"On Highway 90, between the shrimp boats and the neon of the casinos, there's a quiet kind of resistance. The type that pulses under dance floors, tucked behind unmarked doors. Gay bars on the Mississippi Gulf Coast don't wear their pride like big-city clubs. They don't have rainbow flags stretching across intersections or drag brunches advertised on billboards. They live low to the ground, out of sight but very much alive."
"Inside, the music was too loud, the drinks too weak, and the air full of something electric. Something like freedom. There were older lesbians at the bar playing pool, a few kids from the local community college doing shots in a circle, and a queen named Miss Mahogany twirling on stage like she was auditioning for the very last chance to be seen."
Gay bars along Highway 90 on the Mississippi Gulf Coast operate quietly, tucked behind unmarked doors and without overt public displays of pride. They serve as sanctuaries and surrogate families for queer people who face hostility and danger. Inside, patrons find moments of freedom amid loud music, weak drinks, karaoke, drag performances, and intergenerational company. Regular precautions—scanning parking lots, withholding real names, whispering pronouns—reflect lingering fear. These venues can mean safety and community but also exist under threat, with violence and loss part of the landscape. Specific places like Sipp's in Gulfport hold deep personal significance. An hour from the coast, Mercedes Williamson was seventeen in 2015.
Read at Advocate.com
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