episode details
Welcome back to episode four! We’re halfway through the season. We hope you’ve loved learning about 70s Queer activist housing collectives, poetry and writing salons, and ballroom houses so far this season.
If you haven’t listened to those episodes yet, no worries! While we intended for the podcast to be listened to in the order we release it, this season’s episodes aren't in chronological order, so if you listen out of order, you’ll still be able to easily follow along.
This week, we’ll be traveling from home to home, getting brief snapshots of house parties and gatherings. From Howard networking events to movie nights to intimate dinners to parties full of dancing and loose inhibitions, this episode, you’ll see how private homes have been the pillar to an innumerable number of Queer communities.
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 Abby Stuckrath and Julia Hay
A full transcript is available below or in this pdf. You can also find works cited and in-text citations for the episode in this pdf.
transcript
[QTDP theme music fades in]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Welcome back to episode four! We are halfway through the season. We hope you’ve loved learning about 70s Queer activist housing collectives, poetry and writing salons, and ballroom houses so far this season.
If you haven’t listened to those episodes yet, no worries! While we intended for the podcast to be listened to in the order we release it, this season’s episodes aren't in chronological order, so if you listen out of order, you’ll still be able to easily follow along.
This week, we’ll be traveling from home to home, getting brief snapshots of house parties and gatherings. From Howard networking events to movie nights to intimate dinners to parties full of dancing and loose inhibitions, this episode, you’ll see how private homes have been the pillar to an innumerable number of Queer communities.
So without further ado, come with us to meet someone essential to any house party, a DJ.
[QTDP theme music fades out]
[Low thumping beat plays]
[Crickets chirp]
[Footsteps crunch on gravel]
KRISTY LA RAT: I think there's also something about inviting people into each other's homes that feels really special, and that I cherish about a house party.
[Door clicks open, dance music fades up]
[People chatter and cheer]
…the space isn't just fully constructed to engineer like a bar or a club experience,
[Glasses clink]
…and so then there's things where, like, you're sitting there talking, but like somebody's half loaf of bread is on the counter next to like the Jello shots you made, someone's prescription, and like a sculpture from like this art thing they just did last week.
[DJ horns blare]
[Records scratch]
…the DJ setup is just like, what are we doing? Like being in a house party and having toilet paper rolls under the the record player, so the records don't skip. Millions of bikes being parked outside, chained up outside somebody's home…
[Bike bell rings]
…neighbors coming over and kind of sharing like exchanges of different musical dance traditions, meeting all kinds of strangers, impromptu performances. Yeah, and, and people connecting.
[Dance music and party chatter fades underneath]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Kristy La Rat is a DJ and cultural organizer in D.C. She is one of the founding members of the DJ collective Anthology of Booty, which is now better known for its collaborative Pride dance party, Booty Rex.
Kristy has thrown plenty of house parties in her time. In her once large Columbia Heights rowhouse, alongside her several roommates, she would throw fun, ridiculous parties with funky themes.
One of her most notable was a scam-themed party in which Kristy covered herself in metallic fabric and CD’s as an ode to the bootleg scamming culture.
One of Kristy’s favorite things about house parties though is–
KRISTY LA RAT: Getting to have like four or five outfit changes throughout the night.
[Kristy laughs]
And like to have those include shoes that like you really only wanted to walk down the stairs in and then kick them off and dance on the carpet.
ABBY STUCKRATH: At home, the opportunities are endless.
KRISTY LA RAT: There's a special place for our house party, always, and that's why it's been historically so persistent. And I think just the way D.C. is built, it's a really important part of local culture also, and how people live in D.C., especially Queer and Trans people sharing space, sharing resources together, and figuring stuff out collectively in really creative and exciting ways. Even with conditions that are in or out of our control, but that are definitely pounding down regardless.
[Dance music swells then cuts off]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Before Queer bars, clubs, bookstores, Queer folks used to use their homes as a space for collective celebration, dancing, and socializing.
Even now, with the increased popularity and accessibility of Queer clubs and nights at bars, the community still finds itself drawn to the living room dance floor. The safety, control, and comfort of one's home is a nurturing Queer ecosystem that public spaces struggle to recreate. For Queer folks who aren’t prioritized or protected in public spaces, their houses serve as their clubs, restaurants, and hang out spots.
And in D.C., with our bountiful rowhouses and communal living in six-, seven-, eight-bedroom homes, house parties are and have always been plentiful.
But kind of like Vegas, what happens at a house party, stays at a house party–meaning for us its history has been a hard one to trace.
We only get whispers and glimpses of these Queer gatherings because privacy and secrecy is essential to what makes those spaces liberating and necessary.
So in this episode, that’s exactly what we’ll give you…snapshots.
[Camera shutter clicks]
A brief glimpse, a peek through the window, so to speak, of some of the house parties that have served, protected, celebrated, and honored Queer life in the District.
And we start…in 1922.
[Old timey camera flash poofs]
At 1256 Kearny Street, Northeast.
