It’s a Friday night in the East Village, my first evening back in Manhattan after spending a month in the “city of love,” Paris. Muffled cheers rattle across brick-lined streets and rainbow lights shine through the windows of dive bars.
A month prior, I was desperate to leave this neighborhood. Coping with the death of an unhealthy relationship, and the stress of publishing my first book, Paris, and the prospect of a fresh break in a foreign city, was supposed to be my catharsis.
Destined for Europe, I enrolled in classes, and left May 22nd. My first few days in Paris, in conjunction with my dreams, were perfect. The shops were quaint, the drinks were cheap, and the bars were close to one another. Everything was beautiful. Even the sun didn’t set until 10pm. As an insomniac and night owl, it was a strong start.
The following weekend, I tagged along with a group of familiar acquaintances to a chateau that also operated as a nightclub. As the night dragged on, I sat alone on a purple velvet couch while my friends danced with European boys passing through town. “Why don’t you talk to any guys?” they asked me.
“I don’t see anyone of interest,” I replied.
And while my words did ring true, my answer was mostly fear-based. What if I did talk to a man in this very club and they took offense to my flirtation? This place wasn’t a queer club, or even a gay one, but my friend relayed that the internet said the club was “gay friendly”—whatever that means—and instead, I found myself anxious and fidgeting in the corner. In a way, my trepidation was a product of my own doing.
It reminded me of a recent TikTok comment: “feeling unwelcome in a space isn’t a product of the people that surround the space.” And while sometimes our discomfort can be self-induced, for the most part, I would argue something differently. The people that form a space are the foundation for what the space becomes. In this specific case, it was a club exclusively for pairs of guys and girls. Even if I did find someone to kiss and hold for the evening, we wouldn’t fit the mold of the club’s foundation. There’s no room for queerness in a space defined by heteronormativity.
The next weekend, we made the trek to the “gayborhood.” Upon our entry to the area, immediately, an older gay man by the name of Timothy began chatting with us. He was holding a crepe in his hands and was licking the remnants of crumbs off his face.
In a simple conversation about what brought us to the gayborhood, his words quickly turned sour and a fight erupted about trans-inclusivity and pronouns. Timothy had professed, as if he was a genius, “trans people are one problem, and the pronoun thing is a whole other—a problem not even worth paying attention to,” all while standing atop a rainbow crosswalk.
It was a brief 10 minute interaction, but it speaks of a greater problem that isn’t indicative of just Paris: there are subsets of gay culture that are exclusionary of different types of queer people. Paris just happened to be a city, in my opinion, where these exclusionary norms felt very prominent.
It wasn’t until our final weekend that we found a place where we all felt comfortable as a group. We actually stumbled upon it by accident. We were heading to a club, and then, because we didn’t want to pay a cover fee, stumbled down a few alleyways until we found ourselves in the center of a gothic queer bar.
Cigarette smoke engulfed the room and graffiti littered the black walls. A stuffed ram’s head was on top of an out-of-use fireplace. Only red candles illuminated the space, crusted layers of wax draping over old wine bottles. And throughout the room, queer joy could be felt.
Men held each other tenderly in the corner. Couples danced in the center of the bar. Buzzcuts, ankle length dresses with black vinyl boots, and shredded jeans took over the periphery. It was also the first time in months I didn’t feel my gayness being at the forefront of my identity. It merely co-existed with the strangers in this small room, where anyone could be who they wanted to be, and no one would question them for it.
When I said goodbye to Paris, I knew I’d miss those fleeting moments, like my experience in the dive bar, more than anything else. It was a place, for once, where I could breathe without worrying about fitting the stereotypical norms that plague gay culture. I felt more embraced by the community in this non-defined no-man’s land than the times I’ve spent at a gay bar looking for someone to be kind to me. My body, my personality, my entire being, were all enough in this queer world.
Now in Manhattan, I walk back from the deli to my apartment. Pride month is alive across the avenue, and classic gay anthems echo from down the street. I can make out the mumbled words and melody of Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out.” I walk home to the beat of Ross’s words.
“The time has come for me to break out of this shell,” she sings.
And in a way, I feel like I’m breaking out of a new shell too. Perhaps I’ve been trying so hard to be part of a community, I’ve trapped myself in a shell of my own convention. Queerness, and the beauty of this undefined world, is its nature to reject such structure. If I am looking to feel accepted, maybe I need to stop seeking places that are always labeled as “gay friendly” and emerge into non-identified spaces that allow sexuality to exist without the need for specific standards.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve returned from Europe, and I’m no longer desperate to leave my neighborhood. It took my leaving New York to realize my way of life, my need for structure and boxes, has been holding me back. I have found a new sense of clarity, and now, at 21-years-old, I don’t need any labels to explain it.
