In the third week of June 2007, like clockwork, my friends and I had our Pride weekend planned. Friday nights were spent at The Five Seasons, an Ethiopian restaurant turned gay club, Saturday nights spent at Club Bunns on Greene and Lexington, followed by The Paradox, and Sunday we were at the Pride Block Party. Before the festivities, we’d head to Mondawmin to get fresh new Air Force 1s or Polo Decks, crisp cornrows, and a new outfit.
Shopping for the perfect outfit was a tradition because it’s Gay Pride, and why wouldn’t you want to look your best? Pride was our runway, the biggest, queerest party of the year, our personal stage, where we could become fairies, unicorns, boys, girls, or completely transcend gender identities — we became everything we dreamed of but never saw on television. This was the weekend we all eagerly anticipated.
It was the time to see the girl you had a crush on, your exes — including the one who ghosted you — the crew you had a little beef with, tons of new faces, familiar faces, even people you didn’t know were gay — all Black folks coming from everywhere to participate and celebrate Baltimore Pride. We’d crowd the corner of Greene and Lexington with dancing, voguing, singing, laughing, and catching up. We ultimately loved one another, as this space loved us and allowed us to love.
Because there was no parking, you’d have to strut through downtown Baltimore from your car to Pride. You’d know you were getting closer when you saw more and more queer and gay people in bunches, getting off the bus, jumping out of hacks, taking smoke breaks, even pouring drinks in cups.
Blocks away from Club Bunns, you’d feel the energy and see the vibrancy of the community congregating happily: friends running into friends they hadn’t seen in years, members of the Ballroom community voguing and walking as their comrades cheered them on, “YASSS honey, YASS.”
Walking to Pride was exciting, as you felt the world beyond your imagination welcoming you and all your queer-weird-ghetto-punk-ness.
I spent most of my teens into my mid-20s attending Pride. Back then, in the early 2000s, there was a separate Pride block party marketed to Black people. The Pride that mattered to us was at Club Bunns. Many of us knew nothing about the parade, the bingo night, or lunches in the park.
What was marketed to the Black LGBTQ+ community was the Block Party at Club Bunns. You’d see the flyers posted throughout Black neighborhoods, at Lexington Market, bus stops, places where we lived and occupied. This time of year, along with Black Pride in October, gave me the opportunity to be, celebrate, and share space with other Black LGBTQ+ members.
Pride belonged to us.
Because of Pride, we could explore our sensibilities, our sexuality, and experience a world that was very gay, very Black, very Trans, and very queer — a world that felt as segregated as the city. They had their Pride and we had ours. It was small, free, and not-so-resourceful, but it was ours.
This history I remember is not the history we often see surrounded around Pride.
Fast forward to now: I am an artist and archivist in this city, dedicated to Baltimore and prioritizing LGBTQ+ Baltimore in my work, including my film “Glory Days,” a documentary exploring the history of Baltimore’s LGBTQ+ nightlife. As the lead researcher for “Glory Days” and often an invisible supporter of many LGBTQ+ orgs and initiatives, I often feel grief and anger at the lack of care extended to the Black LGBTQ+ community.
As I spend years watching locals news segments and reading news clippings from the Baltimore Sun, Baltimore Gay Life, Baltimore Outloud, and other print media in Baltimore dating from 1980s to 2010s, I’ve found plenty that covered Black gay organizing efforts for gay rights, AIDS, and protection around discrimination, petty crimes at local Black bars but hardly coverage and deep dives or interest in Black queer joy, leisure, fun, fashion, community, or love.
The experiences of being Black and gay or Black and queer in Baltimore have never truly felt like an interest of Baltimore until June, and the city’s periodicals and online archives lead me to feel this way. It feels like yet another reminder of Black people being an afterthought or not thought of at all, or simply not respected and cared for.
This isn’t to say Black LGBTQ+ history is completely exempt from coverage in the city; it’s just that there isn’t enough. The surface of how Black LGBTQ+ members make this Black city great hasn’t even been scraped. I often feel like returning to the old is progress, and as there is a major decline in Black LGBTQ+ media, coverage, venues, and spaces.
It feels difficult, sometimes impossible, to see how our history will be recorded and available for the future. My heart aches for the ongoing erasure of Black queer histories and visibility. In a Black city, I don’t see enough visible images of Black LGBTQ+ people during Pride that reflect the diversity of Black gay Baltimore. This is evident in this year’s Pride advertisements, online flyers, and even our beloved local newspapers and media, as the city undergoes buyouts by large institutions and gentrification. Those long-awaited changes have forced us out of our spaces into ones that don’t feel mindful of the Black queer identity at all.
As a Black lesbian in Baltimore, I search tirelessly for the histories of my Black LGBTQ+ elders like Dana, who owned Club Bunns, or LeRoy, who hosted 3rd Saturdays at The Paradox for more than two decades, or Carlton Smith, who helped start Black Pride alongside LeRoy because the Black Drag Queens were being discriminated against at the integrated Pride.
I often think back to the first time many of us, as teens, first-handedly witnessed the spectrum of Black queerness and found a sense of community at Baltimore Pride, realizing the countless lives saved and nurtured by Black queer spaces. These moments were victories for us, for our community. I wonder where those stories have gone, where those voices are now, and how those experiences are being preserved as they are often overlooked or not even imagined.
My hopes are high that much that has been forgotten is not lost forever, but only temporarily withdrawn, waiting to be found. As a city we need it, we need to honor our Black LGBTQ+ members who contribute to this very Black and queer city everyday!
As I continue to fundraise for “Glory Days,” I hope we can all find ways to envision and foster a world where care, inclusion, and recognition are extended to Black queer communities, and our history and cultural memory are acknowledged and valued.
SHAN Wallace (b. 1991) is a nomadic award-winning interdisciplinary artist, archivist, and image-maker, from Baltimore, MD. Wallace utilizes a range of mediums to weave narratives and imagine new stories.
The post Op-Ed: Amid vanishing history, artist SHAN Wallace wants to ensure Black queer life in Baltimore isn’t erased appeared first on Baltimore Beat.