[Slow piano jazz song plays in the background]
SUSAN FERENTINOS: The Slowe-Burrill house.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Susan Ferentinos, who you may remember from the first episode of our season, “Are you a homosexual?” wrote the National Park Landmark nomination for the Slowe-Burrill house—the home of D.C.’s once most famous lesbian couple: Lucy Diggs Slowe and Mary Burrill.
Both iconic women in their own right, Lucy Diggs Slowe co-founded the nation's first Black sorority, Alpha Kappa Alpha. She was the first woman to win the American Tennis Association Women’s Singles Championship—their house even had a side-lot tennis court attached—and at Howard University, she became…
SUSAN FERENTINOS: …the first permanent Dean of Women.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Mary Burrill, often referred to as Mamie, was a local school teacher and playwright (Dawson). As a native Washingtonian, Mary went to Dunbar High School, where she dated Angelina Weld Grimke.Wink, wink. If you know, you know.
But it was Lucy who eventually stole Mary’s heart when the two met in 1912. Under the guise of a “Boston Marriage” label, which is when two women lived together to gain financial independence, the pair's home wasn’t just a nurturing place for their Queer love, but a safe harbor for Black women to connect and network with each other.
SUSAN FERENTINOS: The house also served as a site of mentorship for the women of Howard and possibly the women, teachers, and students in pre-collegiate D.C. African American school system.
ABBY STUCKRATH: A frequent attendee of their soirees was Georgia Douglas Johnson, the legendary hostess of the S Street Salons that we covered earlier this season in the episode, “Be Bop Bing!” Those nights were when Lucy put her agenda to work, helping encourage young Black women to pursue careers outside of education and instead focus on law, social work, and business. In the early 1920s, 90 percent of Howard women were studying to become teachers. Within a few years and amidst a few parties, that number dropped to 40 percent.
In a letter, Lucy described how she would sit in her rock garden, which grew over 50 rose bushes, with her female students, giving them a welcoming retreat from campus.
[Piano jazz music fades out]
[Crickets chirp]
[Bonfire crackles]
Lucy received numerous letters from students who said those nights in her rose garden, under the glow of a crackling fire and the shade of her maple trees, were the happiest moments of their collegiate careers.
[Group of women laugh]
Their house did come under scrutiny, especially when Mordecai Wyatt Johnson took the helm as Howard University’s President, which ultimately put a target on Lucy’s back.
SUSAN FERENTINOS: Johnson wanted her to move on campus, in part to separate her living arrangement with Mary Burrill.
ABBY STUCKRATH: The most direct evidence of this in the letters Lucy received from him.
SUSAN FERENTINOS: There is some suggestion that Slowe shouldn't be fighting this. And if she was fighting moving on campus, she must have something to hide. Read one way, can be understood as kind of threatening, in terms of insinuating that Slowe was in a relationship with Burrill that would be seen as scandalous and might threaten her employment with the university.
ABBY STUCKRATH: But Lucy refused, and lived with Mary until her untimely death in 1937 at 54 years old.
[Slow jazz music plays in background]
In an era where Queer rights seemed like an impossible reality, Slowe and Burrill are one of the few documented Black lesbian relationships of this era. On top of this, they didn’t cower or hide their partnership. They invited people to their home, holding house parties dedicated to creating space for Black women to build career and economic avenues of growth for each other.
And who knows the true impact of Lucy and Mary’s relationship and the trickle down effect their visibility created in what is now coined by D.C.’s mayor as “the gayest city in the world.”
[Slow jazz music fades out]
[Digital camera shutter snaps]
OTIS “BUDDY” SUTSON: I’m the only survivor of the original group.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Our next house party is known as the most successful and most enduring Black gay social club in D.C.
The Best of Washington.
[Groovy song plays in the background]
Otis, or better known as Buddy Sutson, was one of its founding members in 1973.
OTIS “BUDDY” SUTSON: There wasn't a lot of things going on for the Black Gay community at the time. We were just ordinary people, and we stuck together during those times, and the Best of Washington was there to provide the tool for bringing people together.
ABBY STUCKRATH: At that time, in the early 70s, Buddy says Black gay folks were living double lives, many unable or unwilling to be out of the closet.
Social club house parties, like The Best of Washington, were an alternative to the more public gay nightlife scene. Many of the participants were middle-class and worked in the federal government. At the time of its founding, Lavender Scare policies were still in place, meaning you could be fired from the federal government if you were discovered to be gay.
In the 70s, gay social life, even in house parties, were…
OTIS “BUDDY” SUTSON: Very segregated. It sort of mirrored whatever happened in the straight world.
ABBY STUCKRATH: But unlike the white gay social scene, where gay men and lesbian women frequently partied separately, Black gay house parties like The Best of Washington, were for everyone.
After church, The Best of Washington would throw tea dances, a weekend day party.
[Crowd chatters]
OTIS “BUDDY SUTSON: They would be dressed up to the nines. They started two or three, we were home by nine or 12.
[Group of people laugh]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Back then, there was no social media or texting. If you wanted to know what was going on in the community, you had to be in the community.
