Pleasure, Pride, and Protest along the Mississippi

Architectural historian and designer Stathis G. Yeros is the Mellon Fellow in Democracy and Landscape Studies, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington D.C. His research focuses on LGBTQ+ spaces, critical urbanism studies and spatial activism. He is the author of Queering Urbanism: Insurgent Spaces in the Fight for Justice, forthcoming from the University of California Press. He earned a PhD in architecture and a Master of Architecture from University of California, Berkeley.

As a recipient of the 2024 H. Allen Brooks Travelling Fellowship, will spend three months travel the U.S. Deep South to collect evidence of queer and trans social life in the physical environment of a region where queer people’s rights have historically been repressed and are currently under attack. He plans to partner with LGBTQ+ nonprofits and university departments in the region to organize six workshops for local LGBTQ+ people to share their stories and views about what constitutes queer space. 

Read Part One, "Difference and Dissent in the American Landscape; Queering Northern Louisiana"
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During my few weeks in New Orleans, I heard repeatedly that the city isn’t truly part of the Deep South. As one of my interlocutors put it, New Orleans is “protected” by Lake Pontchartrain, the estuary to the city’s north that separates its narrow landmass from the mainland, cradled between the Mississippi River and the rest of Louisiana. This sense of separation is reinforced by the fact that most highways leading into the city cross substantial bodies of water, underscoring its geographic and cultural distinctiveness. I arrived from the northeast, driving about two hours from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. The welcome signs in Louisiana greet motorists in both English and French—“Bienvenue en Louisiane”—a nod to the state’s French heritage, along with the ubiquitous fleur-de-lis, which became the official state symbol in 2008. This stylized lily, often depicted in gold, appears everywhere in New Orleans: in decorative ironwork, on buildings, and as the logo of the New Orleans Saints football team. Even during Pride, the fleur-de-lis takes on a rainbow hue, symbolizing the city’s inclusive spirit.

Figure 1. Bilingual “Welcome to Louisiana” highway sign displaying the fleur-de-lis. ÓHypersite, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

At first, I didn’t think much of the highway sign, as I had grown used to the different ways states greet travelers as I crisscrossed state lines—Mississippi bills itself as the “birthplace of American music,” Alabama declares itself America’s “sweet home,” and Florida boasts “the sunshine state” despite its frequent rain. However, I was listening to Imani Perry’s South to America: A Journey Below the Mason-Dixon to Understand the Soul of a Nation during my drive, and her words reshaped how I viewed these symbols. In her chapter on New Orleans, Perry explains the darker history behind the fleur-de-lis—initially a symbol of European nobility—which French colonists used as a marker of supremacy. If a runaway slave had been away from their owner for over a month, their ears would be cut and the fleur-de-lis would be branded with a hot iron on their shoulder; if they attempted to escape again, their other shoulder would also be branded, and their hamstring would be severed to prevent further flights. This brutal practice was common across French colonies, and I couldn’t help but wonder how a descendant of an enslaved person might feel upon seeing this symbol so prominently displayed. It was moments like this that made me confident in my decision to include New Orleans as part of my exploration of the Deep South.

New Orleans has always stood apart, with a unique history that blends the horrific with the extraordinary. It has been both a site of tremendous atrocities and a place of great triumphs for nonconformity, that include the achievements of its African American and Creole population and jazz musicians. The city also holds a special place in LGBTQ+ history, which is reflected in the growing body of scholarship dedicated to it. During my stay, I slowly began to fall into its rhythm. Having grown up on a small Greek island, I felt a familiar kinship with the city’s neighborhood friendliness, café and bar culture, and the powerful role of personal connections and local rumor as a way to get to know people before you even meet them. Just as I was beginning to let my guard down and enjoy the city fully, it was time to move on, driving back north through Mississippi to Jackson, the state capital. To put things in perspective, New Orleans, with its population of around 370,000—significantly lower than pre-Katrina levels—dwarfs Jackson, which has just 146,000 residents. This difference is reflected in their built environments. While Mississippi has a distinct and vital history in the Civil Rights Movement, expertly narrated in Jackson’s museums, the scale and intensity of LGBTQ+ social life in New Orleans is unmatched.

