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Events Speaker Series. About Support Us. Picnic on Belle Isle Matthew Piper. Macho City at Briggs Matthew Piper. He died last week. In the aftermath of last month's attack on Pulse in Orlando, many LGBT people took time, amid our grief, to reflect on our experiences in gay bars, the spaces we'd always thought of as "safe. We discussed how our communities were built and sustained in these spaces.

We talked about the clubs that have come and gone, and the ones that have persisted. Our conversations were something good that emerged from something horrific. They presented opportunities to celebrate and honor a part of our culture that we might otherwise take for granted.

The notion of the "safe space" dates back to the women's and gay liberation movements of the s. And while the murderous rampage at Pulse reminds us of the literal physical danger that so many in the LGBT community still face, "safe" in this context also means something other than safe from the threat of violence. It means safe to be yourself, to express yourself—or, perhaps, to express parts of yourself that you might hide in other places.

Safe to touch someone you care about without worrying who might see, and what they might say or do if they did. It means being released from the otherwise unblinking gaze of what we have learned to call heteronormativity: the destructive, socially reinforced illusion that "straight" is good and right and true, while "queer" is wrong. A secret. A shame. While LGBT Americans have made great political strides in recent years, the need for our own spaces has not diminished.

Not only have those advances been unevenly distributed among our people, many of us still face discrimination some of which remains enshrined in law in Michigan , as well as isolation. And let's face it, even if all of us get all of the rights to which we're entitled and feel percent socially accepted all the time, we're still going to want to spend time among our own people, our queer family, with whom we've shared so much.

But the folks who've been around for a while will remind you that this was not always the case. In the '60s, '70s, and '80s, there were an abundance of spaces within the city limits that gay and lesbian people thought of as their own. Back then, it was "gays and lesbians"—I don't think people with bi-attractional tendencies were taken very seriously, transgender people were even more misunderstood and marginalized than they are today, and "queer" was still just an insult, not a proudly reclaimed declaration of sexual nonconformity Lifelong Detroiter Gary Eleinko—who, when I ask him what year he was born, rolls his eyes and tells me to "just say "—remembers a lot of those places.

When I meet him at his Corktown home to learn about the city's gay history, he presents me with a prepared list of about 30 now-closed establishment that he frequented over the decades that catered to a largely gay clientele. His first gay bar was the Woodward, which, happily, is still around these days, the crowd is primarily black; back in the early '70s, it was mostly white.

Eleinko describes the feeling of walking into the crowded bar as "magical, mystical, mysterious. Just to see all those gay people, to realize there were so many! He recalls this time, when there were "easily a dozen gay people" in every apartment building, not to mention a smattering of busy, walkable, gay-friendly bars and restaurants, as "glorious," and says that most of his friends today are people he met there.

But Palmer Park declined over time, for complex reasons that are intertwined with the wider city's reversal of fortune: some mix of disinvestment, crime, racial tension, and the siren song of the suburbs and other major metropolitan areas. Today, the neighborhood remains home to both the popular gay bar Menjo's , as well as Hotter Than July , the annual gay black Pride festival that's taken place there since , but it's hard to think of Palmer Park as a functioning "gayborhood" much after the '80s; it lacked commercial vitality and queer population density, both of which largely went the way of the people who chose to move out.

Broadening the umbrella In the years since, a variety of queer spaces have continued to operate throughout the city, but they've tended to be far-flung and physically nondescript, de-centering and reducing the visibility and vibrancy of the LGBT population that has remained. Robbie Dwight, 27, who was also born and raised in Detroit, doesn't fault the queer folks who chose to leave under these circumstances.