an ode to the children
Description
We’re picking up right where we left off last historical episode, with the first cases of AIDS/HIV and the impact felt far and wide across the Queer community. This episode will journey from the 80s to the 90s, featuring AIDS/HIV activism in bars, video DJs, legendary balls, and more! Join us this week to learn about some of the District’s most iconic bars.
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Special thanks to the Rainbow History Project, the DC Public Library, and the countless other academics and historians, whether featured in these episodes or not, who helped inspire and guide us through this process.
Audio editing by Madalyn Reagan
transcript
You can read a full transcript below or in pdf version. You can find a pdf version of the transcript with in-text citations here.
Text in italics and parentheses indicates ambient sound, sound effects, and music integrated into the podcast, unless noted otherwise.
(Jazzy music fades in and plays in background)
ABBY: Hey folks, thanks for tuning in to Queering the District Podcast, where we learn the history of Queer third places in Washington, D.C.! Season one is focused on the evolution of Queer bars, from prohibition to present day.
This season we’ve got two types of episodes: historical and after hours. Our historical episodes explore decades of Queer bar history through narrative-driven stories, while our After Hours episodes bring back favorite guests for gossip games, advice, and late-night chats.
This is our third historical episode in season one, picking up where we left off two weeks ago. If you want a chronological storytelling of Queer bars in D.C., head over to our first episode, ‘xoxo ladd forrester’ and then our second episode ‘no place like home.’
Now, we are headed to the early ‘80s, the beginning of the AIDS epidemic.
(Jazzy music fades out)
(somber music fades into the background as Tony starts to talk)
TONY NELSON: “You will watch people here today, and then you'll see somebody—I will see you clear as a bell right here, and/or last night at the club, and then a month later, and you like a completely different person, and then another month or two later, you're in the hospital. You visiting them, and they withered away in the hospital bed. So it's like what happened to Gracious…But to watch her, you know, go from this statuesque being, it's, you know, just almost, you see her melt right in front of you, and then, and I remember the last thing she told me was, I don't want you to come here anymore. (pause then shakily) I didn't go back. I didn't go back cause she said, “I don't want you to come here anymore.” (pause) I regret that. I should have gone back.”
ABBY: Tony Nelson, a gay Washingtonian, along with the entire Queer community of the 80s and 90s, lost loved ones during the AIDS epidemic. AIDS and HIV changed everything. From 1981 to 1990, more than 100,000 people died from AIDS and HIV in the United States. It became the leading cause of death for young adults in the 80s. The sheer amount of life lost is still unknown because many weren’t formally diagnosed or recorded. The impact was felt far and wide across the District. Bars became not just a place to dance, but a place to grieve, mourn, celebrate life, spread awareness, and advocate for Queer life. Bars were a place to find joy amongst the harshest realities.
In this episode, we will continue to follow the history of Queer bars starting in the early 1980s, where we begin to see some of the first recorded cases of AIDS and HIV.
(somber music ends)
JIM HARVEY: “I got the news that two of my friends in New York had died from this strange and mysterious disease. So I began asking questions about it.”
ABBY: Those questions led Jim Harvey to becoming the first deputy at Whitman Walker Clinic, an LGBTQ+ clinic that was on the frontlines of fighting the AIDS epidemic. To some, this clinic was known as, “White Man Walker,” a reputational name coined because of the clinic's strategic outreach to white gay communities, a stark contrast from the lack of Black Queer programming or outreach. Because of this, Rayceen, a Washingtonigan and Mother to many in the LGBTQ+ community, said that Black Queer folks didn’t feel comfortable going to Whitman Walker.
RAYCEEN: “At the time, there was no organization, per se, that people of color could go to, that felt safe and affirmed. At the time when that was hitting, Whitman Walker was not this big foundation or this big entity that it is today, and it was affiliated with mainly white gay men.”
ABBY: On top of this, Black Queer patients were turned away or highly mistreated at Howard University Hospital because of the homophobic stigma against AIDS. The community's mistreatment and the lack of prioritization of Black lives was felt deeply, especially because the Black community experienced a higher proportion of AIDS and HIV diagnoses; they comprised 78.3% of all reported cases in D.C. from 1985 to 2006.
Jim saw these devastating diagnosis numbers and heard their complaints first hand while working at Whitman Walker.