Although I visited many places, time constraints meant I had to miss some important stops, particularly Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and Natchez, Mississippi—both with well-established LGBTQ+ communities and social scenes. Natchez, notably, had a Black, gay mayor from 2016-2020. In both states, I only scratched the surface of queer and trans life, yet several major themes repeatedly emerged during my journey: the connections between bars, pleasure, and politics; the role of LGBTQ+ festivals in fostering empowerment and political activism; and the intertwining of religion, spirituality, and queerness. These themes permeate this post, but I also want to focus on two physical spaces—the Faerie Playhouse in New Orleans and Violet Valley Bookstore in Water Valley, near Oxford, Mississippi—to explore how architectural features like design aesthetics and spatial organization, along with their representations in local culture, help preserve the legacies of queer spaces.

Figure 2. Jackson Square, the main public square in the French Quarter that frames St. Louis Cathedral, the seat of the Catholic Archdiocese of New Orleans and the site of a rally protesting Anita Bryant’s anti-gay crusades—the first large scale LGBTQ+ public protest in New Orleans—in 1977. The park is fenced off and locked from dusk to dawn.

On Pleasure and Acting Out

I met community historian Frank Perez at The Friendly Bar in Faubourg Marigny, just a few blocks east of the French Quarter (Vieux Carré), the historic epicenter of bohemian and LGBTQ+ social life in New Orleans. The bar, nestled in a pale green, single-story building with a simple row of chairs and tables beneath a narrow awning, offered a somewhat understated introduction to the city’s vibrant bar scene. Although not strictly a gay bar, Perez explained that the former owner was openly gay, and the bar’s relaxed atmosphere has long attracted a mix of queer patrons. This was true of several other bars across the city, including some in the French Quarter. Perez, who has extensively researched the LGBTQ+ history of New Orleans, is currently revising In Exile: The History and Lore Surrounding New Orleans Gay Culture and Its Oldest Bar, which he co-authored with Jeffrey Palmquist in 2012. He has also written a long-running column on queer history for Ambush, the city’s leading LGBTQ+ magazine, for a long time housed above a gay bar in the French Quarter, which reaches readers across the Gulf Coast from Texas to Florida. Sitting outside with drinks in hand as a summer storm hammered the metal awning above us, Perez gave me an insightful primer on the history of gay nightlife in New Orleans.

“There’s a bar for whatever you’re into,” Perez said, kicking off a conversation that would guide much of my exploration of New Orleans’ queer social spaces. I spoke with people in bars, local shops, and through email exchanges, and I attended Southern Decadence, the city’s largest LGBTQ+ event held every year since 1972 on the Sunday before Labor Day. The bars may be the most visible aspect of queer life in New Orleans, but they are by no means the only spaces where queer communities gather. Over the years, bathhouses, gay-friendly restaurants, cruising spots, and even churches have played important roles in fostering connection. In more recent decades, LGBTQ+ community centers have emerged, though they often face challenges with stability and turnover. One of the newest centers, which opened earlier this year in the offices of a social justice-oriented radio station, is still in search of a permanent home.

The city’s gay Mardi Gras krewes are another significant part of New Orleans’ LGBTQ+ social fabric narrated in Howard Philips Smith’s Unveiling the Muse: The Lost History of Gay Carnival in New Orleans. However, it is crucial to recognize that, historically, queer social life in the city was deeply segregated. Until the 1970s, white men rarely entered Black bars, and Black men were typically excluded from white establishments. Lesbians often found themselves unwelcome in gay bars, and gay men were likewise turned away from lesbian spaces. The gay krewes were also known for their exclusivity, often selecting members based on elitist criteria, with invitation-only events that emphasized a certain social status. This exclusivity, however, also served as a layer of protection—most members were closeted, and their events in the 1960s were often targeted by police raids. One of the most infamous raids occurred at a party in 1962 by the Krewe of Yuga, the first gay Carnival krewe, when 90 men were arrested, only to be bailed out by lesbian bar owner Yvonne Fasnacht with money raised by Miss Dixie’s Bar of Music that she run since 1939. While there were exceptions to these segregated and elitist norms, they highlighted the broader racial and gendered exclusions rooted in the traumas of racism and patriarchy, leaving a lasting impact on how people navigated the city’s queer social scene.

For over a century, a few blocks at the eastern edge of the French Quarter hosted a rotating collection of queer bars, changing hands, locations, and atmospheres to suit the needs of the times. For example, the building that housed Miss Dixie’s Bar of Music on Bourbon Street was shut down and was seemingly in transition when I visited. Historically, this area, close to the port, has long been known for its ties to the sex industry, dating back to the city’s founding in 1718. When the nearby Union Station was inaugurated in 1892 facilitating primarily business travel at first, the leisure and sex industries boomed. While much of the sex industry has moved online in the digital age, the French Quarter retains its reputation as an adult playground, famously frequented in the last half-century by Tennessee Williams and other cultural luminaries.

