Mere days after the 2024 presidential election, my husband and I went out to 39th Street District, a gayborhood in Oklahoma City. The conservative party that had just won was and still is notorious for its anti-LGBTQ+ stance; as a gay couple, we were desperate for a sense of community. When we landed at The Boom, one of several thriving gay bars on a rainbow-striped stretch of Route 66, we expected to wallow over drinks in shared grief and fear. Instead, what we found was a rallying cry.
“We are doing the right thing, coming together and supporting queer establishments,” the emcee said at the drag dinner theater show that night. “It’s gonna suck for a little bit, but it’s sucked before, and we got through it.” A chorus of applause erupted that, for a moment, drowned out the gloom.
Bars have long acted as meeting places where communities unite. At Boston’s Green Dragon Tavern, patriots like Paul Revere helped plan the Boston Tea Party. And at New York City’s Stonewall Inn, transgender women of color, like Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, formed the front line at the 1969 uprising that laid the foundation for the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement. The same is true today—especially so at gay bars in American states that are politically red. Though conservative legislation often threatens our communities, these watering holes provide camaraderie where we need it most.
This became clearest to me in 2018, when, after a childhood in New Hampshire and my early 20s in Chicago, I spent two years traveling the country in an RV and eventually settled down in Oklahoma. On my trips home to New England, I’ve seen aggressive competition between queer bars and egregious cover fees that end up excluding many of us—perhaps due to less of an existential threat against our existence. Whereas on the road, I found that queer communities in red states (like Tulsa or Birmingham) work harder and more collectively not only to exist but also to persevere against the challenges posed by the harmful legislation.
Even something as simple as watching Ina Garten roast chicken on the Food Network at the LGBTQ+ bar Park Place Lounge in Jacksonville provides the writer a feeling of safety in Florida.
Photo by Dan Harris
“Opposition can really help strengthen our identity,” says Chad Mantooth, associate publisher of the Dallas Voice, an outlet highlighting LGTBQ+ culture in North Texas. “The Chamber of Commerce said we’re the fifth largest LGBTQ+ population in the country, but we’re also very close-knit and work together on so many projects.” He describes Dallas’ Cedar Springs Road, home to bustling gay bars such as the country Western Round-Up Saloon and Station Four nightclub. “All the bars work together to make it a strong and cohesive community, but in some other cities, these bars do their own thing,” Mantooth adds.
In Texas, a recent “parents’ rights” bill banned diversity, equity, and inclusion programs in K–12 schools, but Dallas proves that everything really is bigger in Texas, even the resilience. In neighborhoods like Oak Lawn, there are more than a dozen gay bars, including the largest LGBTQ+ country bar in the U.S. and one of the largest drag stages in the South.
In states dealing with homophobic and transphobic legislation, these spaces are vital for visibility. “Florida is a perfect example,” says Travis Guthrie, president of Jax River City Pride in Jacksonville. In 2025, the local government painted over rainbow crosswalks to comply with Florida’s new state requirements. “I don’t think Florida is anti-diversity, but our governor is,” Guthrie continues. “When you go to gay bars and start to talk to the people, it’s like a meeting place, and you realize this state isn’t so terrible. The governor’s just an asshole.” In rural areas especially, he adds, people feel isolated because politicians are stoking hate on social media and in legislative sessions. “These gay bars are symbols,” he notes. “That rainbow flag means a lot more in red states.”
Today, queer bars are as important as ever. In 2024, all 77 counties in Oklahoma voted red. As of 2026, Oklahoma’s House of Representatives voted to ban Pride flags across the state. LGBTQ+ bars have long represented sanctuary and defiance, but they’re now also a place for continued organization and hope. “It’s necessary here,” says Ann Harris, who owns the lesbian bar Frankie’s in Oklahoma City with her wife, Tracey Harris. “We can go out to places like restaurants and be welcomed by servers—not necessarily [by] other customers. These bars are safe spaces.”
I felt that safety, chatting with friendly locals over free popcorn, at The Apartment Lounge in Grand Rapids, the oldest gay bar in Michigan—a state where, in the past two years, representatives have targeted trans literature and same-sex marriage. In Kentucky, where lawmakers recently filed a bill to criminalize drag performances, I witnessed the most joyful drag shows at Play in Louisville. And every time I go to New Orleans’s Cafe Lafitte in Exile—open since 1933—I notice the flame that burns eternally by the bar, representing our community’s continued resilience to protect our joy together.