JIM HARVEY: “I started getting complaints and ridicule from my own people because Whitman Walker had a reputation that a lot of people just were not talking about very much out in the open, and that was, this white, gay institution, you know, is sucking up all the resources. Nobody else can get funded for anything, and it's just not right. So yeah, so I said, let's talk about it.”
ABBY: Looking to build trust, Whitman Walker looked for new ways to reach and connect with the Black community, this led them to meet Papaya Mann.
Papaya was fresh out of post graduate school for public relations, and she decided to dedicate her career to fighting AIDS and HIV because of the destruction she was seeing firsthand amongst her friends and community. Hired by Whitman Walker, she created the first PR campaign focused on AIDS and HIV in the Black community, which began with addressing the confusion surrounding the disease.
PAPAYA MANN: “Nobody knew how it was happening and where it was coming from.”
ABBY: To help answer questions and share knowledge as it was developing, Papaya, Jim, and Whitman Walker wanted to plan a meeting to connect with the community where they would feel the most comfortable. Papaya Mann, Clubhouse patron and friend, knew just the place to hold these forums.
PAPAYA MANN: “I was able to bring Whitman Walker to the table and the Clubhouse to the table, and we said, okay, let's create a meeting, and let's put it in the Clubhouse so that they would come there, because it was a familiar space for them.”
ABBY: With a site selected, Papaya developed a PR campaign to spread word about the meetings. Her ads for the meeting ran in Blacklight, a local Black gay magazine. The ad was a full-page feature with a picture of three Black gay men embracing each other with the words, “There has to be a solution. Be there. Together, let’s educate ourselves to live!” This campaign wasn’t just about community but empowerment.
Papaya’s ad helped gather 40 participants on September 28th, 1983, who met at the Clubhouse and discussed their fears, goals, and, most importantly, their questions about AIDS.
PAPAYA MANN: “When we held the meeting, so many people showed up who were very much interested in talking about this subject, because it was a life or death issue. So it was very exciting to be able to do it in the Clubhouse, where we all went to party, but that we went there and sat on chairs and had a meeting about HIV and AIDS to try and make people more aware of the need for them to test, and then the need for them to decide how they wanted to address HIV.”
ABBY: That forum reshaped how Clubhouse served the D.C. Queer community.
JIM HARVEY: “Us Helping Us was born out of that meeting, and Aundrea Scott, who was the lead owner of the Clubhouse, was its first director.”
PAPAYA MANN: “Aundrea Scott was very interested in addressing HIV through herbs and so on, like herbs and Ayurvedic medicines and natural holistic means.”
ABBY: In the 80s, the only FDA approved drug to help AIDS and HIV was AZT, which when used alone wasn’t extremely effective towards decreasing the spread and deadliness of the disease. It wouldn’t be until 1996 that AZT, along with other drugs, commonly known as “AIDS Cocktail" or HAART medication, would make AIDS a livable condition.
Aundrea Scott, Bishop Rainey Cheeks, Prem Deben, and Howard Morris advocated for a different way of healing by creating Us Helping Us: a holistic-health support group that taught those living with HIV and AIDS how to support themselves through body, mind, and spiritual maintenance. Us Helping Us was created at the Clubhouse. It was a place where people were able to mediate and share what they were going through. Us Helping Us was a choice for those that didn’t want to use AZT, which some people viewed as extremely toxic at that time.
The creation of Us Helping Us at Clubhouse proves that the bar wasn’t just a place to dance and party, but a community resource center. Rayceen learned how to be an AIDS peer counselor at The Clubhouse.
RAYCEEN PENDARVIS: “We had to give up a couple Saturdays to learn to become peer counselors, and what that looked like in detail most of the time, well, you were preparing people to die with dignity and helping folks raise awareness.”
ABBY: It’s important to emphasize the stigma that many people living with AIDS faced. Many felt ashamed of contracting AIDS, so much so it impacted their willingness to get help. Within the Black community, AIDS was believed to be a white gay disease, something Black people only contracted by sleeping with white people. This connects back to what we saw in the 60s and 70s, where Queerness was thought as a white disease within Black communities. This stigma prevented many from seeking treatment. Some didn’t even want to be seen walking into a clinic, so Rayceen took extra steps to make them feel safe.