A walk down Bourbon Street takes you from the tourist-heavy areas lined with hotels, office buildings, and chain stores to the “straight” section of the Quarter, where twenty-four-hour bars hawk slushy cocktails infused with hard liquor. As you approach what locals call the “fruit loop,” where LGBTQ+ bars are concentrated, you cross the “lavender line” at the intersection of Bourbon and St Ann Street. According to Perez, the “lavender line” was a recognized boundary, marking the transition into an urban landscape where gay and lesbian individuals could express themselves more freely. Though stories of police stationed at this boundary to keep straight revelers out are likely myth, the area’s significance is rooted in historical evidence dating back to at least the 1950s, when this part of the French Quarter became a relative safe zone for queer people to openly express their sexuality.

Figure 3. The intersection of Bourbon and St. Ann Streets where the invisible “lavender line” separated the French Quarter’s heterosexual and homosexual social life. The horse-drawn carriage is a part of New Orleans’ tourist experience.

During my stay in the city, I mostly visited bars in late afternoons. As someone who does not drink much and tends to get sleepy by 8 p.m., I quickly realized I am not ideally suited to New Orleans’ nocturnal cycle. Instead, I participated in three late-afternoon tours of the French Quarter, each offering a unique perspective on queer life in the city. One was a “Gay Ghosts of New Orleans” tour, led by a theater-trained guide with a campy sensibility, which highlighted the city’s more spectral, mythic elements. Another was a tour of underground spaces led by a trans woman who has studied the history of sex work in the city, with a focus on the racial politics of adjacent Storyville. A third tour offered a broader look at New Orleans’ queer spaces, tracing the intersections of race, gender, and class in shaping where LGBTQ+ people gathered. Reflecting on these experiences, I felt a renewed sense of excitement about how performing history in the spaces where it unfolded can powerfully connect past narratives to present social realities.

All three tours sought to strike a balance between celebrating the resilience and adventurous spirit of queer New Orleanians and confronting the darker chapters of their history. One of the most tragic events was the arson at the Upstairs Lounge in June 1973, which claimed the lives of thirty-two people during a Sunday afternoon gathering following a service by the Metropolitan Community Church (MCC), a denomination that serves the LGBTQ+ community. At the time, it was the deadliest attack on LGBTQ+ people in the United States and remained so until the Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando, Florida, in 2016, which killed forty-nine people. The two events share unsettling parallels, both marked by internalized homophobia and broader anti-gay social rhetoric that enabled the perpetrators. Robert Fieseler’s Tinderbox: The Untold Story of the Upstairs Lounge Fire and the Rise of Gay Liberation delves deeply into this tragedy, skillfully weaving together the personal stories of the victims, their loved ones, and the chillingly indifferent response from the city’s political and religious leaders.

The Upstairs Lounge, located on Iberville Street, stood on the opposite side of the French Quarter from most other gay bars, serving as a refuge for working-class patrons who often felt unwelcome elsewhere. While many bars in the French Quarter catered to distinct communities, the streets themselves acted as a place where different groups could mingle. Locals refer to the area simply as “the Quarter,” and from the 1950s to the 2010s, it functioned as a sui generis gay neighborhood, complete with its own church and even a hardware store catering to the spiritual and practical needs of the community.

Among the many iconic bars, Café Lafitte in Exile has operated continuously since 1933 and remains one of New Orleans’ most fabled gay venues. Known for its laid-back, conversational atmosphere, the bar’s signature fire pit near the entrance adds to its cozy, welcoming vibe. According to legend, the flame has burned continuously ever since a group of gay patrons, evicted from the original Café Lafitte by a homophobic owner, “stole” the flame from its gas lantern and moved two doors down, declaring themselves “in exile.” During my visit, I sipped a drink at the spacious, dark wood bar that dominates the room, enjoying warm, flirtatious conversations with both longtime regulars and first-time visitors. My new acquaintances showed genuine interest in my research on queer spaces. In return, I learned that gay bars were among the first businesses to reopen after Hurricane Katrina. Conversations often circled back to the storm and the government’s inadequate response, a recurring topic for locals speaking with out-of-towners. The hurricane marked a turning point in New Orleans’ queer history, as many people left the city, accelerating gentrification in the French Quarter and pushing out many of the working and middle-class residents who had long shaped the area’s queer culture.

