Shelby Criswell
A city without dedicated, permanent LGBTQ+ spaces cannot fully support the queer community. Queer bars, community centers, bookstores, programming and organizations are vital for a thriving LQBTQ+ community as well as a city itself. Queer people make a city more full. And a city should support that.
I know what you’re about to say—Santa Fe is a progressive, liberal, safe city for all people, isn’t everywhere here kinda gay?
Maybe this is too hard to explain. Maybe the nuance is lost on those who don’t experience constant bigotry or demonization in mainstream media. But no—everywhere in Santa Fe isn’t kinda queer. And that “liberal bubble” we all like to talk about is one of the main things that hides this fact.
In 2013, the New Mexico Supreme Court ruled same-sex marriage legal in the state. The US Supreme Court followed in 2015. And both followed a coordinated effort of queer people to be seen as equals in the eyes of the law.
I remember randomly crying off and on all day‚ the waterworks returning whenever I remembered that the ruling had been delivered. A weight within me—that I hadn’t even noticed—had subtly shifted, lightened. I felt relief, but not because I wanted to get married—I’m deeply ambivalent about marriage. I felt relief because I felt seen. It felt like others saw me as a real person and were acknowledging it publicly for the first time in my life.
Maybe more people are understanding this kind of thing in a post-Roe world. Maybe not. I don’t assume what cishet people understand about queerness outside of enjoying Drag Race and dance music. This might feel harsh, but I need you to understand why LGBTQ+ spaces are important—partly because these are spaces where we don’t have to explain ourselves.
Safe queer spaces aren’t about making walled-off gardens. These spaces are about camaraderie, community, place-making and being fully one’s self. These are places to hold each other when the world is just too much.
On the night of the Pulse shooting, I sobbed alone in my apartment. I needed to be emotionally held. Where could I go to be held? I needed to be IN community. I went to a bar and found no one talking about it—no one who could help me work through the complicated emotions behind my sudden racing heart and fear. I needed to sit with my people and feel together. I called a friend in New York and we cried quietly to each other. This happened again after the Club Q shooting. This happens over and over and over. This is what you need to understand.
As an increasing number of states have taken measures to ban trans health care and drag performance, New Mexico remains a relatively safe haven for LGBTQ+ people. Within that safety, though, the need for community to come together without the eyes of others on them remains.
This isn’t a conspiracy—the queer agenda is living a long and happy life. I don’t want to exclude straight people completely, but I do want to let my guard down. I want to be unafraid in my queerness. I want that for every single queer person in Santa Fe and everywhere else.
Post-COVID, Santa Fe has begun to publicly re-find its queerness. Pop-up events at many venues all over town—including drag nights, queer dance parties and burlesque shows—show that the queers are DIYing it into existence.
But these events are happening at venues that are not specifically dedicated to LGBTQ+ programming or issues. We need dedicated spaces instead of impermanent events that are at the whims of friendly non-queer venues.
Years ago, a club downtown sometimes hosted queer nights with drag shows followed by dancing in the first half of the night. After a certain time, the entertainment and clientele would change without warning. The music shifted, lights lowered, smoke pumped into the room. A very mixed crowd would flood the space as a dance floor filled with queer people was quite literally plunged into darkness alongside people who may or may not have been OK with sharing the floor with a drag queen. It was unsafe and unfair to the queer people in the room—and the not-queer people coming in.
I don’t want to point a finger at venues currently hosting LGBTQ+ programming and say they are not doing enough. They are. They are here for the community, but a community isn’t nurtured on one night a week at some bar that is otherwise not queer.
As Santa Fe rapidly grows, changes and evolves, it’s time to think about community in ALL the ways that it expresses itself. It’s time for a very real—very permanent— LGBTQ+ space. Hell—maybe even two. Give me money. I’ll run it.
Michael J. Wilson has been queer his whole life. His first novel is out in October from Stalking Horse Press.