RAYCEEN PENDARVIS: “Many times they would not come, or if they came, they would ask you to go sign them in. And I would have to go in, sign their name as a peer counselor, and they would meet me and come through the back alley, and I would bring them through the back alley to get treatment.”
ABBY: It was through The Clubhouse that Rayceen, and others in the Black Queer community, learned how to support their dying peers. But their AIDS and HIV outreach didn’t stop at these forums or club meetings, the dance floor became a place for awareness as well.
(80s synth dance music starts to play in the background)
PAPAYA MANN: “All of the service organizations that were dealing with HIV prevention would use the clubs and the bars and the bath houses as outlets for outreach, because at night time, that's where we could find people.”
JIM HARVEY: “You could be on the dance floor in a bar, for example, and somebody would come up and you know, you're dancing with, with your partner, and somebody come up and dance with you, and the party becomes three, but they're there just long enough to hand you some condoms.”
ABBY: Throughout the entire District, Queer bars didn’t shy away from the conversation. They fearlessly discussed their health and how to prevent the spread of AIDS and HIV.
JIM HARVEY: “There were a couple of times when people would descend on, on a bar, and the music would stop, (80s synth dance music abruptly stops and a muffled voice starts talking in the background) and people would take to the middle of the floor and give you a three minute spiel on what it means to be safe and where you could find resources. And then they leave and go back to having a good time.”
(muffled voice stops talking and 80s synth dance music starts playing again in the background)
ABBY: But there was only so much that the local community could do to prevent the spread, the lack of national response and prioritization meant Queer lives were being lost every day to AIDS and HIV. Many people could feel and see this loss when they visited their local Queer bars.
(80s dance music fades out)
JIM HARVEY: “In the midst of trying to have a good time, people would be grieving. It was not unusual for, you know, for you, you'd be sitting and talking to somebody at a Sunday afternoon social, and they just break down and cry because someone they knew had just died.”
PAPAYA MANN: “Almost every male that I knew was HIV positive. Almost. I would say 80%.”
ABBY: But the Queer community stayed resilient, not just in their advocacy on the local and federal stage but in their commitment to celebrating and seeing each other. A brilliant example of finding Queer family and joy, is the ballroom community.
(vogue music starts playing loudly then fades into background)
SHANNON GARCON: “It's energy”
(vogue music swells then fades into background)
SHANNON GARCON: “It’s infectious.”
(vogue music swells then fades into background again)
ABBY: Shannon Garcon, founder of the House of Garcon and ballroom icon spoke with me about D.C.'s ballroom community in the late 80s and early 90s.
SHANNON GARCON: “My first trophy that I ever won in ballroom was here in D.C., as a House of Pendarvis for Face.”
ABBY: The House of Pendarvis, The House of Khan, The House of Balenciaga, and the House of Allure were some of the first ballroom houses to formally exist in D.C. Each House was a collection of found families within the Black and Brown Queer community, bonded together by a house Father and/or house Mother. These Houses would come together a few times a year to throw a ball, where they would compete against each other in different categories, such as Face, which is a competition on who can serve and highlight their facial features the best.
Vogue, one of the most well known categories, is where you’ll find contestants doing duck walks, floor work, and some rigid, angular arm movements.
I asked Shannon what he loved about competing and watching balls.
SHANNON GARCON: “That sportsmanship and the energy to see people who have worked so hard and then get out there and just start showing their thing and their talent.”
(voguing music ends)
ABBY: The ballroom community was still very underground when Shannon joined the scene, it was a “if you know, you know” kind of secrecy, making the balls even more legendary. And, of course, Rayceen Pendarvis was more than in the know.
Rayceen, still called Mother by many in the D.C. Queer community today didn't just gain this title out of love and respect, Rayceen was head of the D.C. House of Pendarvis and Mother to its children, including Shannon.
And as any good Mother knows, it’s best to lead by example, especially in ballroom.
(electronic dance voguing music starts playing in the background)
RAYCEEN: “So when you talk about the Clubhouse and the House of Kahn, I remember that first night”
ABBY: The Clubhouse held the first ball for The House of Khan. Rayceen, who competed that night, remembers the ball like it was yesterday.
