The Safety of a Queer Space: Scuffing Up the Boots To a Shiny Glow

The Saturday morning sun hadn’t even bothered to climb over the downtown buildings when I descended those familiar concrete steps, the scent of Murphy’s Tavern above still clinging to the stairwell like a hangover. But today felt different—electric with possibility instead of weighed down by the usual weekend fog of regret and spilled liquor.

Miguel stood behind the bar, his sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, surveying the basement like a general preparing for battle. The morning light filtering through the street-level windows cast harsh shadows across our sanctuary, revealing every crack in the brick, every stain on the concrete, every piece of duct tape holding our world together.

“Morning, mom,” he called out, that sultry-yet-innocent tone carrying across the empty space. “You ready for the hard works?”

I laughed, settling onto my usual barstool as he poured something amber into a plastic cup—today it was a cheap bourbon that smelled like vanilla and bad decisions, but it burned warm and familiar down my throat. The liquid caught the morning light like liquid fire, promising either salvation or destruction depending on how deep you wanted to dig.

“Ready as anyone can be to watch a room full of queers pretend they know how to use power tools,” I said, watching him wipe down bottles with the methodical precision of someone who’d learned that cleanliness was next to survival.

Ezra burst through the alley door first, their blue hair wild from sleep, carrying what looked like half of Home Depot in a series of mismatched buckets. “Did someone say renovation? Because I brought paint, motherfuckers!”

They collapsed into their beanbag throne with theatrical flair, dumping supplies across the floor like offerings to the gods of interior design. Paint cans rolled across the concrete with metallic symphony, brushes scattered like pick-up sticks, and somewhere in the chaos, I caught sight of what looked like professional-grade rollers.

Della emerged from the kitchen, flour still dusting her forearms from whatever breakfast magic she’d been conjuring—the scent of fresh biscuits and bacon grease wafting behind her like a promise of comfort food salvation. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ezra, you look like you mugged a hardware store.”

“I prefer ‘liberated supplies from capitalist oppression,’” Ezra grinned, pulling out rollers and brushes with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning.

Keira appeared at my shoulder, her presence warm and steady as always. “Someone’s optimistic about our ability to not burn this place down.”

“That’s what fire insurance is for,” I said, feeling her subtle smile even without looking. Her voice carried that particular brand of strength that came from watching people you love struggle and choosing to stand with them anyway.

The alley door kept opening like a fucking clown car. Phoenix stumbled in with paint-stained coveralls hanging off their slight frame, their hair currently a violent shade of magenta that clashed beautifully with their nose ring. The morning light caught the fresh piercings along their ear, creating tiny rainbow prisms that danced across their face.

“I brought attitude and questionable fashion choices,” Phoenix announced, their voice still thick with sleep but carrying that underlying current of determination that came from surviving shit that should have broken them.

Marcus followed, carrying coffee for everyone in a cardboard tray, his usually pressed shirt replaced with something he could actually afford to ruin. The shirt hung loose on his frame, revealing glimpses of tattoos that told stories he didn’t share in polite company.

“I brought sustenance,” Marcus announced, “because drunk renovation is fun until someone loses a finger. And I’ve got a fucking meeting Monday, so I need all ten digits intact.”

“What do you think this is, a J Giles Band music video?” I sparked, remembering the old Freeze Frame video from the 80s.

Marcus laughter carried the weight of someone who’d learned to navigate multiple worlds, the exhaustion of constantly translating himself for different audiences visible in the way his shoulders held tension.

Sage drifted in like smoke, their quiet presence filling corners as they began sketching potential wall designs on napkins with the focused intensity of a Renaissance master. Their fingers moved across the paper with surgical precision, creating intricate patterns that seemed to emerge from some deeper understanding of space and flow.

River burst through wearing hospital scrubs covered in cartoon cats, their genderfluid energy shifting the room’s atmosphere instantly. “Sorry I’m late—had to wrestle an IV away from a patient who thought he could fix it himself. Figured I’d get practice here with people who actually listen.”

The scrubs were wrinkled from a twelve-hour shift, stained with the particular cocktail of substances that marked someone who spent their days elbow-deep in other people’s crises. But their smile was genuine, the kind that came from finding family after clocking out of saving strangers.

Brandon shuffled through the door carrying a toolbox that looked older than most of the people in the room, his eyes still carrying that hollow look that came from loving someone through addiction and losing. “Figured you’d need someone who actually knows which end of a screwdriver to hold. Plus, I also brought cookies. Because who doesn’t love cookies?”

His voice carried forced cheer, the kind of performance that came from learning to function when your world had imploded. But his hands were steady on the toolbox, and sometimes showing up was enough.

