can outweigh the monetary reward. This is why marketing and promoting is essential for the livelihood of drag personas.

“There is money to be made,” Quit explained, “but it is directly related to your popularity.” According to Quit, the goal is to develop a popularity and be booked for drag brunches, as they make the most money on average.

In an article entitled “Sashay Through the History of Drag Queen Culture,” Popsugar’s Ryan Roschke explained that every city has their own unique drag culture. “There is no one specific way for drag to manifest,” Roschke wrote. “Every city has its own drag families, its own drag culture, and its own drag history.” One of Shanita Quit’s fellow performers, Chase Keech — better known by his stage name, Chicki Parm — agreed, describing Richmond’s drag as a harmony of both stylistic drag and performance drag.

Chicki Parm is one of Richmond’s most well known performers. She has been performing in drag for three years and has been featured at many of Richmond’s venues. “In some cities, drag is all about the look, while in others drag is all about who can dance the hardest.” Parm said.  “Richmond falls somewhere in the middle, where you can succeed excelling in any part of drag.”

Major cities known for drag include New York City, Chicago, Atlanta, and Los Angeles, all of which share a large population of drag personas and leave little room for newcomers. Richmond is different in this regard, as it is a much smaller city. With a smaller population, there is less competition, allowing new drag personas to emerge and develop their talents.

“It’s easy to stand out here,” Quit said. “If I were in Brooklyn or Chicago it’d be much harder, but here, I can be as weird as I want and people will notice.”

That being said, there are only three venues in Richmond known for drag performances: Godfrey’s in Jackson Ward, Babe’s of Carytown, and Fallout in Shockoe Bottom.

According to Chicki Parm, Godfrey’s is more traditional drag, with most performers doing showgirl drag. On Godfrey’s website, they state that their drag “entertainers represent the best of female illusion and entertainment. These ladies uphold the highest of standards, which has become the cornerstone of our success to this day.” However, according to Parm, there are a lot of rules the performers must follow, and it is hard to book. Parm said they do not allow femme queens — transgender women who do drag.

Parm described Babe’s of Carytown as offering both traditional as well as progressive drag. Progressive drag refers to queens who push the envelope outside of traditional female impersonation. This includes being androgynous, choosing not to wear nails or pads, and not conforming to one gender.

Fallout is the most progressive venue in Richmond, according to Chicki Parm. Located in Shockoe Bottom, Fallout is a self-described grunge, industrial and fetish nightclub; it’s Chicki Parm’s home bar. “They do not care what your gender is, or what your genre of drag is,” Parm explained, “just as long as you can perform.”

“The creativity coming out of these drag artists is astounding and the audience cannot get enough,” said Jackie Bishop Wells, Fallout’s event coordinator. Fallout’s drag scene has remained steady throughout the years, with an average attendance of 50 to 80 people — a number that is high for weekend performances. It features two to four drag shows a month and is currently working on a show which features Drag Kings, male impersonators, and Femme Queens.

Wells explained that the demand for more non-traditional drag has increased in recent years. This demand has led to competition between other venues in Richmond. However, according to Wells, no one is actively trying to outdo one another. Fallout’s only guideline to their drag shows is professionalism. The bar does not want to limit the art form, and therefore does not require drag personas to wear padding — a tactic that simulates the illusion of the female form — nails, or any other traditional signs of female gender conformity.

With only a handful of clubs, many of Richmond’s drag personas have started to branch out, taking on the role of creating and booking their own shows. This is true for both Shanita Quit and Chicki Parm, who are constantly trying to build their name in the drag and LGBTQ communities.

As drag begins to grow in Richmond, more restaurants and places are opening up to the idea of drag performances in order to boost appeal, Quit explained. Quit hosts her own show at the New York Deli on the first Sunday of every month, at which she features a cast of four drag performers. Quit describes the event as a variety show where new talents can showcase their art.

Although there are more well known cities for drag, many performers choose to stay in Richmond and continue to grow their name. Shanita Quit’s drag daughter, Tony Okonski, is one of these. He’s a newcomer to the drag scene, with just one performance under his belt, but Richmond is where he wants to be.

His persona, Gen Defuk, is a perfect example of the new progressive wave of drag. Gen Defuk is a non-binary persona with a political undertone, working to normalize gender and sexual fluidity. “I believe in making big statements peacefully and as conflict-free as possible,” Okonski said.

Drag is a community based in family and traditions. The idea of drag mothers and drag daughters is emblematic of the role family plays into the LGBTQ community. Drag mothers are typically older drag queens who had been in the business awhile. In earlier eras, younger drag queens were often abandoned by their biological families for being queer. This led to the older drag personas taking younger ones under their wing, and teaching them what they know. Although this practice is not as necessary as the world becomes more accepting, these ties are still strong in the community, and the tradition lives on in Richmond, in spite of the fact that drag is naturally a competitive line of work.

Melanin Monroe, a Richmond-based performer and a performer in Shanita Quit’s show, explains why the role of family is one of the reasons she has remained in Richmond. “There’s a lot of support, and there is always somebody around that will be willing to either teach you, or give you an opportunity to get your foot in the door,” Monroe said.

For many, drag is not just a performance art, but an acceptance of the complicated nature of sexuality and gender. For a new generation of Richmond drag personas, the familial feel of the local drag scene satisfies the need for acceptance that fuels familial ties. As a new generation of drag performers comes into their own, Richmond’s drag community is poised to thrive for years to come.

*Cover photo by Emily Holter