RAYCEEN: “I had this fabulous velvet, black velvet evening gown on. It was just a fabulous dress that was wrapped around three times because I had four yards of material that was attached as a trail. And it attached and wrapped around me with a big diamond pendant on the side. So as I walked in, I stood in the middle of the floor. I unwrapped the trail and let it glide behind me with this fabulous four feet of trail of black velvet that looked like its own red carpet. So as I walked to the judge's table, I turned around and sashayed all the way up to the middle of the floor as I could strike the correct pose to let them know I’m serving. And of course, I got 10s and Grand Prize and a lovely trophy. (people cheering in the background) That was—back then, the trophies could be anywhere from four feet to six feet. I still have that trophy today (laughs).”
(electronic dance voguing music ends)
ABBY: Rayceen, along with other ball participants, would spend weeks planning and curating their looks. Some would create their gowns and outfits from scratch, but Rayceen had help from a fabulous friend.
RAYCEEN: “I went to a designer, Scotty, God, rest his soul, he's no longer with us. And I presented the sketch to him, and I told him, when I unwrapped the trail, I wanted the dress to look like it was a long dress at first, and when I unwrapped it, it was a mini in the front with a long trail in the back. So I was giving them very voluptuous legs (high energy piano music in the background), like Tina Turner, and I had a fabulous heel on, and I was serving them unto the gods.”
ABBY: While balls served as a glorious way to celebrate and entertain each other, it wasn’t the balls themselves that tied the community and these houses together.
(high energy piano music fades out)
It was the true sense of family that it created. For Shannon, when his biological family rejected his sexuality and lifestyle, it was ballroom that provided him a new home.
SHANNON GARCON: “The ballroom community gave me support, gave me shelter, food, everything to help me get through those times.”
ABBY: It’s that loyalty and love that Shannon said defines the impact and importance of ballroom.
SHANNON GARCON: “You get that call, three o'clock morning, “Hey, have nowhere to go. Can I come?” “Yes.” You get up, you go get them, and you bring them, and you make them home, and you make them safe, you make them comfortable, and you help them get through. The competition is about 30% percent of ballroom life. The other 70% is the stuff I just talked about.”
ABBY: Ballroom teaches the Queer community that everyone deserves a home and deserves to be celebrated. During the 80s and 90s, when Queer life was being decimated by AIDS and HIV, ballroom was a source of resilience and safety for some of the most vulnerable and ostracized members of society.
Another source of Queer joy was, of course, Drag, which began to find more popularity and spotlight in the gay bar scene.
ELLA: “This little Ella Fitzgerald, hmmm she gonna make us some money.”
(jazzy, romantic music starts playing in the background)
ABBY: Last episode, we left Ella Fitzgerald after she just joined The Washington Academy in the mid 70s. But boy did she make a name for herself since then.
By the early 80s, Ella had become a bright start in the Drag community. So much so that she was sought out to headline at a new lesbian bar called The Other Side, which opened in 1978 in Navy Yard. Ella created a brand new show using friends and colleagues from another Queer bar called The Barn.
ELLA: “They approached me and wanted me to put a Drag show together for them at their bar, and I was the first one to put a Drag show together. The girls from The Barn, put them together, me and four: Tina, Susan, St James, Gwen Alexander. And Gwen was the first Black trans that was, you know, performing, lip singing. And I brought them their first show, Sunday, July 4, 1980, and it was called "The Other Side.”
ABBY: This gig would slowly become one of the most renowned Drag shows in D.C. Queer history. Almost anyone who saw a Drag show in the 80s and 90s saw Ella Fitzgerald. However, it wasn’t at The Other Side where Ella would reach ultimate Drag stardom, that time came when the bar closed and reopened as Ziegfeld’s Secrets, a gay bar, in 1988, that’s where Ella’s shows became legendary.
ELLA: “On a good night, we could hold about 1,000 people (crowd cheering and clapping), around and standing, they would be sitting upon the speakers, and they come around the door. So, it was just, they came for my show, me and the girls’ show.”
ABBY: One of Ella’s most memorable moments at Ziegfeld’s was at their annual Drag Christmas show, where she performed, “Let Me Be Your Angel” by Stacy Lattisaw. Before I let her tell this hilarious story, it’s important to note the layout of Ziegfelds. It had a large staircase that Queens would descend from on stage, and under the bright lights…some could say, at times, it was a safety hazard.