Bubba filled the doorframe with his presence, surveying the chaos with the stoic assessment of someone who’d learned early that survival meant adaptation. “Y’all started without me? That’s some bullshit right there.”

His deep voice carried the weight of Georgia clay and summer heat, stories of growing up Black and gay in places where both identities could get you killed. But there was strength there too, the kind forged in fires that either destroyed you or made you unbreakable.

Remy bounced in behind him, his energy infectious despite the early hour. “Mon dieu, this place needs more help than my grand-mère’s gumbo recipe. But we gonna fix it up real nice, yeah?”

His accent thickened with excitement, hands already gesturing as he surveyed potential improvements. There was something about his enthusiasm that made impossible projects feel achievable.

Renee ducked through the doorframe, her massive frame requiring strategic navigation of the low ceiling. “Someone better have brought reinforced ladders, because these toothpick motherfuckers aren’t gonna hold me.”

She flexed unconsciously, muscles rippling under her tank top, but I caught the way her eyes lingered on the other women in the room with a hunger that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with belonging.

Dani flowed in like water, scarves and crystals catching the light, her presence immediately shifting the energy toward something more intentional. “The space needs cleansing before we can rebuild. Sage and decay, trauma absorbed into these walls—we clean that first.”

She pulled burning sage from her bag, the smoke immediately mixing with paint fumes and creating something that smelled like transformation.

Grubby appeared without fanfare, their silence speaking volumes as they sorted through paint samples with the precision of someone who understood that small choices could mean everything. When they looked up at me, I caught that glimpse of someone rebuilding themselves brick by brick, and my chest tightened with protective fury.

thepoetmiranda

swept in with the exhausted efficiency of someone juggling motherhood and identity reconstruction, her makeup perfectly applied despite the early hour. “Sorry I’m late—had to negotiate with a teenager about appropriate breakfast choices. Someone remind me why I thought having kids was a good idea?”

But her smile was genuine, the kind that came from loving fiercely despite the complications.

Sarah

entered last, her butch swagger carrying that particular brand of confidence that came from questioning everything and finding your own answers. “Y’all look like you’re about to attempt something monumentally stupid. I respect that.”

She surveyed the space with the critical eye of someone who’d learned that most problems had solutions if you were willing to think beyond conventional wisdom.

Elaine the Mean Old Feminist

strutted in fashionably late, her silver hair caught in perfect waves despite the early hour. “Did someone say we’re fixing this shithole? Because I brought opinions and I’m not afraid to share them.”

She paused at the bar, fixing Miguel with a look that could strip paint. “And I’ll need a rum collins if I’m expected to supervise this clusterfuck of good intentions.”

Miguel grinned, already reaching for the bottle. “Coming right up, you beautiful pain in the ass.”

Eileen burst through the door with the focused energy of someone accustomed to moving quickly through small spaces. “Sorry I’m late—just got off a red-eye from hell. But someone said we’re renovating, and I brought industrial-strength cleaning supplies.”

She hefted a bag that looked like it contained enough chemicals to sterilize a small hospital.

Julie shuffled in carrying a cooler, her movements careful but determined. “I brought snacks and diet soda. Because if we’re doing manual labor, someone needs to think about nutrition.”

She immediately began organizing a makeshift refreshment station, her movements efficient despite her self-conscious adjustments of her clothing.

The room filled with the kind of laughter that comes from shared understanding, the recognition that we all knew something about fixing broken things.

“Alright, you magnificent disasters,” Della called out, wiping her hands on a towel that had seen more battles than a war correspondent. “Miguel and I figured we’d start with the walls—get rid of these fucking water stains and make this place look less like a crime scene.”

“But I like the crime scene aesthetic,” Phoenix protested, their voice carrying that particular brand of youthful rebellion that came from surviving things that should have broken them.

“We’re keeping the character, just adding some fucking dignity,” Miguel said, pulling out a paint can labeled ‘Sunset Crimson’—a color that promised warmth without the oppressive weight of institutional beige.

Bubba examined the wall with the critical eye of someone who understood construction from the ground up. “These brick walls gonna need primer first. You can’t just slap paint over water damage and expect it to stick.”

“The man speaks truth,” Brandon agreed, opening his ancient toolbox to reveal tools that looked well-loved but perfectly maintained. “Good thing someone brought actual equipment instead of just good intentions and artistic vision.”

“Artistic vision is crucial to any successful renovation,” Phoenix called out from their ladder perch. “You can’t just make things functional—they need to inspire the soul.”