OTIS “BUDDY” SUTSON: We got our information from either the pulpit at the church or through our connections at the house parties.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Social clubs like The Best of Washington united the Black Queer community, creating the network for future political and activist groups to thrive. And even during the AIDS epidemic of the 80s and 90s, it was these social clubs that raised money, awareness, and simply spread joy.
OTIS “BUDDY” SUTSON: We started safe sex programs and that sort of thing, trying to keep everybody together. And we were sort of like the glue, if you will, in that we stuck together through those rough times.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Now, 53 years after its founding, Buddy hosts a Best of Washington reunion picnic every year.
OTIS “BUDDY” SUTSON: We have it at Fort Washington the first Sunday in August. Hot as hell, but people come out and reconnect, those of us that are left.
[Groovy music fades out]
[Digital camera shutter snaps]
BRIDGET KLEIN: It was just a place for them to be themselves, to communicate. The struggle was not there. They didn't have to worry about picking the battle between audism and homophobia.
[Soft piano music plays in the background]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Speaking through an interpreter, Dr. Bridget Klein, a professor at the Commonwealth University of Pennsylvania, and once D.C. resident, told me about the underground house parties that Deaf Queer people, especially Deaf Lesbians in the District, would throw.
D.C. has one of the largest Deaf populations in the country, thanks to the city hosting Gallaudet University—the only liberal arts, bilingual college for Deaf, Hard of Hearing students in the world.
But in the 70s and 80s, the time periods in which Dr. Klein's research was focused, homophobia within the Deaf community was an overwhelming force. So much so, that Deaf Queer folks developed their own language within ASL in order to identify each other.
For example, signing golf meant you were gay, signing basketball meant you were bisexual, and signing softball meant you were straight.
DR. BRIDGET KLEIN: But the ironic thing is, the person who created this was a Deaf gay man, and obviously, I mean, he didn't seem to know much about lesbian women–
[Laughs]
–-and I say that because lesbian women tend to play softball so and, but he used that for to reference as somebody being straight. So it was ironic. I mean, I found that to be very funny.
[Laughs]
ABBY STUCKRATH: These codes were a lifeline for the Queer Deaf community, especially before 1990, when the Americans with Disabilities Act, ADA, was passed (Klein). Before then, employers could downright deny interpreters, captions, or anything that would make the workplace accessible to Hard of Hearing people.
DR. BRIDGET KLEIN: The job opportunities were very scarce, and then maybe Gallaudet University was an option, or a Deaf school, Deaf institution might have been an option for a job. We had to be very cautious of how we spoke when we did have a job. We didn't have backup plans, so the fear of being outed was very real because it was tough to get a job to begin with.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Their secret language was key when the National Association for the Deaf came to town for their yearly conference.
DR. BRIDGET KLEIN: You would get the wink, and that would be your indication to go up to this specific hotel room, you know, to gather as a Deaf Gay group.
ABBY STUCKRATH: These secret codes even spilled into the bar scene.
DR. BRIDGET KLEIN: We as Deaf Gay Lesbians, would teach the bouncer the sign for the ear tug, right? And so people would do the ear tug. The bouncer would then know that that individual is Deaf.
ABBY STUCKRATH: So whether it was a secret dorm party on the Gallaudet campus, an apartment in the city, or conference hotel rooms, private spaces were some of the only places that were accessible and safe for Deaf Queer folks.
DR. BRIDGET KLEIN: It was just a group of people where they could freely share, freely communicate. Just a place for them to be themselves, where they felt light. They felt free. They didn't have to constantly explain themselves to other people.
[Soft piano music fades out]
[Camera shutter clicks]
NICOLAS SHI: We had M&Ms, they said, ‘If you eat one of those, you become straight.’ And the first time we did it, almost everybody took it because they wanted, you know, they didn't want to be gay. They like, we discussed, ‘Why? Why is it that you will–’ ‘Well, because it's easier with my family. I don't have to come out or have work or this,’ and whatever. So later…
[Nicholas interview fades underneath]
ABBY STUCKRATH: In 1984, Nicolas Shi, alongside his husband Frank Blackburn, helped create Asians and Friends, a social group built to foster understanding between the Asian and non-Asian community.
When Nicolas moved to D.C., in 1986, he would go to gay bars and feel…
NICOLAS SHI: Invisible.
ABBY STUCKRATH: And when he attended a social group advertised for Asian gay men, it felt like…
NICOLAS SHI: Kind of like a meat market.
ABBY STUCKRATH: So in the couple's beautiful rowhouse on 15th street near Logan Circle, they hosted potlucks, holiday parties, discussion circles, and movie nights, all centering the Gay Asian community (Shi).
[Film projector whirs to life]
[Light upbeat music plays in the background]
One of the first movies they ever showed was…
NICOLAS SHI: The Wedding Banquet.
ABBY STUCKRATH: A landmark film about a gay Taiwanese man who fakes a marriage to a Chinese woman to appease his traditional parents.
NICOLAS SHI: So we start watching and said, ‘Oh my God, that's our life!’