Other spaces, such as the Corner Pocket, are more sexually charged. Famous for its flamboyant drag shows and go-go dancers, the Corner Pocket has a direct connection to the legacy of the Upstairs Lounge through one of its former owners, Phil Esteve, who purchased the bar with insurance money from the fire. Miss Fly, a legendary drag performer, took over the bar in 1982 and ran it until she was murdered inside her apartment above the bar in 2000. Her tradition of go-go dancers on the bar continues to this day, adding to the bar’s lively and provocative atmosphere. When I visited, I had to carefully weave through dancers in revealing underwear to reach the bar and order a drink. One of them, who had greeted me outside earlier when he arrived on his bike, gave me a warm welcome as I stepped inside. From there, I made my way to The  Page, the only continuously operating Black gay bar left in the French Quarter. The Page, which stays open twenty-four hours, offers a sanctuary to a community that is often underrepresented in the city’s more mainstream LGBTQ+ venues. When I visited, the bartender was preparing for what promised to be a busy night, as Southern Decadence revelers were already flooding the city. The narrow, corner-located bar with one side facing the bustling artery of N Rampart Street that marks the quarter’s edge is unmistakable, with rainbow flags flying proudly outside, signaling the area’s queerness to all who pass by.

Figure 4. The fire pit by the entrance to Café Lafitte in Exile. Legend has it that a group of gay men stole the flame from the original Café Lafitte when the bar manager was ousted by the homophobic owner in 1953.

Figure 5. Exterior view of The Corner Pocket, famous for go-go-dancers performing on the bar every evening. Owner Miss Fly was murdered on the first-floor apartment in 2000.

Figure 6. View of The Page, the only remaining Black gay bar, from the entrance. The bar is open twenty-four hours serving a community underrepresented in other French Quarter bars.

Figure 7. Interior of Oz dance club on Bourbon Street. The balcony with elaborate iron railing was part of an outdoor courtyard that was eventually enclosed and annexed to the club.

At the recommendation of nearly everyone I met, I made sure to attend the grand parade of Southern Decadence. This massive celebration, which attracts around 250,000 visitors to the city—mostly gay men—takes place every Labor Day weekend. Southern Decadence began in 1972 as a pub crawl and small house party among friends, some homosexual and others heterosexual bohemians. Over the years, it grew into one of the city’s largest LGBTQ+ events, complete with bar crawls and parades through the French Quarter. Today, it’s known for its exuberant parties, elaborate costumes, and the eclectic mix of locals and tourists it draws. Having attended many Pride festivals over the years, I expected a typical street party—but Southern Decadence was distinctly irreverent and fun. While there were certainly men representing every possible subculture, there were also many women’s groups participating, making the event feel refreshingly inclusive. Notably, the main corporate sponsor was a manufacturer of personal lubricants, which lent the event a sense of authenticity (and sexiness) absent from more commercialized Prides. While often associated with hedonism, Southern Decadence also fosters a strong sense of community and liberation for its attendees. Even though the French Quarter is no longer primarily a gay neighborhood it remains both symbolically and practically the heart of queer life in this part of the South.

Figure 8. People gathering on the street for Southern Decadence, a major LGBTQ+ tourist draw yearly during Memorial Day in the fall.

Figure 9. View of the Southern Decadence parade. Anyone who wants to participate can register to do so and the marchers represented a very diverse cross section of the Gulf Coast’s queer and trans communities.

In South to America, Perry observes that “tourism has a strange way of codifying how we see culture and also how we live it.” In New Orleans, the marketing of pleasure has long emphasized exoticism and licentiousness, positioning the city as uniquely different. Many Americans view it as the closest thing the US has to Europe, feeding into a tourist narrative of experiencing a European atmosphere without leaving the country. This perception also creates an imaginary that locals often perpetuate, in part because the extreme economic inequalities in the city leave many other industries inaccessible to poorer residents. However, I see New Orleans as quintessentially American in a broader sense. It is simultaneously part of the US, the Caribbean, the Gulf of Mexico, and deeply connected to Central American economies. Tourism often attempts to neutralize these complex intersections, presenting the city as an aesthetic tableau in which locals must find their place. Yet, in both subtle and overt ways—whether through protests over failed disaster recovery efforts or a jazz performance in a local bar—the city’s rich and turbulent history finds a way to speak its truths, in public squares and private bedrooms alike.

