A Ranchero Of One's Own
The Rebirth (And Necessity) Of A Neighborhood Queer Bar
This is Sitting Queerly, a newsletter about the late blooming queer experience and the lofty goal of opening up conversations and celebrating those who embrace their full selves.
When I asked Pedro and Fer about how they were remodeling the queer bar they bought late last year—whether they were doing it all themselves, had hired contractors or some mix of the two—they smiled knowingly and chuckled a little.
“A lot of sweat and love and hate,” Pedro said.
“It’s been a rollercoaster,” Fer added.
“A lot of it is that we have the gay audacity,” Pedro said. “Like, ‘a patio? Sure I can pour concrete.’ ‘Sure, I can put up a wall.’”
At the time, they were a month out from their grand reopening and no room was complete. The decor and furniture were largely missing in the two main social spaces. The bathrooms, having needed heavy renovation from years of water damage, still needed fixtures. The bar and lounge still needed work, including the rehabilitation of the iconic saltwater aquarium nestled into the wall above the taps at the back. And that outdoor patio? That’s a project for the future, they said.
This isn’t just any queer bar in any town. For nearly 30 years, Out & About was the only queer bar in the Tri-Cities, a relatively isolated and staunchly conservative metro area in eastern Washington, in the predominantly Latino part of town1. In fact, according to data recently published by Uncloseted Media, Out & About is the only queer bar for hundreds of miles in the vast, dry expanse between the largely urbanized west side of the Cascades and the equally remote cities of Boise, Idaho and Missoula, Mont. in the Pacific Northwest.
And for the past eight months, as Pedro and Fer have worked on renovations, it’s been shut down. No thumping bass, no bombastic drag queens, no cocktails with heavy pours. Even those who had only gone there sparingly in recent years said they felt an uneasiness about Out & About being quiet.
But the guys aren’t sweating it. Perhaps it is that gay audacity Pedro mentioned. However, they also know the stakes, the expectations. They know the space that they need, that the community needs.
“It’s why it has taken so long,” Fer said.
My first experience going to Out & About was memorable only in how unmemorable it was.
It was only a week or two after I had come out to my wife. I was perpetually exhilirated and terrified all the time. I was desperate for community, for connection. There were plenty of online groups that I had connected with but they were barely a salve for the itch I had. I wasn’t even trying to get into anyone’s pants yet, I just needed to talk to another guy about…everything.
I knew of the bar. I knew it was a queer bar and yet it didn’t really seem to have much cachet within the local queer community outside of the drag shows that were held there. At least, that’s the sense I got.
Yet, when I saw an FB Events listing for a “Bears & Boardgames Night” there, I glommed onto attending. I was a tangle of nerves the day of, not sure what to do with myself beforehand. Over eager I drove over early and waited the 15 minutes before it was supposed to start before going in.
Technically, the bar wasn’t open yet; it was early in the evening, before its regular hours. A random employee directed me to a large room that had a pool table and other assorted tables and chairs. A guy who I recognized as the event organizer waved me over.
In the end, no one else showed up. I still stuck around, played a few rounds of Sushi Go! and tried my hand (poorly) at Hues and Cues. I had a beer outside with the organizer while he had a smoke and I shared that I had just come out and he passed on some wisdom that I have since forgotten. He was nice enough but we haven’t really stayed in touch.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a disappointing evening. Nevermind that no one showed up for the game night, the place itself was deader than a door nail. The dance floor in the room across the main entry was empty. No one else had even come in to grab a drink. And while most bars don’t look their best when the overhead lights are thrown on, this place looked particularly drab. Music played over the sound system but I don’t recall what it was.
There is the distinct possibility that I had set way too high expectations for my first queer bar experience. The likelihood that I would be confronted by some wild scene or interaction that would equally titillate and challenge me emotionally and ethically was just as much ridiculous as it was an expression of internalized homophobia.
But in the two years since, as I’ve connected with more folks in the local queer community, I’ve gotten the impression that I wasn’t the only one who saw Out & About as something of a letdown. Whether being terrible about promoting their events or just not having a good vibe, most in the community either traveled far out of town to bigger cities for nights out or went to a handful of queer-friendly bars and clubs of varying security instead of our area’s only true queer bar.
It’s old news that the queer bar is struggling.
