Queerly Southern

Read Part One, "Difference and Dissent in the American Landscape; Queering Northern Louisiana"

As my students often point out, I have a complicated relationship with the term community. Whenever the word arises in one of my classrooms, I consistently ask for a definition—not out of skepticism, but because I know from experience how slippery and overburdened the term can be. In design education, community is frequently used to justify speculative ideas about civic space, design concepts, and professional goals. I sometimes find myself relying on it as a convenient shorthand—though I recognize its limitations and flaws. My skepticism began to crystallize as I researched LGBTQ+ spaces, immigrant spaces, and spaces by and for racial minorities in the U.S. Critical questions surfaced: Who defines the boundaries of a community? What constitutes shared values or experiences? And how does community function as a conceptual framework in spatial practices?

Things get even more complicated when the phrase queer community comes up, which similarly permeates contemporary discourse. As Miranda Joseph warned in Against the Romance of Community (2002), we should remain cautious of how notions of queer community can be co-opted by neoliberal frameworks of professionalization-or-perish or homogenized into oversimplified identities. Joseph’s critique resonates with challenges I have encountered in my own ethnographic work. Terms like queer and community surface repeatedly in conversations with LGBTQ+ individuals and organizational mission statements, often serving as touchstones for understanding lived realities. This interplay between theoretical critique and lived meaning calls for careful contextual exploration.

Throughout my travels in the Deep South, individuals and organizations frequently described their mission as “building queer community.” These efforts, while susceptible to critiques of being embedded in late capitalist structures, cannot be reduced to simple competition for resources. For instance, one of the last places I visited before returning to Washington, DC, my home-base for the year, was Queer Haven Books in Columbia, South Carolina. Opened this year in a historic downtown arcade, the bookshop has already been an active participant in local street markets and festivals for a few years. The term queer in its name functions as both an invitation and a boundary: a declaration of inclusivity for those who embrace it, an entry point for dialogue with the curious, and a clear deterrent for those unwilling to engage.

One of the owners, Baker Rogers—a sociologist and professor at Georgia Southern University—is deeply attuned to the complexities of Southern LGBTQ+ life. Their monograph, Conditionally Accepted: Christians’ Perspectives on Sexuality and Gay and Lesbian Civil Rights (2019), examines religious beliefs about homosexuality in Mississippi. Rogers demonstrates that the diversity of approaches to homosexuality across different religious traditions is far from static and entrenched; rather it reflects an ongoing refining of Southern identity, much like the reckoning with racist ideologies and practices brought to the light during the civil rights era. This perspective informs the work Queer Haven Books does, particularly in how LGBTQ+ people use queerness as a universal yet adaptable marker of difference. At Queer Haven Books, the term serves as a cultural shorthand, simultaneously signaling defiance, solidarity, and a demand for recognition. It encapsulates both the specific struggles of Southern LGBTQ+ people and the broader aspirations for connection and visibility that transcend regional boundaries.

Rather than focusing solely on queer forms or aesthetics—though the rainbow flag in its many variations remains a powerful unifying symbol—it may be more insightful to trace how the lived politics of openly queer and trans lives contest entrenched narratives of the “Southern way of life.” These lives simultaneously appropriate and subvert cultural norms, redefining democracy not as a fixed ideal but as a process of relationality and negotiation—a way of reimagining belonging in the American landscape.

Biloxi, a coastal town of 48,000 residents on Mississippi’s Gulf Coast, lies just over an hour’s drive east of New Orleans. Its history is deeply intertwined with the region’s geographical and cultural landscape. Founded in 1699 as a colonial outpost of French Louisiana, Biloxi’s identity has been shaped by Native American, French, Spanish, and African influences. Distinct from the rest of Mississippi, it emerged as a tourism hub by the early twentieth century. Known as the “Little Las Vegas of the South” during its mid-twentieth-century heyday, Biloxi attracted entertainers from across the United States, driven in part by the Gulf Coast’s gambling industry which was illegal on paper but tolerated in practice. Today, Biloxi and its sister city, Gulfport—founded nearly 200 years later as a shipping hub for the Gulf & Ship Island Railroad—are home to eight casino resorts (gambling is legal in Mississippi since 1990). However, as Gulf Coast tourism has declined there are limited economic opportunities for residents and both towns bear the lasting scars of hurricane Katrina and aging infrastructure.