The Faerie Playhouse

Before I even arrived in New Orleans, I was repeatedly told that for anyone interested in queer Southern spaces, the Faerie Playhouse, a house in Tremé/Lafitte, a neighborhood historically built and inhabited by free people of color, is a must-visit. The house is hard to miss, with its vibrant heart motifs—a reflection of its longtime owners’ love for Valentine’s Day celebrations. Its exuberance makes it stand out in the neighborhood, yet it also harmonizes with the area’s unique cultural fabric. Adjacent to the French Quarter, Tremé/Lafitte remains a crucial cultural hub for African American and Creole cultures, particularly during the annual Mardi Gras celebrations when the streets turn into an open-air theater of vibrant, diverse expression.

Figure 10. The Faerie Playhouse street façade adorned with wooden red hearts.

The Faerie Playhouse was home to Stewart Butler (1930-2020) and Alfred Doolittle (1937-2008) from 1979 until Butler’s death. Butler, originally from Mobile, Alabama, spent most of his career as a draftsman at an engineering firm. As detailed in Perez’s biography of Butler, Political Animal: The Life and Times of Stewart Butler, he gradually transformed throughout the 1970s and 1980s into a leading gay rights activist. He was instrumental in building a statewide network of political advocacy, with New Orleans as its focal point. Serving as a key figure in the Louisiana Lesbian and Gay Political Action Caucus (LAGPAC) from 1980 until its dissolution in 2005, Butler played a pivotal role in lobbying the New Orleans City Council to pass a non-discrimination ordinance protecting gays and lesbians in 1991, with gender identity protections following in 1995. Doolittle, meanwhile, came from a prominent San Francisco family and studied English at UC Berkeley. Despite living with schizophrenia, he found a sense of stability in New Orleans, where he could immerse himself in literature and his religious beliefs. His inherited wealth allowed the couple to purchase the Faerie Playhouse, which served as the foundation for both their personal lives and their shared commitment to activism.

Today, Bill Hagler, who cared for Butler during his last decade, continues to live at the Faerie Playhouse. A group of Butler’s extended “Faerie family”—his circle of friends, collaborators, and confidants—have come together to preserve the house’s legacy as a queer cultural landmark in New Orleans. This effort is led by Ron Joullian, the executor of Butler’s estate and a longtime gay activist in Louisiana and his native Alabama. The National Park Service has officially recognized the house as a significant site in LGBTQ+ history, particularly for its contribution to queer Southern culture. Catherine Cooper, in collaboration with Maigen Sullivan and Joshua Burford—co-directors of Invisible Histories, an Alabama-based initiative—created a detailed digital reconstruction of the house, complete with links to newspaper articles and audio recordings of Joullian’s testimony. While the digital reconstruction provided an excellent preview, experiencing the house firsthand promised to reveal more of its rich historical entanglements. I reached out to Joullian before my visit, and he graciously arranged for me to meet both him and Hagler at the Playhouse on a Monday morning.

The building itself is a classic Creole Cottage, a distinctive architectural style native to the US Gulf Coast, with roots in the vernacular traditions of France’s former colonies. Key features of Creole Cottages include a steeply pitched gable roof, a raised basement, and an overhang that directs rain away from the front façade, creating a porch that in urban settings extends right to the property line. At the Faerie Playhouse, the narrow street-facing porch was removed by Doolittle to create a more secluded, introspective atmosphere, and now the entrance is discreetly tucked away down a narrow side alley. Doolittle also had the front doors and windows permanently sealed, cultivating a sense of peace and quiet inside the house—an environment conducive to the regular Bible study sessions that were a central part of his life.

Stepping inside and removing my shoes, I was immediately enveloped by the dimly lit, incense-scented air, with jazz softly playing from the kitchen, creating an atmosphere of calm. Creole Cottages typically feature two symmetrical bays, each containing two roughly equal-sized rooms, with the front rooms serving as living areas and the more private spaces—like bedrooms and kitchens—tucked toward the back, where auxiliary spaces and access to the garden were also located. While the two bays often housed separate units, the Faerie Playhouse occupies both, allowing for an expanded layout with two sets of public and private rooms. This design made space for a formal dining room, often referred to as the “center of political activities,” where Butler and his network would frequently gather. Beyond the well-stocked kitchen, what was once the owners' bedroom has been transformed into a communal living room where “family meetings” still take place. Hagler’s private quarters are located upstairs in the attic, a space that remains off-limits to visitors.

Figure 11. The dining room of the Faerie Playhouse, where Butler and his network met. Art throughout the house reflects Butler’s and Doolittle’s eclectic taste and mixes queer and religious iconography.