ELLA FITZGERALD: “I was dressed as a Fat Black Angel. I think I got a picture somewhere, as a little girl with pigtails, Halo, wings, all in white. And I came out of the dressing room to the top landing, and I went to pose, and I probably either had one cocktail too many before the show, or I was really high, and I put my leg over, and I slipped, and then when I flipped, I went upside down, and my leg got caught up in the rail. So, and I was a lot heavier back then, I had to pull my big ass up, get my leg twisted, and when my leg came out, I fell and knocked out two tables. They thought it was part of the show. (Abby laughs) I get myself, get up, pull my wig back on, in place, hobbled out. And I did that number, and I almost broke my leg.”
ABBY: The annual Christmas show was one of the many special events that Ella ran at Ziegfeld’s, but the most popular and iconic was the Ziegfeld pageant.
(jazzy, romantic music fades out)
ELLA FITZGERALD: “probably the best thing I really enjoyed was the Miss Ziegfeld’s pageant.”
ABBY: It was a night filled with tall wigs, perfectly drawn eyebrows, and gorgeous ball gown dresses.
ELLA FITZGERLAD: “I had 18 contestants. And back then, in 1989, the winner got to work every weekend and you won $1,000.” (cash register rings)
ABBY: It wasn’t just Ella who thought the pageants were legendary…
(upbeat synth-pop music starts to play)
TONY NELSON: “The Miss Ziegfeld’s pageant was an event that you put on your calendar. You made sure that you were there.”
ABBY: Tony Nelson, or better known as Ms. WTF?, the bearded Drag Queen, loved attending pageants and even hosted a pageant of his own: The Mr. and Miss. Bachelor’s Mill Pageant.
TONY NELSON: “The Mill was famous, famous people come all the way from Norfolk and all over the east coast to run the Mr. and Miss Bachelor's Mill pageant. That's their bar titled pageant. That was a, that was a good one.”
ABBY: The Mr. and Miss Bachelor’s Mill Pageant was one for the ages. Tony says it was the most popular bar title if you were an African American Queen. At this pageant, DMV Drag houses would come together to compete against each other and crown a Bachelor’s Mill Queen, who would get a regular show at the Mill for a year. Some of the houses included the Blues, the Addams Family, and the Snow Family.
TONY NELSON: “But the really interesting things about the pageants at the Mill, was when you would get two members from the same family competing against each other. That was always lots of fun. It was, always, gave me a opportunity to kind of stir the pot.”
ABBY: Beyond pageantry, The Bachelor’s Mill was a staple in the Black gay community, especially the Drag community. Tony says it was the starting place for many of the greats.
TONY NELSON: “The Bachelor's Mill was the place where the best entertainers learned their craft. They would come there and learn their craft. I know like people, like Gigi Couture had performed at the Mill when she was very young, Christina Kelly, Ella Fitzgerald, Vicki Voxx. All these legendary people have come through that Bachelor’s Mill.”
ABBY: Tony Nelson was an emcee at the Mill for more than 15 years. Every weekend was different. Miss BB, the downstairs bar manager, who Tony describes as
TONY NELSON: “A little, short, white lady from Germany.”
ABBY: Would sit at the bar and let anyone book the downstairs bar for free, making it welcoming to new and upcoming promoters.
TONY NELSON: “She would let you have that bar on that Saturday night. She didn't charge you. She kept the bar, and she let you charge, I think it was, you couldn't charge more than $10, and you could keep the money from the door. She didn't charge you a price. So every Saturday night, I was working for a different promoter.”
ABBY: What made the Bachelor’s Mill special to Tony was the amount of support and belonging he felt in that space.
TONY NELSON: “You just felt welcome. And it was a family, especially the Drag nights, cause they had the dance nights, and Sunday nights was dedicated to nothing but Drags, and the show started at midnight. We were tired. How we did a show that started at midnight? Now I'm looking back at how the hell did I do a show that started at midnight every night, and then get up and go to work? I don't know how we did it, but it was always family, people were always welcome.”
ABBY: Throughout my research and production of this podcast, one thing has really stuck out to me, is that Queer third places, including bars like Bachelor’s Mill, are rooted in a sense of equal belonging and ownership.