My journey to Biloxi was driven by a desire to meet Lynn Koval, the owner of Just Us Lounge, the town’s longstanding LGBTQ+ bar. Koval’s story embodies resilience: she has weathered both personal and literal storms, including a recent battle with late-stage cancer. Growing up in Gulfport, Koval left home at sixteen when her family refused to accept her homosexuality. Yet she remained in the area, working in various bars, where she developed both grit and a keen understanding of the contradictions within American culture about homosexuality. In her own words: 

“I worked in bars [in the 1980s] where they would drag people out the front door and beat the shit out of them. That was their past-time. I would say: what are you doing? I’m also gay. They said OK. No, I am gay. You are not going to do that on my watch. They said: yeah, but you’re Lynn. I said yeah, but Lynn loves them. Get it? And before all was said and done that community was protecting the gay community.” 

LGBTQ+ individuals still encounter harassment, but as Koval explains, “that doesn’t come from Biloxi. That’s people coming from over the highway.” For Koval, Interstate 10, the inland east-west highway that bypasses the town, marks an unofficial boundary between conservative state politics and Biloxi’s fiercely independent identity. During my travels through Mississippi, I visited other towns that share this dynamic, operating as unexpected queer havens rooted in close-knit, face-to-face connections. These places echo the interpersonal networks that defined queer life in Mississippi before the gay liberation movement, when, as John Howard and others have shown, queerness was quietly accepted as part of everyday life. Koval’s personal journey—from homelessness to stability—highlights the strength of these bonds. Over time, she reconciled with her family, including her mother, who, despite rejecting her sexuality, “loved her to death,” as Koval movingly recalls.

Just Us Lounge occupies an unassuming spot just off a highway ramp in a working-class neighborhood of modest single-family homes. The surrounding commercial corridor is typical of the towns I have visited, lined with fast food and immigrant-owned restaurants, convenience and automotive stores, smoke shops, and a score of churches. The bar itself has two entrances: one facing the street and another at the back, which is more commonly used. The rear lot opens onto a yard with picnic tables, a grill, and an outdoor bar that comes alive in cooler weather. When I arrived on a quiet afternoon, I was welcomed by Koval and a handful of regulars. Their camaraderie was evident, and they affectionately referred to visitors like me as “pilgrims,” acknowledging the bar’s importance as both a cultural and historical landmark. 

Established in 1997 as the latest iteration of a string of bars that Koval had operated before, Just Us was the sole LGBTQ+ bar along this stretch of the Gulf Coast for nearly a decade before a second bar opened in Gulfport. It quickly became a neighborhood fixture, drawing not just locals but visitors from across the region. In 2018, Malcolm Ingram’s documentary Southern Pride featured Just Us and Koval’s efforts to organize Biloxi’s first Pride festival, offering a glimpse into the triumphs and challenges of the city’s LGBTQ+ people. However, the film left many nuances unexplored, particularly the racial dynamics at play. The filmmakers touched on communication gaps between Just Us’ predominantly white regulars and Black groups visiting the town, but this only hints at the complexities of Mississippi’s queer history. While Koval has always welcomed transgender people at Just Us, the relative absence of Black patrons highlights broader racial tensions and the region’s lack of intersectional spaces.

Koval’s life reflects the resilience of the tight-knit community she supports. Her story is unconventional. Along with managing the bar, she also worked as a bounty hunter, a detail she mentioned in passing. Reflecting on the building that now houses Just Us, she described it bluntly: “The place was a dump,” a testament to the physical and emotional labor it took to transform it into a thriving hub. The interior of Just Us is modest, featuring a long bar along two walls, a stage for performances with an adjacent green room, a pool table and several movable bar tables and chairs. Koval has never marketed the bar strictly as an LGBTQ+ establishment; instead, she proudly welcomes “anyone and everyone,” hosting events that cater to a diverse audience. Open twenty-four hours, the bar draws different crowds depending on the time of day. For example, Biloxi’s service industry workers often gather there in the early morning hours after their shifts, grilling food at three or four in the morning, creating a communal rhythm that ties Just Us to the fabric of the town’s everyday life.