ABBY STUCKRATH: On Frank’s massive projector in their living room, gay men gathered on the couch, chairs, and floor to watch gay Asian flicks. Nicolas found movies that were more underground, so to speak, and they weren’t typically showing in theaters around town. They even saw The Wedding Banquet before it was officially released, thanks to Nicolas' special insider connections. He was always on the hunt for something new. Another one of his favorites was a Thai movie called Beautiful Boxer.
Regardless of what film was playing, Nicolas and Frank's home was a hub for Asians and Friends.
[Film projector stops]
Their home was very well-regarded, even from halfway across the world.
NICOLAS SHI: We were in Sydney for Mardi Gras. So we're walking from one building, we're walking to one building to another building. And all of a sudden I start hearing, ‘Frank! Nicolas! Frank! Nicolas!’ We turned around and we didn't know them. People said, ‘We know you. We've been to your house!’ We still don't know who they were.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Whether in Sydney or Logan Circle, their rowhouse fostered not just a place of belonging, but acceptance.
[Light upbeat music swells, then fades out]
There were some in the Gay Asian community that disliked how Asians and Friends was run, frustrated that people outside of the Asian diaspora, more specifically white men, were not just welcomed but encouraged to come. Nicolas says that their argument was that white men were objectifying and fetishizing Asian men in the group. Nicolas says he felt ostracized and judged for how he ran Asians and Friends and for his relationship with Frank.
NICOLAS SHI: Calling me a banana, you know, being yellow outside and white inside, just because I had a white lover.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Despite the turmoil and debate within the Queer Asian community, Asians and Friends still served an important role in many people’s lives.
[Soft guitar music plays in the background]
NICOLAS SHI: Asians and Friends was a space where people felt safe. At the time, there was no other places for Asian men to feel safe, to have fun, to meet other people.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Remember Nicolas’s story about the M&M’s and how everyone took the piece of candy that would make them straight? Well after about a year of running Asians and Friends, they did the exercise again.
NICOLAS SHI: I would say exactly the same thing, ‘If you take one of those,’ and nobody did, because we have created kind of like a family, and everybody felt comfortable, and they were looking at saying, ‘No, I'm having too much fun,’ or you know, ‘I'm accepting myself now,’ like ‘I see, I see other people like me now.’
[Soft guitar music fades out]
ABBY STUCKRATH: The rise of formalized Queer Asian house parties and organizations may have started with Asians and Friends but it didn’t end with them.
BEN DE GUZMAN: In terms of going to bars and meeting and building community, there was always the reality that there were non-Asian people who had a preference for Asian people. It was more difficult to like extricate yourself from those kinds of prying eyes. The line between interest and fetish was always a weird one to dance around, but you know, third spaces like that were places where we could best feel ourselves, that we could let down our guards.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Today, Ben de Guzman is the Director of the Mayor’s Office on Asian and Pacific Islander Affairs, but in the late 90s and early 2000s, he was at the center of Queer Asian social life.
[Funky music plays in the background]
BEN DE GUZMAN: Food became sort of a cultural linchpin around which one could have conversation or build community.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Over plates filled with Lola’s fried rice and takeout Popeyes, Queer Asians across the District would gather in private apartments and homes for monthly potlucks.
Ben’s cozy group home off of U Street, right around the corner from Ben’s Chill Bowl, was a hotspot for the group.
BEN DE GUZMAN: That house kind of became the center of gravity.
ABBY STUCKRATH: These social meals were run by AQUA, aka Asian and Pacific Islander Queers United for Action.
Ben was one of the first co-chairs of the group in the early 2000s.
After Asians and Friends was founded in the 80s, new Queer Asian social groups started to pop up in the late 90s.
AQUA, Khush D.C., Al-Fathia, Asian and Pacific Islander Queer Sisters, and the Asian and Pacific Islanders Partnership for Health.
Ben says the 90s and early 2000s represent a turning of the tide for the Asian and Pacific Islander communities in D.C. and nationally.
BEN DE GUZMAN: We were the first generation that was able to be born here in significant numbers.
ABBY STUCKRATH: In 1965, through the Hart-Celler Act, the United States dismissed the country's once longstanding principle of limiting immigration based on national origin. Prior to this, the United States either directly banned Asian migrants, or heavily restricted immigrants from Asian countries.
After the Civil Rights era and the passing of this act, Ben says it would take 30 years for the Queer Asian community to solidify its roots in D.C.
BEN DE GUZMAN: That was really the shift that both within the LGBT movement and the Asian and Pacific Islander kind of movements. The API community, you know, developed the…a cadre of people that were just that were born here that were able to do more political work in ways that demographically weren't supported previously.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Amidst the rise of Queer Asian visibility and community in D.C., there was a clear gap in public LGBTQ+ social life that AQUA worked to fill.
[Funky music fades out]
BEN DE GUZMAN: There weren't Asian nights. We never had like large enough footprint that the nightlife powers that be decided that we were worthy of having a night. So AQUA became the space that brought the community together in a city that was too small to support, you know, larger or more institutional third spaces for us, so AQUA kind of became the receptacle—the platform around which we were, we built community.