(upbeat synth-pop music ends)
Tony didn’t own the Mill, nor was he a manager, but that was his spot. The Mill, The Clubhouse, Phase One, Nob Hill, Ziegfelds they really succeeded because the community felt like it was theirs. There was an invisible sign on the door that read: this place is ours. And it’s so special, because it seems like every Queer person we’ve interviewed had a different place. There were so many bars and clubs in D.C. that gave the community a belief that they owned a part of this city. For some it wasn’t even one specific bar but an entire block. For Craig Seymour, it was South Capitol Street Southeast.
(Seductive pop music with prominent base plays in background)
CRAIG SEYMOUR: “It was just such a playground. And it was just such a sort of physical manifestation of, like feeling like I, as a Queer person, belonged in D.C. because it occupied such a hunk of actual city space.”
ABBY: Craig isn’t wrong. There was a plethora of Queer bars in the neighborhood we now know as Navy Yard. Right under the Nationals Stadium, sits the ruins of several iconic Queer bars. One of Craig’s favorite spots was his place of employment: Ziegfeld’s Secrets.
Now, we know Ziegfeld’s is the home of Drag legends, but there’s also a strip club attached to the bar called Secrets, where Craig performed. Craig said that stripping in the 80s and 90s was a very different form from what we see today.
CRAIG SEYMOUR: “We were completely naked. We were allowed to touch ourselves. We were allowed to get a hard on, and the customers were allowed to touch us. So it was very tactile, very hands on. You know, dancing around and kind of performing seduction to entice people, that I just couldn't have done that. All I had to do was literally get on stage and take all of my clothes off and get hard, which was not hard for me (laughs).”
ABBY: His job and the Secrets community provided Craig with a kind of intimacy that a lot of other Queer spaces didn’t prioritize or offer.
CRAIG SEYMOUR: “There's a certain art to having a regular conversation with somebody while you're out in public, and they're, you know, feeling your junk. It's a different type of intimacy. And, you know, I guess I really enjoyed that. It was sort of like a Queer kind of intimacy.”
ABBY: These couple of blocks felt different than other Queer bar communities throughout the District, mainly because they were more sex-focused spaces.
CRAIG SEYMOUR: “It was just a magical time of just feeling like, within this particular corner of D.C., there was just so much space for Queerness, and it was very particular there because so many of the bars were sex-oriented in that they were strip club. So it was kind of like Queer also in the sense of being not in the mainstream of the gay clubs.”
ABBY: What also made Southeast so special was that it wasn’t just one Queer bar or strip club, there were multiple Queer-centric spaces, so a night out in Navy Yard meant you had many different spots to hop to.
CRAIG SEYMOUR: “I would go to Ziegfeld’s and Secrets, where Secrets, there would be additional dancers (cheering), and, you know, and then if you got bored with the dancers, you could go see a Drag show (cheering and clapping). So it was just so wonderful, or if I wanted to see even more dancers, there was a club called Wet that kind of revolved around the (water running in a shower) shower that was in the back of the bar. And then, if after all of that going back and forth, I felt like dancing, (Seductive pop music ends) I could just hop in the car (car engine hums) and go a few blocks and go to Tracks.”
(upbeat dance music starts to play in the background)
ED BAILEY: “I had never been to something like this. This was insane.”
ABBY: Ed Bailey told me he was 18 years old when he went to Tracks for the first time. When him and his friends ventured onto the legendary dance floor.
ED BAILEY: “We're in this room and we're having this time, and the power goes out.”
(upbeat dance music abruptly stops and there’s a loud thud)
ABBY: But the pitch black dance floor didn’t stop the party for thousands in attendance.
ED BAILEY: “And then somebody starts banging on the walls, (banging starts) the drink rails, the railings, (clapping starts alternating with the banging) stomping their feet, and people started chanting, “we don't need no power. We don't need” and like, we're banging out a beat. And then everybody just started dancing again to this beat that everybody had created in the room. And I was like, I do not know what this is all about, and I love it.”
(banging and clapping stops and upbeat dance music starts up again and plays in the background)
ABBY: After that night, Ed was hooked and became a regular at Tracks, whether that be on the dance floor or the DJ booth. Tracks opened in 1984 and was the largest disco warehouse at the time. It could fit up to 1,300 people a night.