Figure 12. A memorial to Butler by his desk. His collection of hats and mementos in the background.

The meetings at the Faerie Playhouse are informal yet have drawn people from across New Orleans and beyond. As Joullian pointed out, Butler kept meticulous records of his correspondence, including guest lists, and about events that he organized at the Playhouse. These approximately sixty folders are now housed in the library collection of the University of New Orleans. Joullian estimates that more than 200 visitors have passed through the house over forty years, a testament to the reach and intensity of these informal networks. The furniture and art are as eclectic as the individuals who have gathered there. Some of the most significant pieces are by John Burton Harter (1940-2002), a close friend of Butler’s who was tragically murdered. Harter’s work includes portraits of local gay and lesbian New Orleanians, some of which feature explicitly homoerotic themes, depicting naked or half-naked men. These are juxtaposed with photographs, keepsakes, and religious images. The latter, scattered throughout the house, offer a striking blend of queer expression and deep religiosity. Doolittle’s faith was a central part of his life, and the placement of these religious items blurs the line between queerness and spirituality, creating an unusual yet poignant dialogue. This blending of faith and queer identity is a recurring theme I encountered during my travels and will explore in greater detail in my final post.

The name Faerie Playhouse comes from a play Doolittle wrote, which was originally staged in the garden. Today, that same garden serves as a memorial for twenty-two “family members” whose cremains—whole or partial—or gravesite soil are interred there, as noted on a bronze plaque. One of the questions I posed to my hosts was whether there was any connection between the Playhouse and the Radical Faeries, a loosely organized group of (mostly) gay men known for their countercultural and pagan spiritual ethos, who had already established a presence in the region by the 1980s. To my surprise, I learned that there was another “Faerie house” nearby, and as Hagler remembers it, they even emulated their “family potlucks” at the Playhouse, but although there was some overlap between the two communities, they never fully integrated.

“Faerie houses,” found throughout the country, are private homes that serve as social hubs for gatherings and occasionally provide temporary accommodation for Radical Faeries new to a city. It seems that Butler’s strong focus on political activism steered the Playhouse in a more politically oriented direction, setting it apart from the more spiritual, pagan, and countercultural leanings of the Radical Faeries. Additionally, the Playhouse’s community was predominantly white and cisgender, despite Butler and others making efforts to uplift the voices of people of color and trans individuals—a reflection, perhaps, of the times and the city’s still-separate cultural spheres (though Stewart had cultivated close connections with neighborhood organizations and cultural institutions, many of them led by people of color).

A group of Playhouse “family members” has created a nonprofit organization that aims to purchase the property from St. Anna’s Episcopal Church, located just across the street. Stewart and Doolittle had bequeathed the house to the church, which has a large gay and lesbian congregation. Excluded from other Episcopal communities and certainly from Catholic churches in New Orleans, they found an inclusive space at St. Anna’s and became deeply involved. For now, Hagler continues to live in the house for as long as he wishes. The motivation behind acquiring the property is not only to preserve the building itself and keep it as a space for queer outreach and support, as Stewart intended, but also to safeguard the artwork, political history, and cultural significance that it represents for LGBTQ+ life in New Orleans and the South. The memorial garden, a key part of the site’s legacy, is also central to these preservation efforts. As with other historically significant queer spaces, I found myself wondering what the future holds for the Playhouse once it acquires institutional recognition. Joullian assured me that they hope to preserve the house in the spirit of Butler’s vision. The same evening, I attended a social gathering at Joullian’s nearby home, where the essence of that spirit was still palpable.

Lavender Mississippi

As I left New Orleans and traveled north through Mississippi, I found myself reflecting on the metaphors of lavender and purple—lavender symbolizing the spectrum of homosexuality, and purple, the blending of red and blue, representing centrist politics. The notion of turning red states blue relies on the absolute number of votes, while queerness defies measurement, challenging traditional norms and venturing into uncharted territory. This may be why queer communities often create their own institutions—borrowing from existing cultural, political, and spiritual traditions but reshaping them to fit new realities. Although I’m cautious about using metaphors that can oversimplify radical identities into neat rhetorical (and historical) frameworks, this one felt particularly fitting during my journey. The connection between lavender and purple seemed especially poignant in an election year, and after a conversation with a longtime lesbian activist who believes Mississippi could “turn blue,” the metaphor captured the political tension in the air.