ABBY STUCKRATH: This same notion of invisibility within the public gay scene pushed Vishwas Pethe to join Khush D.C.
VISHWAS PETHE: I had not met any other South Asian people in the–in bars. I met only once, one person. Rarely saw anyone of South Asian descent.
[Upbeat bass music plays in the background]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Khush started in 1994 as a way to connect and support Queer South Asian people across the DMV .
VISHWAS PETHE: There were several friendships, like people who were from Mumbai, or were people who are Marathi, Maharashtran people, so some of them I still am in contact with.
ABBY STUCKRATH: In a 2001 Washington Blade article, Khush coordinator, J.P. Singh, told a reporter about what the group meant to him. J.P. didn’t know how to describe who he was in his native tongue. It wasn’t until he met other Queer South Asian people through Khush that he understood that, “To come out as gay does not mean letting go of one’s culture.”
By the early 2000s, Khush had over 100 participants with members from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, and more.
Whether you were cuddled up on Nicolas’s couch watching underground movies, snacking on a dish that reminded you of home, or finding ways to Queer your native language, house parties were where many in the Asian and Pacific Islander community found themselves.
[Upbeat bass music fades out]
[Camera flashes twice]
JAMES FISHER: I bought a rainbow flag, and we put the rainbow flag out on the house, and the rainbow flag has flown on the house for 25 years.
[Retro jazz music fades in and plays in the background]
ABBY STUCKRATH: James Fisher and his husband, Ron Bookbinder, moved to Arlington in 2000. They were the first openly gay couple to live on their street. Ron says while some neighbors welcomed them with open arms, others…not so much.
RON BOOKBINDER: The husband at the house next door said, ‘Huh, did you hear two men are moving in across the street?’ and our neighbor Chuck, wonderful neighbor, said, ‘Yeah, isn't that great? We need more diversity in this neighborhood.’
ABBY STUCKRATH: To help hush rumors and dispel neighbors’ wariness, they opened their doors to everyone.
RON BOOKBINDER: Mostly everyone
JAMES FISHER: We wanted, if people had, you know, thoughts in their mind about—
RON BOOKBINDER: Stereotypes—
JAMES FISHER: Yeah, how gay people live, or what's in their house, or what's going on in there, or whatever. We were like, ‘Come on in!’
RON BOOKBINDER: Yeah, it was an open house.
ABBY STUCKRATH: For 25 years, their house has not only been a representation of the growing acceptance in the DMV region, but was a symbol of progress for the next generation of Queer folks.
JAMES FISHER: There are so many families in this broader neighborhood who have had children who have come out. And those children, when they were growing up, when going to school and to the pool, they saw a rainbow flag. They knew that in their neighborhood, it was a safe place, that somebody was there, that somebody was, you know, out and, you know, open about who they were. And we lived an open life.
RON BOOKBINDER: And we didn't just have the flag. James is gardening constantly out front. So he'd always say hi to people. I'm super friendly. So like, if I'm riding my bike, I'm like, ‘Hi, hi, hi.’ So we always greeted people, greeted neighbors. I would greet children. I mean, like, especially if I saw a young person, like a teenager, who seemed like they could be gay, I would just say, ‘Hi,’ you know, just to like, say, ‘I see you. You're safe.’
ABBY STUCKRATH: Beyond the house's symbolism, it was also home to Democratic socials for political candidates, dinner parties for old friends and, in 2013, a wedding venue.
[Retro jazz music fades out]
RON BOOKBINDER: The day we got married was the 26th anniversary of our first date.
[Ron interview fades underneath]
[Romantic piano music plays]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Sitting at the very dining table that once held their wedding cakes and hor’durves, James and Ron walked me through the story of their long awaited nuptials. Scrolling through photo albums on his phone, James shared adorable snapshots from the day.
ABBY STUCKRATH (in the interview): Oh I love your little bow ties!
RON BOOKBINDER: Oh, I know that was the theme, the little lavender bow ties. So you see it on the cake, and you see it on us. And the invitations had the little bow tie I think.
[Ron interview fades underneath]
ABBY STUCKRATH: After holding the actual legal ceremony at the Lincoln Memorial—in 2013, you couldn’t get legally married in Virginia, but you could in D.C.—they hosted a big backyard bash to celebrate their union the next day.
RON BOOKBINDER: James made all the desserts, little cookies and cakes, and the caterer made all these appetizers. And it was wonderful. It was everyone from our life, from church, family, like liberal family, conservative family, neighbors, all our neighbors, people from AGLA, people from throughout our lives, came. And it was very uplifting to have everyone together in our home, you know, in our yard. That was great.
[Romantic piano music fades out]
[Digital camera flashes]
DIONNE “MAGIC” LEDBETTER: We prioritize, you know, Black music. There's some bars some gay bars like you're not, you can't play that music until a certain time, or you can't play that music till you’re at a certain night.
[Dionne interview fades underneath]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Femme Fatale, a Queer dance party in D.C., was founded by Dionne Ledbetter aka “DJ Magic.”