There are plenty of reasons why service-based enterprise in the business of serving food, drink and a good time go under. But queer bars and clubs have additional factors that are influencing their demise, some of which may actually be good things.
The increased acceptance (relatively speaking) of queer folk in society means we don’t have to look for like-minded friends or fuck buddies strictly in back alley holes-in-the-wall. There’s a growing sobriety culture within queer communities, a response to the increased likelihood for queer folk to struggle with substance abuse. And online dating has shifted the hell that is dating to a virtual rather than a physical plane of torment.
The article I linked above notes that other spaces–cafes, queer community centers and the like–are filling the gap that gay bars once did, providing potentially healthier spaces for people to connect in. And for those that still want to imbibe, many bars have become accepting of their queer patrons, including some in my area.
However these are trends of larger metropolitan areas, particularly those in blue or purple states. In red states—or, in this case, in deeply red parts of blue states—the void left by the disappearance of gay bars is more impactful.
Of course there are non-bar gathering spaces for queer folk in places like Seattle and Portland and Spokane, the closest major metros to the Tri-Cities that are hours away. There is no queer community center here. The local chapter of PFLAG does have a dedicated office where individuals can drop in at times and there are regular scheduled events such as a queer craft time and teen social hour at one of the municipal libraries, but those are often only on a monthly basis.
While there are queer-friendly bars and clubs here, that friendliness can fluctuate depending on any given night’s clientele. Fer, who told me loves to go dancing, said there are a few places locally where queer folk can take to the dance floor with a same-sex partner, but it comes with risk. On any given night, he said he doesn’t know if someone will try and pick a fight with him for dancing with a man.
This illustrates the other issue around queer bars—their general lack of cultural diversity. There are some that have focused on specific queer communities, such as queer Black men and women, but most have predominantly served white queer folk. There’s an unfortunate history around gay and lesbian bars discriminating against BIPOC folk, but that’s just part of the issue. Music, theme nights, decor, even drink specials are reflective of a bar’s clientele, the community it serves. We enjoy being in places that feel familiar to us, that have other patrons that we perceive as being like us.
Pedro never got that sense from Out & About. He lived near and in the Tri-Cities while growing up. There’s a significant Latino population here, particularly from parts of Mexico such as his native Durango. Downtown Pasco, the part of the community where the bar is located, is filled primarily with panaderías, mueblerías and joyerías.
But Out & About appeared like any other bar in a mid-sized white bread American town among them. The few times Pedro went there, it was hit or miss whether he would connect with or even see other queer Latino folk there. In the end, he moved away to places such as San Diego and Mexico City to find other individuals and communities he could identify with, he said.
Yet it was Out & About that brought him back to the Tri-Cities, along with Fer. They were living in Seattle and saw a posting online that the bar was for sale. Pedro shared it with Fer and they both looked at each other, again knowingly, and knew what they needed to do.
“A lot of it is that we have the gay audacity.”
Pedro, co-owner of Azúcar at Out & About
The whole reason I had the opportunity to speak with the couple was because of a rare intersection between my day job and my identity. You can read that piece to learn more about how they’re renovating the bar, the architect they worked with and the community members who are eagerly awaiting the reopening of a longtime avatar, for better or for worse, of the local queer community.
They are aware of the downward trend facing queer bars and other queer businesses. They also are aware of the harassment they may face, from private individuals as well as public officials. Anti-LGBTQIA+ rhetoric and policies have gained traction among school boards and city councils here. A few years ago the sitting mayor of a neighboring city essentially sicced archconservative activists on a business in her community for holding a drag brunch on Easter Sunday, despite the event regularly being held on the same Sunday in April every year.
Yet, throughout my conversation with Pedro and Fer, it was clear this was about more than a business venture. This was literally about community for them. About creating the kind of space that Pedro never had while growing up, about providing a place where queer Latinos can not only dance together safely but to music in their mother tongue and to the rhythm and beat they recall from their earliest memories of christenings and quinceañeras. It’s about creating a place where the elements and atmosphere speak to their cultural experience, such as a small private lounge area that may be used for more intimate and kinky events named after a Mexican folktale about star-crossed lovers and the slightly modified name of the bar to include the battle cry of a Cubana singer of guarachas.
“There are so many people who are wanting this,” Pedro said.
“It just comes down to playing the music,” Fer added.
Yet largely governed by non-Latinos.