The bar’s current form is the result of extensive renovations after Hurricane Katrina. While much of the media coverage of Katrina focuses on New Orleans, the Gulf Coast, including Biloxi, endured severe devastation. When Koval first returned to Just Us after the storm, floodwaters had nearly reached the ceiling. Restoring the space became a group effort, with locals volunteering to gut and redesign it, reflecting a shared vision of resilience. A standout feature of the pre-Katrina bar was a mural painted by a local artist, depicting the buildings lining Biloxi’s coastline. Following the artist’s passing, Koval chose not to replace the mural—which needed frequent repairs—which prompted Biloxi historical society’s effort to digitally preserve the artwork as a view into Biloxi’s built landscape before Katrina that now exists only in memory.

From Panama City, I traveled north to Atlanta to attend Pride, a vibrant three-day celebration held each October. The centerpiece of the weekend is the main parade on Saturday afternoon, winding along Peachtree Avenue, a historic hub of gay male social life since the 1970s. The festivities spill into Piedmont Park, a sprawling 200-acre urban green, where celebrations continue from the parade’s conclusion on Saturday until Sunday evening. Surrounding the park’s central lake, nearly 100 booths offer resources and information from LGBTQ+ organizations, healthcare providers, faith groups, and corporate diversity initiatives. Adding to the vibrant atmosphere are food trucks, scattered bars, and an array of commercial vendors, including local artisans and discreetly positioned sex shops. Two stages host an eclectic mix of musical acts, drag shows, and cabaret performances. 

The festival’s programming is as diverse as its audience, with morning yoga sessions, a kids’ play area, and an LGBTQ+ history exhibition curated by librarians from Georgia State University Archives. The exhibition delves into the origins of Pride, tracing its roots back to 1971, when Atlanta hosted the South’s first Pride march in commemoration of the Stonewall Riots. Atlanta’s LGBTQ+ history offers a rich lens for examining the social and political forces that have shaped its built environment. This complex narrative is outlined in detail within the LGBTQ+ Historic Context Statement, a collaborative effort by the City of Atlanta, Historic Atlanta, and Georgia’s Historic Preservation Division. 

Aside from its route along Peachtree Avenue, today’s Pride parade and festival bear little resemblance to their early iterations. Over the course of nearly three hours, I witnessed an extraordinary variety of participants: Georgia Democratic politicians, local businesses, representatives from Pride festivals across the country, and numerous local nonprofits. The parade opened with two large contingents affiliated with the two major corporations headquartered in Atlanta: Coca-Cola and Delta Airlines (Coca-Cola also sponsored the festival’s main stage). The corporatization of Pride—a frequent topic in contemporary scholarship—was unmistakable. While it was challenging to suppress my critical perspective, the infectious joy of the crowd softened my stance. A lesbian couple in their sixties cheered alongside twenty-somethings, and a sense of community—as a group bounded by shared experiences—however fleeting and tenuous, was palpable.

On my way back to the Atlantic coast, where I concluded my journey in Savannah, I visited Columbia, South Carolina’s capital, and Charleston, a port city and wealthy resort enclave. All three cities host Pride festivals on different weekends from late September to late October. About halfway through my journey, I adjusted my itinerary to align with the region’s Pride schedule. This adjustment proved invaluable for meeting people and gathering information about the networks queer and trans people have built within and beyond the Deep South.