DIONNE “MAGIC” LEDBETTER: I can't ever talk about Femme Fatale without talking about Howard. Um, so I started…
[Dionne interview fades underneath]
ABBY STUCKRATH: When Dionne was a junior at Howard University, she wanted to create a Queer party scene that celebrated the people and cultures that make up Howard’s Queer life.
DIONNE “MAGIC” LEDBETTER: Howard attracts people from all over the world. And as a DJ, it's your responsibility to kind of reflect that sound and make people feel at home, whether they're from, you know, Jamaica, Ghana, New Orleans, Atlanta, New York, D.C., so on and so forth. So I think that representing that diversity in our sound, but putting it through a Queer lens, or having it be presented to a Queer community with the Queer community.
ABBY STUCKRATH: For one party, in hopes of cultivating a house party vibe, Dionne rented an AirBnB in Maryland…and she admits she was a little scared that the Howard folks wouldn’t make the commute.
[Knocking at door]
[House music plays in the background]
But they did, so much so that the dance floor got a little too into the music.
DIONNE “MAGIC” LEDBETTER: Everybody talks about the floor, and we would play certain music, and the floor would bounce.
[Wood floor creaks]
So we did two parties there, and we were worried that the floor would, you know, kind of cave in, honestly.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Dionne takes pride in not just the space she’s creating, but the sounds her events represent.
[Crowd chatters]
DIONNE “MAGIC” LEDBETTER: So usually you're going to hear music, music you can like twerk to like hip hop.
[Hip hop beat plays then fades]
You're gonna have music that you can sing to, which could be R&B,
[R&B beat plays then fades]
but could also be, you know, old school pop music.
[Pop beat plays then fades]
There's going to be songs that you can dance to,
[House beat plays then fades]
house centric music and that all up tempo stuff is not, you know, not just house it could be regional sounds like, Jersey club, New Orleans bounce, Soca, for the Caribbean folks out there
[Jersey club, New Orleans bounce, Soca music plays, then fades]
dancehall, reggae, gospel, baile funk…
[Dancehall, reggae, and gospel music plays, then fades]
[Baile funk music plays]
ABBY STUCKRATH: From creaky house parties in an airbnb, to selling out the Black Cat, Femme Fatale has become well-known and beloved throughout the District.
[Baile funk music fades]
[Hip-hop music plays]
DIONNE “MAGIC” LEDBETTER: It's very, very exciting, just because we know that people are coming to not only just experience it, but participate in it. Because I feel like one thing people see, see something on, you know, social media, and they just want to observe, but I think that with the Femme Fatale crowd, they want to show up and be involved in that movement, or be involved in those dancing or be involved in that that kind of, in that joy.
[Hip-hop music fades out]
[Digital camera flash]
CHAR MCCRAY: It was a group called Les Linq at the time, and they were having, like, social happy hours all at different bars throughout the city.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Char McCray moved to D.C. in 2016. In hopes of making new friends, she attended Les Linq, which not only introduced Char to some of her closest friends, but became the impetus for starting rotating house parties amongst a small group of previous Les Linq attendees. These parties came with many benefits, including financial ones.
[Mellow hip-hop beat plays in the background]
CHAR MCCRAY: It removes that overhead of spending $100 every time you go out in the city, right? Every time you exit your home, you are spending $100 regardless of where you are.
ABBY STUCKRATH: But more importantly, it has helped Char foster friendships that weren’t hindered by the public.
CHAR MCCRAY: I feel like amongst at least Black lesbians in general, and that’s how I identify, like you don't really have a lot of different avenues to be out in a club setting or in a happy hour setting or out at a bar or restaurant and really have that communal vibe where you can talk to people, or you can have conversations.
ABBY STUCKRATH: The lack of public constraints in house parties gives Char a sense of freedom and lets her build stronger connections with folks.
CHAR MCCRAY: When I think of the vibe itself, and I think it's something similar to what I would consider in Black culture to be, like ‘the cookout,’ like, I feel like the house party is very much similar to a cookout, but obviously indoors, right?
[People laugh and chatter]
But like a cookout, you could be outside, you could be amongst your people, you could relax, you could have fun. We'll end up doing karaoke, but, you know, like homemade karaoke, not really like the karaoke with a mic.
[Microphone static]
But coming together and like a lot of times, like some of my friends, they've been really into the questions, and bringing up questions, just about kind of the culture, and kind of particular to like Black lesbians for the most part, and asking like, how we're dealing with this, how we're dealing with that.
ABBY STUCKRATH: But most importantly Char says..
CHAR MCCRAY: Sometimes you don't want to take up space. Sometimes you just want to exist. You just want to be, and a house party gives you that opportunity to just do that.
[Chill hip-hop beat fades out]
[Camera flash]
KUMA: It was a domino effect, really. Like almost everybody, I would say like 20, 30, 40, people started testing positive from one person.
ABBY STUCKRATH: After the first booster COVID-19 vaccine came out, Kuma thought it would be safe again, that with the right precautions things could, in a way, go back to normal.