ED BAILEY: “Tracks had two big main rooms. It had a big room with a DJ that was playing music, and the other room with a DJ that was playing music, but it was music videos, mostly. That helped differentiate the rooms and the experiences and gave people a more well-rounded experience, not to mention the vast outdoor area (upbeat dance music is muffled) that had a volleyball court (someone hits a volleyball), a barbecue pit (cinders sizzle), a dance floor outside with a fountain (water splashing). So all the bars inside were bars that you would go up to and you would order drinks from, but they were all against the exterior wall of the building, (people loudly talking in the background) and they all had big windows so the bartenders could serve to the outside and to the inside both.”
(upbeat dance music comes back to full volume and plays in the background)
ABBY: Over the course of his early twenties, Ed became a renowned VJ and DJ in the DMV. A VJ, popularized by MTV, was a video version of a DJ, they would project videos, including movie clips or music videos, on the wall paired with the music. Whether he was blasting Depeche Mode, The Cure, or the Smiths synced with clips from gay-coded movies, amongst a crowd of almost a thousand people, Ed was really the conductor of the night's energy.
(upbeat dance music builds in energy and intensity)
ED BAILEY: “It was this amazing feeling to watch all these people enjoying themselves, and you felt like you were at the center of making that happen.” (cheering loudly)
(upbeat dance music ends)
ABBY: Between the legendary light show, video room, DJ room, volleyball courts, and barbecue pit, there was something for everyone at Tracks. Ed said that the club was a space for everyone, every kind of Queer person partied there, which meant, almost everyone I’ve talked to had a memorable time at Tracks. For the Black Queer community, Sunday nights were their nights.
(upbeat dance music with heavy bass music starts to play in the background)
SHANNON: “We would come all the way down from New York to drive down just to go to Tracks on that Sunday night. People would come down from Philly, Baltimore, anything to go there. And you know, a lot of ballroom people were there. The club music was playing you vogue, you get in your house, you practice runway. It was just a very vibrant club.”
RAYCEEN: “Tracks was all about, you know, depending on the night, depending on the mood, depending on the atmosphere, you had to make an appearance, that you came through the door. It was all about coming through the door, making your appearance.” (door opens and heels click as someone walks)
(upbeat dance music with heavy bass music fades out)
(soft synth-pop music starts playing in the background)
ABBY: Tracks had a Ladies night every last Tuesday of the month. They later hosted a weekly Tuesday event called Lesbo-Go-Go, which featured lesbian erotic dancers and stripping.
(soft synth-pop music fades out)
In 1993, in response to the rising LGBTQ+ hate crimes, the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, which banned homosexuality in the military, and a Colorado amendment denying Queer people discrimination protections, almost one million Queer people crowded D.C.’s streets marching in protest.
At Tracks, Ed Bailey wanted to find a way to support all of the community, whether that be giving them a place to sleep or providing a cooked meal.
ED BAILEY: “I proposed this idea to the ownership: let's be open for 72 hours straight. Let's not close so that people who come to town will have a place to be whenever they want a place to be there. And so, we did that, and we opened on Friday, and we didn't close until Monday morning. You know, people were sleeping in the corners and on couches and on things, and we had food around the clock.”
ABBY: Tracks provided a home for the Queer community to gather in D.C., whether they were locals coming together to dance or face off in a volleyball game or nationwide visitors looking for a safe place to rest and refuel after a protest.
The popularity of Tracks directly competed with The Clubhouse. Its outdoor space added an extra element to nightlife, something The Clubhouse couldn’t provide. But, most heartbreakingly, the Clubhouse saw dwindling attendance due to the rising cases of AIDS and HIV in their members.
JOHN EDDY: “We lost over 50% of our membership.”
ABBY: The loss of life and membership meant The Clubhouse couldn’t support itself financially in the long run. So in 1990, John Eddy and the rest of the club’s leadership, decided to close, a loss viscerally felt across the entire Black Queer community.
ABBY: When I asked John and DJ Jay Jay what they felt was so special about The Clubhouse, they said it was because they didn’t operate it as a business.
