Disability Visibility: First-Person Stories from the Twenty-first Century
Moby Dyke: A Quest to Track the Last Lesbian Bars in America by Krista Burton
Voting ended onJun 27
Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:
Disability Visibility: First-Person Stories from the Twenty-first Century, edited by Alice Wong
One in five people in the United States lives with a disability. Some disabilities are visible, others less apparent—but all are underrepresented in media and popular culture. Now, just in time for the thirtieth anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act, activist Alice Wong brings together this urgent, galvanizing collection of contemporary essays by disabled people.
From Harriet McBryde Johnson’s account of her debate with Peter Singer over her own personhood to original pieces by authors like Keah Brown and Haben Girma; from blog posts, manifestos, and eulogies to Congressional testimonies, and beyond: this anthology gives a glimpse into the rich complexity of the disabled experience, highlighting the passions, talents, and everyday lives of this community. It invites readers to question their own understandings. It celebrates and documents disability culture in the now. It looks to the future and the past with hope and love.
Moby Dyke: An Obsessive Quest to Track Down the Last Remaining Lesbian Bars in America by Krista Burton
Endorsement from submitter: "First off, the title is the best wordplay I've ever seen. Second off, this book has it all: queer explorations, funny annecdotes, serious questions, travelogues, lesbian bar culture, karaoke songs by The Chicks…. if you want thought-provoking AND humorous, this one's ur ticket."
A former Rookie contributor and creator of the popular blog Effing Dykes investigates the disappearance of America’s lesbian bars by visiting the last few in existence.
Lesbian bars have always been treasured safe spaces for their customers, providing not only a good time but a shelter from societal alienation and outright persecution. In 1987, there were 206 of them in America. Today, only a couple dozen remain. How and why did this happen? What has been lost—or possibly gained—by such a decline? What transpires when marginalized communities become more accepted and mainstream?
In Moby Dyke, Krista Burton attempts to answer these questions firsthand, venturing on an epic cross-country pilgrimage to the last few remaining dyke bars. Her pilgrimage includes taking in her first drag show since the onset of the pandemic at The Back Door in Bloomington, Indiana; competing in dildo races at Houston’s Pearl Bar; and, despite her deep-seated hatred of karaoke, joining a group serenade at Nashville’s Lipstick Lounge and enjoying the dreaded pastime for the first time in her life. While Burton sets out on the excursion to assess the current state of lesbian bars, she also winds up examining her own personal journey, from coming out to her Mormon parents to recently marrying her husband, a trans man whose presence on the trip underscores the important conversation about who precisely is welcome in certain queer spaces—and how they and their occupants continue to evolve.
Moby Dyke is an insightful and hilarious travelogue that celebrates the kind of community that can only be found in windowless rooms soundtracked by Britney Spears-heavy playlists and illuminated by overhead holiday lights no matter the time of year.
But if you want to have queer friends you grow old with, you have to all agree on the place where you’ll do that, and none of us will commit to a location. We’re in Minnesota, Scotland, Chicago, Raleigh-Durham, New York, California… and we’re mostly settled. And while I appreciate the freedom to live anywhere we want, and I love visiting those places, I do feel a sharp sense of loss knowing I can’t see the people I consider my queer family on a daily basis. That is: I don’t want to see my loves once a year. I want to see them every day; enough to be sick of them. I want to rummage through their fridges, talk shit on their porches, tuck their plant cuttings into my pockets to bring home. I want them to let themselves into my house with their own keys; I want them to borrow so many of my books that my shelves look spaced and slanted, like a mouth full of crooked teeth.
The first time I ever saw a gay bar I was 15, and in more conflict about my queer identity than I had been in a long time. I was on a trip with my high school choir to sing at Carnegie hall, and we were given ample time to explore on our own in between rehearsals. So obviously our little group of choir students, mixed with baby gays, freshly out trans kids growing into their haircuts, and a handful of vocal allies lead by our gay choir instructor and his husband, made our way to Greenwich Village.
I had never seen so many pride flags in one place in my entire life, every business was covered in them. Flags in their windows, off of flag poles, haphazardly tacked to brick walls, it was a vibrant display of love and joy. And nestled quietly between all of that was Stonewall herself. A plain unsuspecting bar, with the only thing setting it apart being the red neon sign that simply read “The Stonewall Inn” in the front window. When you got closer you could see the inside was plastered with photos of patrons, some long since passed, newspaper clippings, art, and written history of Stonewall.
Obviously being 15 I wasn’t allowed more than a quick glance in the door, but at that moment a lot made more sense. For the first time in a long time I felt home, and free to express myself as a queer individual. Suddenly, in that small square of grass that’s outside the bar, framed by paved walkways, I felt my eyes fill with tears. Tears of joy, pain, love, sadness, anything and everything all at once. I was pulled into a group hug with some other folks in my group.
I’m a lot older now, I’ve seen and experienced a lot more than my 15 year old self would’ve imagined. But still that memory lingers on. Whenever I feel like I am alone, I hang on to that sense of community, and remember all that came before me that created a place that I could be who I am. I remember what an honor it is to be alive and queer, and suddenly life is a little easier to manage.
I read two interviews and an article about the new book, Moby Dyke by Krista Burton and am wondering what y’all’s experience is with going to lesbian bars. I’m talking historically Dyke bars. Hard to define sometimes but if you’re unsure, take a look at the pieces I linked above, then answer!
As usual, add your thoughts in the comments or tags or explain if it's complicated!
How often do you go to Lesbian bars, typically?
Couple times a week
Once a week
a handful of times a month
once a month or so / every couple weeks
a handful of times a year / every couple months
once maybe twice a year / only for a certain event(s) or holiday(s)
The subtitle of this novel, 'An Obsessive Quest To Track Down The Last Remaining Lesbian Bars In America' really explains what this travelogue is all about.
Moby Dyke makes me, an introverted homebody, yearn to go to a lesbian bar. I literally started figuring out plans to do to the nearest one after I finished reading. I really don’t know what higher praise this book could get from me.
I received an ARC from the publisher via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