That is until they threw a house party, and it only took one attendee to cause an outbreak.
KUMA: It was really the first time that I was like, okay, like I actually do need to still mask and take it more seriously.
ABBY STUCKRATH: In 2020, the world as we knew it…changed. Quarantine, masks, social distancing, constant tests, and vaccines became an everyday reality. In the six years since, more than a million Americans have died from COVID-19, according to the CDC.
From 2020 to 2024, over 111 million people had at one time or another tested positive for the virus (Worldometer).
Kuma remembers the first time they got COVID.
KUMA: I wasn't working out. I wasn't physically able to work out. I was pretty tired. The fatigue…I would say that I had long COVID. It was just really hard to recover, and that's kind of like when I started taking it more seriously. I know how bad it impacts the immune system, and I know that there are people I love and care about who still struggle with long COVID, and my life has just never been the same.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Since 2022, Kuma’s approach to social life and community building has had new COVID-conscious considerations.
But not everyone has the same standards on what a COVID-concious space is like. Many people don’t want to wear masks or social distance. Many people act like COVID was a blip, just a moment in time. This has created a sense of isolation for Kuma.
KUMA: I still go to different events that are hosted by Queer and Trans folk, specifically Black and Brown spaces, but I do wear a mask, even though I find myself feeling singled out from time to time.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Kuma, a lover of house parties, had to set clear boundaries with friends, whether that be taking a rapid test, firm masking rules, having air filtration, or hosting an event outside.
Transparency is key, not shame. There was no guilting anyone for getting exposed. For Kuma, being honest about any exposure is a sign of respect and consent.
KUMA: I feel like the level of intimacy that we're communicating with our partners sexually is something that I started to see modeled in Queer spaces around COVID that I really appreciated. And also just like destigmatizing or de-shaming, like sharing the risk that our loved ones take, because being able to communicate that is like an act of love and care.
ABBY: As an…
[Upbeat funky song plays in the background]
KUMA: Extravagantly queer Pisces.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Kuma loves hosting lavish dinner parties, outdoor birthday bashes, and small drag shows at their home, all with proper COVID guidelines to ensure safety on multiple fronts. But in 2023, Kuma and a good friend decided to take their efforts to the mainstream.
KUMA: We were just hanging out and talking about how much we missed like Queer life and how there wasn't a lot of like COVID-conscious or mask-required events that were open to the public, specifically like Queer people, more specifically Queer disabled people of color. So we started IckyMelon.
ABBY STUCKRATH: From Queer BIPOC vendor markets, to dance parties, to a full blown outdoor festival at Wangari Gardens, IckyMelon has given voice and space to those in the Queer community who have felt left behind since the rise of COVID.
KUMA: The goal was to have this event and like maybe one day there would be other people doing other events specifically for their communities that took masking and disability justice mindset into consideration, and that definitely has been happening. And so I love to see it. Yeah, just really grateful for the folks that are still taking this seriously and continue to take it seriously.
[Upbeat funky song fades out]
[Camera flash]
[Soaring cinematic music plays]
[Swords clash and clang in the background]
HUNTER HAMRICK: What's going on? Masha, what do we need to do? We got to go beat someone up?
SYD: We might for now stay there by crafty and have fun.
ABBY STUCKRATH: In Hunter Hamrick’s apartment, you can be whoever you want.
CHRIS ECKARDT: I'm playing Tatiana Tanzer, who is a half-elf ranger who joined House Lumi to get revenge on another noble house that murdered her husband many, almost like a century and a half ago.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Every two weeks, Hunter and five of his friends transport themselves from D.C. to an entirely new world filled with flirty druids and forbidden warlocks.
HUNTER HAMRICK: Under their aprons are some daggers, just in case things go sideways.
[swords stop clashing and clanging]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Dungeons and Dragons, or better known as D&D, is a world-renowned tabletop fantasy game. Through the guidance of character sheets and 20-sided dice, players immerse themselves into fantastical worlds of war, battles, and sharp political strategy. These games are called campaigns, but they don’t last just one night of gameplay. They can play out for years.
Hunter is the Dungeon Master, meaning the leader and referee. He guides and imagines much of the game.
Chris, Syd, Sam, Colton, and Delaney are his crew that are following the twists and turns of Hunter’s Game of Thrones inspired world.
[Soaring cinematic music fades out]
For them, D&D is not just an escape but a place for exploration and friendship.
[Staccato string music plays in the background]
COLTON MCLAUGHLIN: When we come to D&D, and we come to this table with these people who I'm all very close with, where I feel like I can truly be myself. That is transmuted again into me doing a performance where I play someone who just isn't me at all, and somehow that feels more like me than how I feel when I'm out at the bars meeting people.
DELANEY CRUICKSHANK: I'm also neurodivergent, and that's led to a lot of very strong social anxiety and depression that I've dealt with most of my life. So starting this hobby has gotten me to physically get out of my house and go talk to people and practice social skills and practice being myself, even though I'm playing, you know, a butch Eastern European woman with a big axe.