JOHN EDDY: “It operated a big house party. And then I tell people, you know, this is the party you can't have at home. So come, you know, come, enjoy yourself. We actually had what you call a blackout event. Now I can say that now, because the Clubhouse is closed, but you know, all public places have exit signs so people know where to go. We had exit signs too at all of our doors, (synth dance music starts to slowly build in intensity) but we also had the switch to cut the exit signs off in the booth. And as the crescendo of the music would go up to a certain peak, the DJ would tell the light guy, okay, blackout. (light switches)
(synth dance music beat drops and switches to an upbeat dance music with lots of drums and bass)
DJ JAY JAY: Total.
(loud cheering)
JOHN EDDY: And the whole place would be totally black, screaming, hollaring, hooping. And the music crescendo would go up for about two, three minutes, then we turn the exit signs back on.
(cheering ends)
DJ JAY JAY: And here come the strobe light and the disco ball
JOHN EDDY: Be totally black in there (DJ Jay Jay, John Eddy, and Abby laugh)
ABBY: Wow
JOHN EDDY: People would be jumping, screaming and hooping and hollering
DJ JAY JAY: Yeah
JOHN EDDY: That was an event to see from the booth.
(John Eddy and DJ Jay Jay laugh)
DJ JAY JAY: All you heard was the people, and you seen hands going up in the air, you know?” (cheering)
(upbeat dance music with lots of drums and bass ends)
JOHN EDDY: “The clubhouse was a community location for all types of events, and it was free. So if you wanted to come up and get acupuncture on Saturday, come up and get it. If you want to come up to get some AIDS information on Saturday, you had that opportunity. If you want to come up to blow up balloons on Saturday, you had that opportunity. And then when you was ready to let your hair down and come to a party that you've never had the chance to have in your house, then come Saturday night.”
JOHN EDDY: “We started off with just 200 members and it blossomed. And like I said, on certain nights we've had 4,000 people up in the Clubhouse.
ABBY: Was that its occupancy or is that above its occupancy?
JOHN: I take the fifth.
(Abby, John, and DJ Jay Jay laugh)
ABBY: What was once an automobile garage, turned into a haven of Queer joy. The space was iconic but that’s not what made it legendary. It was the people. The Queer folks who fearlessly gathered to educate, celebrate, and love one another. At the Clubhouse you were one of the children, a member of the family.
DJ Jay Jay shared his experience at Clubhouse’s final night with me.
(synth piano music starts to play in the background)
DJ JAY JAY: “It was very emotional for me, because that last night, when I walked out (door opens and music is muffled), I literally started crying, because, I guess, being in the club for that many years, you realize how much of an impact it had, stuff that you normally don't pay attention to until it's gone. And that last night, I'll never forget it was in my head, when I walked out the door, I walked straight ahead and went across the street. Across the street was Roosevelt High School, and had like a little hill, and I literally sat on that hill, and I just cried because I knew I would not be coming in this building again, because it was kind of like my playground, you know, my go-to, and I knew it wasn't coming back. So it really affected me.”
(music ends, followed by a moment of silence)
(Jazzy music fades in and plays in background)
ABBY: Hey baby, we’re so glad you’re here, and thanks for listening until the end of the episode.
Don’t you worry, we promise we won’t leave you hanging for too long. Next week, we’ll have an After Hours episode, where I’ll be asking Donnell Robinson aka the Ella Fitzgerald for all the juicy goss and playing some fun games, so be sure to tune in! In two weeks time, we’ll have our fourth historical episode, picking up where we left off today.
We want to thank the Rainbow History Project, the DC Public Library, and the countless other academics and historians, whether featured in these episodes or not, who really helped inspire and guide us through this process.
And shout out to the rest of the QTDP team, Ellie and Mads for making this podcast happen.
You can find a transcript for this, and every episode, on our website at queeringthedistrictpodcast.com and linked below in the episode notes.
If you want to learn more and stay up to date on all things Queering the District Podcast, follow our social media pages @queeringthedistrictpodcast! You won’t want to miss exclusive interview clips, juicy voicemails, and bi-weekly spotlights.
Do you have a story to share? Think we missed something? Give us a call, and bare it all after the beep at 202-753-6570.
If you’re still with us, as always we have a treat for you. To finish us off this week, we have an anonymous caller who loves a particular bar in D.C. because they can always find something to do.
CALLER: I love Sinners and Saints. I can suck dick there all the time, but that being said, yeah, support small businesses, slob on a knob, period.
(Jazzy music fades out)