I visited Jackson twice during my journey: first after my stay in Shreveport, and again after my time in New Orleans. On my first visit, I passed through Jackson briefly, en route to Oxford, where I planned to explore the University of Mississippi archives and visit Violet Valley Bookstore—the only remaining feminist queer bookstore in the Deep South outside of Atlanta. Compared to Oxford, which has a small but close-knit queer community centered around the university, Jackson’s queer landscape was harder to discern. I attended a gay-friendly event at a downtown bar that featured musicians and spoken word performances. The eclectic crowd and alternative vibe felt like something straight out of Brooklyn or Austin. Unfortunately, a couple of local contacts I had hoped to meet were out of town during my visit, so I spent much of my time delving into the city’s Civil Rights history at the excellent Mississippi Civil Rights Museum—a subject for another post.

The second time I returned to Jackson was for the Capital City Pride Festival, which, during my visit, was in its fifth year. Titled "It’s Pride Y’all," the festival embraced the region’s Southern sensibilities while emphasizing inclusivity, with a particular focus on trans rights—currently under attack by state bills. The main event took place on a Saturday, following a Friday night pre-party. Two blocks of downtown Jackson were closed off for the festivities, with the stage set against the backdrop of the old Capitol building. The Capitol’s Greek-inspired cupola, an architectural symbol often associated with American democracy, also carries historical weight, as similar structures were used to justify slavery during the Confederacy. Previous Pride festivals had been held elsewhere, possibly in parks, but this year’s location signaled the organizers’ intention to center the fight for equality on the political stage.

My day at Pride began with two talks focusing on mental health within queer and trans communities, as well as the history of LGBTQ+ activism in Mississippi. Two openly gay Black elected officials, State Representative Fabian Nelson and Pike County Supervisor Justin Lofton, addressed the room, discussing the state’s trans-exclusionary laws and the continued struggle for legal protections. Historically, LGBTQ+ activism in Mississippi has been fragmented, with small pockets of resistance forming in sympathetic churches, HIV/AIDS shelters, and certain businesses. Bars, once again, have served as some of the most visible queer spaces, but as Jack Myers, who owned and operated many gay-friendly businesses since the 1970s and participated in one of the morning panels, explained, some of these bars operated with the quiet support of sympathetic police officers. Myers often employed off-duty, heterosexual police officers as guards, whose roles extended beyond keeping order inside the venue to defusing trouble with hostile outsiders.

After the panel, I spoke privately with activists about the tension between public visibility and secrecy in Mississippi’s LGBTQ+ communities. Jackson’s nonprofit organizations, like the Jack Myers House—a shelter for homeless youth named after Myers—and Care House, an AIDS shelter, provide critical resources for queer and trans individuals. However, their addresses are not published online for fear of violence. While I won’t reveal their locations, I can share that these safe houses look like any other residential homes, blending seamlessly into their neighborhoods. This intentional camouflage serves both as a safety measure and a reminder of the precariousness of queer existence in certain parts of the South. The Transgender Resources, Advocacy, Networking and Services (TRANS) Program, which had a booth at the festival stocked with pins, T-shirts, stickers, and literature, offers support to people facing discrimination and isolation in the community. Although the program doesn’t have a permanent location, it organizes meetups in rotating venues across Jackson and other cities in the state. In contrast to the guarded atmosphere around these safe spaces, the Pride festivities were anything but hidden. Drag shows kicked off in the late afternoon and continued into the evening, culminating in a neon-lit street dance party that extended into the beautiful September night.

Figure 13. View of the main stage for Jackson Pride festivities with Mississippi’s old capitol building in the background.

Figure 14. Material at the Mississippi Transgender Resources, Advocacy, Networking and Services (TRANS) Program, a non-profit organization’s both at Pride.

I had a similar feeling of visibility and change when I visited Water Valley, a small rural town of about 3,400 people twenty minutes from Oxford, to meet Jaime Harker at Violet Valley Bookstore. Harker, a Professor of English at the University of Mississippi, founded the bookstore in 2017. “Water Valley wasn’t always a queer-friendly place,” she told me as we sat down to talk. After moving to the area to teach, she gradually built trust with locals—something she achieved, as she humorously recalled, “by walking my dog down the street every morning.” When she opened Violet Valley on the main drag, she did so unapologetically, publicly announcing it in the local press. Despite some initial backlash, mostly in the form of letters to the editor, the response was relatively mild, and there have been no significant incidents of hostility toward her or the store. In May of last year, Harker’s partner, chef Dixie Grimes, opened a diner called Sweet Mamas on the next block, proudly displaying a rainbow flag upon entering. The diner’s name is a tribute to the couple’s mothers, who Grimes credits for teaching them the values of love and perseverance. I stopped by for breakfast and enjoyed some of the best avocado toast I’ve ever tasted. These small acts of visibility—flags in storefronts, unapologetically queer spaces—are powerful symbols of change in places that have historically been socially conservative.