CHRIS ECKHARDT: Even though I go with he/him pronouns, there was a time when I did, you know, was questioning my gender identity, how I wanted to present myself. And one of the things that I did find that I regularly do is I usually play female or more feminine-presenting characters in D&D. And I definitely found that like was a helpful way to kind of explore those ideas and express myself in those ways.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Hunter and his rag-tag group have been creating a large network of D&D players beyond their own personal game. In 2023, Hunter created…
HUNTER HAMRICK: The DMV D&D group.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Which has become the largest tabletop role playing gaming group in the D.C. metro area. This Queer-led organization hosts happy hours to help people find potential playmates. Hunter’s friend, Syd, has been instrumental in leading the ladies and non-binary happy hours, in hopes of filling the gender gap often found within D&D spaces.
While much of the community is fostered online, D&D at its core, at their table, is a fantastical way to expel norms and create friends.
CHRIS ECKHARDT: You are going to be spending a few hours every week, every couple weeks, with the same group of people repeatedly, and that's just a really great way to actually get to know people and make friends and form kind of those human connections, especially for the LGBT community, where there can be a lot of othering, where there can be a lot of space where you're may not be able to share yourself, or you may kind of struggle with getting to know people in the first place and kind of forming those connections. It's kind of like almost a guaranteed way to do that.
SAM ISRAEL: Let's see if I roll as well as everyone else. I did. It's a natural 20, I kid you not!
[Sam laughs]
[Staccato string music fades out]
[Thumping dance music plays]
ABBY STUCKRATH: A home is not just a place to rest your head at the end of day.
[Door opens]
[Thumping dance music swells then plays in background]
It can be a night club, a movie theatre, a dive bar, or a dance floor. Whether you’re requiring face masks or instating a secret code at the door, house parties give Queer folks the reigns.
KRISTY LA RAT: If you do have control over a space with other people, you get to set the rules, and so you're not being policed in certain ways. You can navigate homophobia and transphobia in a way that you don't have to deal with even the politics of a club.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Local DJ and organizer Kristy La Rat says house parties have the perfect balance of novelty and familiarity.
KRISTY LA RAT: You get both that variety of people who you might not normally meet, but you also have a shared concept of this is going to be a space where we try and make it really beautiful and centering Queer and trans people and uplifting expression.
ABBY STUCKRATH: Private homes can be the truest incubators for Queer safety and joy.
KRISTY LA RAT: House parties often offer a kind of a different flavor and a different set of goals, maybe purpose, for people, but also like this special experience, so I will always have a fondness for them. Kind of of coming undone together.
[Thumping dance music fades out]
[Party crowd chatters]
[Camera shutter snaps]
[QTDP theme music fades in]
ABBY STUCKRATH: Hey baby… we’re so glad you’re here, and thanks so much for listening until the end of the episode.
Don’t worry, we promise we won’t leave you hanging too long. Next week, we’ll be learning the history of Drag houses in the District. D.C. has a long history of excellent drag artists, but even more importantly, Drag houses that have held each other through the highs and lows of Queer life in D.C. So stick around for next week for a deep dive into the legacies of drag families in the District.
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 truly inspire and guide us through this process.
And shout out to the rest of the QTDP team, Julia, Andrew, 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 don’t want to miss exclusive interview clips, juicy voicemails, and bi-weekly spotlights.
Have a story to share? Do you 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 finish every episode with a Phi-Phi voicemail left by a local Queer.
This week, we have a voicemail from a Queer who ended up at the wrong house party. I mean we’ve all mixed up a Jeff or two, right?...
[QTDP theme music fades out]
VOICEMAIL: So this literally happened last weekend, and I was out with a group of friends. Mind you, earlier in the day I had done a boudoir shoot for this guy named Jeff, and, to my belief, while we were out, Jeff texted me ‘Hey come to this house party.’ I was like okay, cool, you sound like a really cool guy, you’re visiting, you want friends, I’ll happily be your friend, let’s go.
And me and my friends pile into this car. We show up to this house party, and we’re like ‘hey where’s Jeff?’ And he’s like ‘Oh, he’s around somewhere, not really sure.’ And the house that we walked into was full of bears, everyone was shirtless, and I was like that was not the vibe that I was expecting from you, but sure, I’m happy to be friends.
And when Jeff finally met us, it was the wrong Jeff. It was not the Jeff that I was expecting. My phone decided that it would be a great idea to link one Jeff to two phone numbers, and the Jeff that I was texting was not the Jeff that I had met earlier in the day. And the immediate shock that happened. I was like (gasps) you are not the Jeff that I thought I was talking to. I was like oh my gosh. And my friends were like ‘So are we like going?’ And I was like ‘Yeah, but how do we get out of this situation without making it awkward?’ And my friend was like ‘I got it.’ And she whips out her phone so quick and was like ‘Oh gosh my friend is so drunk at this bar. We gotta go. I gotta help him. I can’t go alone. You have to come with me, like please.’ And everyone was like ‘Go, go, go. It’s fine.’ And we hopped in an Uber, and we went back to the bar we were at. But that is my crazy gay story.
