Coming Home: Lesbian Connection and Representation in Kentucky

story by Jessica Carner she/her

photo by Quinton Thomas he/him

I’m what you might call a late bloomer; a “later-in-life” lesbian. It’s a thing, y’all. Even though my first romantic relationship was with a woman, when that young love died on the vine I pushed those feelings aside and conformed to what was expected of me. In hetero-land that means: have boyfriends, work toward meeting a man to marry – rinse, repeat. 

I’ve come to understand that this wasn’t because I was unsure of myself or my feelings. It wasn’t because I feared coming out to my parents or siblings who have always shown me unconditional love. It was because I had no real examples of what it looked like to live out and proud as a lesbian. I didn’t have openly gay friends growing up. I didn’t see same-sex romantic stories on TV or in movies. And I most definitely did not have a social space where I could meet and interact with others in the queer community. What a difference that might have made.

A lot has changed in Louisville since those days 30 years ago. We’re fortunate enough to have programs like Louisville Youth Group, established in the late ‘80s by local community members and PFLAG to provide safe and affirming space for Kentuckiana’s LGBTQIA+ youth. And for adults, we’ve seen some great social spots come and go. The Connection, closed in 2016 after nearly 30 years in business, was a club that provided a safe space for queer people to just be themselves; a place where you were welcome and accepted in a city where you might not always feel that same sense of belonging. I remember seeing my first drag show there, and sensing something come alive within me. But it would still be years before I could embrace myself fully, like I saw patrons and performers doing there. 

More specifically as a lesbian or queer femme, there have not always been spaces in Kentuckiana where we can find each other and build relationships. I can’t speak for others, but I have always felt like I was trying to weasel in when I visited the gay bars in town – Tryangles, Teddy Bears, and the like. As queer femmes, we often find ourselves squeezing into spaces alongside our gay male brethren, but sometimes feeling as if we’re interloping. I remember once being kicked out of Tryangles for accidentally going into the “men’s” restroom. It didn’t exactly give the welcoming vibes that you would hope to find in a queer bar. 

Louisville lesbians have had some great spots in the past (see Tinks, Purrswaytions, even The Monkey Wrench) but the last of those closed in 2019, leaving us with a total lack of spaces we could truly call our own. Unless you have frequented the local bar scene as a queer femme, you might not think twice about how unsettling it can be to be leered at or hit on by cis men, or to feel like everyone is staring as if they know you don’t really belong here. Sometimes it can feel downright dangerous – especially for more gender non-conforming folks. On the flip side, you might not really understand how nice it is to walk into a place and just feel totally at ease. It’s a feeling I can’t really describe, except to say that you can just feel it in your bones. It’s like taking off a heavy coat after a long day. It’s something like coming home. 

So what’s a girl to do? 

The lack of social spaces where one can be herself and feel at ease can take a toll. The US Surgeon General released a report this May, raising alarm about the devastating impact of the “Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation in the United States.” The report is a good read – “Even before the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, approximately half of U.S. adults reported experiencing measurable levels of loneliness. In fact, loneliness and isolation increase the risk for individuals to develop mental health challenges in their lives, and lacking connection can increase the risk for premature death to levels comparable to smoking daily.” Couple this with the challenges the LGBTQIA+ community already faces, and it can feel like a death sentence. 

I don’t mean to disparage the Louisville queer bar scene – it has grown and evolved so much over the decades, and I am proud of the spaces we have. Spots like Play, Chill BAR, Big Bar and others now brighten up the nightlife in welcoming, affirming ways for LGBTQIA+ folks. We are fortunate in our little blue-dot-in-a-red-state – queer folks elsewhere in Kentucky might not have these same outlets. But it does sometimes leave me wanting more. If you’re not into flashing lights, loud music, and hanging out centered around alcohol, where can you go? Maybe the trope that lesbians like to stay home, curled up on the couch instead of going to bars is precisely because there aren’t any spaces where we can go and actually fully enjoy ourselves. How might our community look different if those spaces existed?

Thankfully, Louisville iscurrently hosting monthly Lesbian Tea Dances – recently covered by Sarah Gardiner for Queer Kentucky. She writes, “The founders made sure to stress that this is in no way out of a desire for exclusion of our lovely male counterparts, but rather a hope for monthly inclusions for queer women to feel at home.” It feels like a lovely start and a beautiful venture to create space where women and queer femmes can make new connections and feel welcomed.With any luck, this will grow into something more permanent -perhaps even a brick and mortar establishment just for us.

I think back to my teenage self and I just want to hug her. I want to tell her it’s going to be okay. I want to make sure she knows that just because she doesn’t see herself represented in media or popular culture or the local social scene, it doesn’t mean she is “wrong.” It doesn’t mean she is the only one. If I could wave a magic wand, I would create a connection between all of us who feel that we can’t really be ourselves. But, since I don’t currently possess a magic wand, I will continue to support and invest in those special local places that strive to make space for that connection to grow and thrive. Showing up as our authentic selves is a gift – to others and to ourselves. Here’s to more spaces where we feel safe and supported enough to do just that.