Figure 15. Violet Valley Bookstore is nestled between two downtown buildings in Water Valley, Mississippi.

Figure 16. Sweet Mamas, a diner on Water Valley’s Main Street owned by an openly lesbian chef who grew up in the area.

Figure 17. The interior of Sweet Mamas, where a rainbow flag is prominently displayed.

Violet Valley Bookstore is housed in a former barbershop, nestled between a grocery store and a physical therapy clinic on Main Street. It sits across from a park and the Water Valley Area Chamber of Commerce. A large glass window invites passersby to peek inside, and a cart outside offers discount books that often catch the attention of curious pedestrians. A bench by the entrance encourages lingering. When the store first opened, a bold American flag with rainbow stripes and the words “We the People” was painted on the window, loudly proclaiming its identity. During my visit, the town was preparing for its annual watermelon festival, and Violet Valley was proudly participating, its window display celebrating both books and watermelons. Besides the festival, the bookstore has participated in the town’s annual Christmas parade, which honors the achievements of local children, the fire department, and small businesses. It also had a booth at Jackson Pride and brings queer authors to Water Valley and Oxford.

Harker came to the world of feminist bookstores through her research on Southern lesbian literature and social spaces, which informed her 2018 book Building the Lesbian South: Southern Feminists, The Women in Print Movement, and the Queer Literary Canon. She also draws inspiration from Atlanta’s legendary feminist bookstore, Charis, which has been operating for fifty years and where Harker spent much of her youth. Inside Violet Valley, a large yellow velvet armchair near the entrance invites visitors to sit and linger. Across from the armchair, a bulletin board displays posters about local LGBTQ+ events, news clippings, and remnants from past Pride celebrations, including a rainbow flag mounted on a tree branch that the community that coalesced around the bookstore used during a recent parade.

Figure 18. The bulletin board by Violet Valley Bookstore’s entrance.

Figure 19. The LGBTQ+ literature section, the “heart” of Violet Valley Bookstore.

The bookshelves are arranged in bays. The first bay features general literature, with a strong focus on feminism and Southern history. The second bay, which Harker calls the bookstore’s “heart,” holds the collection of LGBTQ+ literature. Despite the narrow space that limits how many books can be displayed at a time—or perhaps because of the warm atmosphere the space creates—the store feels like a treasure trove of queer literature, one that invites hours of exploration. At the back of the store, stacks of books wait to be cataloged, and the walls are adorned with various queer-themed art pieces, including a mannequin dressed in a leather outfit and a hat celebrating Marsha P. Johnson, the iconic trans activist. The space has evolved far beyond the feminist bookstores I encountered during my earlier research on lesbian feminism. The inclusion of trans voices, for example, reflects a shift from the separatist women’s spaces of the 1970s.

As a nonprofit, Violet Valley cannot take explicit political stances, but it remains deeply engaged in community-building and knowledge sharing. The bookstore is part of a broader network of feminist and queer bookstores, with a reach that extends far beyond Water Valley. People from across the country order books to support it, and the store has even been featured in People magazine’s 2020 “Pride issue,” with Harker’s profile appearing next to CNN anchor Anderson Cooper’s. Reflecting on how the bookstore has transformed life in this small town, I couldn’t help but think of the broader regional and national connections it fosters.

Figure 20. Profile on Jaime Harker and Violet Valley Bookstore inside the 2020 People Magazine Pride issue. The cover celebrates CNN anchor Anderson Cooper whose profile is part of the same feature.

During my research on queer Mississippi history in the university archives, I came across a collection of magazines published by the Mississippi Gay Alliance from 1975 to 1991. These magazines included news, opinions, book reviews, and a monthly directory of the state’s gay and lesbian services and businesses. There was also a regular column, “Doing America with Bob Damron,” written by the publisher of the Damron Guides—a vital tool for gay travelers since 1964. Damron’s lively dispatches from cities near and far connected Mississippi to a broader queer landscape, one that didn’t adhere to state borders, even if the local politics remained distinct. Mississippi’s lavender hue seemed even more vivid as I drove south to Biloxi, en route to the Florida panhandle and onward to Georgia’s Atlantic coast, where I will conclude my journey in the next post.