Common characteristics began to emerge. Except for Atlanta, Memphis, and Columbia—the first Pride march in Memphis took place ten years after Atlanta, in 1981, and Columbia followed in 1990—most other festivals in the region were established within the last decade. A marked proliferation of Pride events followed the US Supreme Court’s landmark decision in Obergefell v. Hodges (2015), which effectively recognized LGBTQ+ marriage. While cities like Jackson and Birmingham had already implemented nondiscrimination ordinances, state-level resistance to LGBTQ+ rights persists across much of the South. Another significant development is the rise of Black Pride festivals in cities such as Birmingham, Montgomery, Memphis, Atlanta, and Hattiesburg. These events, while welcoming to non-Black attendees in varying degrees, underscore the persistent segregation of queer spaces in the South and the critical need for spaces where Black LGBTQ+ people can shape group identity around shared cultural experiences. This dynamic reflects political scholar Nancy Fraser’s critique of interest group pluralism, wherein nominal inclusivity often conceals deeper structural exclusions rooted in cultural and socioeconomic hierarchies. Black Prides highlight the necessity of addressing these historical divides. 

Despite the intersection of Black rights and LGBTQ+ rights movements in the last two decades, their entwined histories remain underexplored in the Civil Rights-focused museums that I visited in Memphis, Jackson, Birmingham, Montgomery, Atlanta, and Charleston. These institutions present invaluable cultural narratives but largely adhere to canonical, progressive accounts of Black citizens’ struggles for civil rights—framed as an expanding inclusion in the national citizenry achieved through non-violent struggle. I encountered only two mentions of LGBTQ+ challenges in these museums: one on an interactive panel in the final room of Birmingham’s Civil Rights Institute and another in the Human Rights galleries of Atlanta’s National Center for Civil and Human Rights. Neither explicitly centered Black queer and trans experiences.

Moreover, the proliferation of Pride festivals challenges the simplistic urban-rural dichotomies often imposed on the South. At urban events, I met people who traveled several hours from rural areas to participate, highlighting the interconnectedness of these spaces. Smaller festivals outside major cities, such as Upstate Pride in South Carolina, South Alabama Pride Festival, and Water Valley Pride in Mississippi, further blur these boundaries. This is not to underplay the importance of cities, which remain centers of diverse queer-friendly cultures and attract those seeking to participate in them. At The Nick, for instance, a country and rock bar in Birmingham, I caught an intimate performance by gay country singer Sam Williams. A staff member there shared that, though not queer himself, he commuted daily from a rural area because he valued the space’s “cool” atmosphere and the encounters it offered, which were absent in his hometown. This is far from an isolated experience. Conversely, rural queer spaces, such as gay campgrounds and clothing-optional resorts in Southeast Georgia, provide opportunities for LGBTQ+ people to relax and unwind away from urban environments. Historically, lesbian feminist festivals and Radical Faerie gatherings have also embraced rural settings. Short Mountain Sanctuary, a Radical Faerie retreat nestled in the Appalachian Mountains, lies within driving distance of many cities I visited, offering a bridge between urban and rural queer life.

Religion also plays a complex role in shaping queer life in the Deep South. Rogers, the South Carolina sociologist and bookstore owner, has demonstrated in their work that different Christian denominations vary in their acceptance and support of LGBTQ+ rights. Mainline Protestants and many Catholic churches often adopt liberal interpretations of the Bible, allowing homosexual members to participate in their congregations—though frequently under conditional terms. Explicitly LGBTQ+ affirming congregations, such as the Metropolitan Community Churches (MCC), are a consistent presence in the region, each shaped by its local context. For example, MCC Charleston occupies its own stand-alone building, while other MCC congregations share spaces with other religious organizations. 

Traditional churches explicitly welcoming LGBTQ+ members are rare, though I did encounter several, primarily in urban settings. They include affirming messages in their literature and, in some cases, display rainbow flags as visible symbols of inclusion. At Circular Congregational Church in Charleston, which is affiliated with the United Church of Christ and is housed in an architecturally distinct building dating to 1892, a large rainbow flag is displayed alongside a Black Lives Matter poster. The church, a frequent stop on city tours, intrigued me. Researching its history through its archives held at the College of Charleston, I learned that the congregation’s engagement with homosexuality began in the 1960s, when a pastor involved in the civil rights movement initiated the church’s collection of theological literature about homosexuality. Today, queer-affirming religious groups are omnipresent in the region, participating in every Pride festival I attended, underscoring their structural role in queer Southern life.