“Inspire this,” Renee muttered, but she was already examining the ceiling structure with professional assessment. “Someone’s gonna need to check these support beams. I’ve seen gym ceilings collapse from less stress than this place sees on a Saturday night.”

The next few hours blurred into a symphony of chaos and creation. River took charge of spackling holes with the methodical precision they used for wound care, explaining to anyone who’d listen that “walls and humans heal the same way—you clean out the damage, fill the gaps, and give it time to strengthen.”

“That’s some profound shit right there,” Remy called out from where he was attacking graffiti with industrial solvent. “My grand-mère used to say the same thing about broken hearts—you gotta clean out the poison before you can heal proper.”

Marcus and Phoenix tackled the ceiling, their height difference creating a comedy routine as Marcus held the ladder steady while Phoenix painted with the aggressive enthusiasm of someone making their mark on the world. Paint dripped onto Marcus’s carefully styled hair, but instead of complaining, he just laughed—that deep, genuine sound of someone finally comfortable in their own skin.

“You missed a spot,” Sage called up softly, pointing with one paint-stained finger while continuing to sketch murals that would make professional artists weep with envy.

Ezra had commandeered the pool table, turning it into a staging area for supplies while providing running commentary that ranged from philosophical observations about color theory to detailed critiques of everyone’s painting technique.

“The key to good renovation,” they announced to no one in particular, “is controlled destruction followed by intentional creation. It’s like gender transition but with more power tools and less paperwork.”

Della’s laughter boomed from the kitchen where she was scrubbing years of grease and memories from surfaces that had seen more confessions than any church. “That’s the most profound thing you’ve said all month, and you talk about existential crisis for a living.”

Bubba worked beside her, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he cleaned delicate equipment. “Back in Georgia, we had to make do with what we had. Learned real quick that taking care of your space was taking care of your soul.”

“Amen to that,” Julie called out from where she was organizing supplies with the efficiency of someone who’d raised children through chaos. “A clean kitchen is the foundation of a happy home.”

Miranda was attacking the bar top with the focused intensity she usually reserved for difficult conversations with teenagers. “This wood just needed some love. Look at that grain coming through.”

The surface gleamed under her attention, revealing patterns that had been hidden under years of accumulated damage.

Sarah stood back, surveying the work with critical assessment. “Y’all are doing good work, but someone needs to think about electrical. These Christmas lights are a fire hazard waiting to happen.”

Brandon looked up from rewiring a problematic socket. “Already on it. Amazing what you can accomplish when you actually know what you’re doing.”

Phoenix was applying glitter to freshly painted trim with artistic precision. “Everything needs a little sparkle. Life’s too short for boring walls.”

“Save some of that glitter for the stage area,” Dani suggested, her voice carrying the authority of someone who understood the power of transformation. “Performance spaces need magic.”

Elaine supervised from her perch at the bar, rum collins in hand, offering commentary that ranged from helpful to hilariously inappropriate. “That color makes the whole space look bigger. Of course, so would burning it down and starting over, but this is probably cheaper.”

Eileen attacked the floors with industrial cleaners, her movements efficient and methodical. “These stains have stories, but some stories need to end so new ones can begin.”

Keira worked beside me, painting trim with the steady focus she brought to everything, occasionally offering quiet observations that cut straight to the heart of things. “Place looks bigger already,” she said, and she was right—removing years of accumulated damage had opened up space we’d forgotten existed.

“It’s not just about the physical space,” Sage murmured, adding delicate details to their napkin sketches. “Renewal changes how we inhabit a place, how we move through it, how we breathe in it.”

Renee was single-handedly moving furniture that should have required three people, her strength making the impossible look effortless. “Someone’s gotta think about traffic flow. Can’t have people bottlenecked at the bar when shit gets crowded.”

Remy bounced between tasks with infectious energy, his hands never still. “My mama always said, ‘Cher, you gotta put your love into the work, or the work won’t love you back.’ This place, she’s gonna love us real good when we’re done.”

Grubby approached my station, paintbrush in hand, their voice barely above a whisper. “The red… it’s warm.”

I nodded, understanding the weight behind those simple words. “Yeah, kiddo. Warm is good.”

They smiled—a rare, precious thing—and returned to their corner, but now they were painting too, adding their quiet strength to our collective effort.

Miguel kept the drinks flowing, switching between coffee and carefully measured shots depending on who was operating power tools. He moved through the chaos like a conductor, checking everyone’s work, offering encouragement, and making sure no one felt overwhelmed by the scope of what we were attempting.

“You know what this place needs?” Phoenix called out from their perch near the ceiling. “Mirrors. Big fucking mirrors to make it feel less like a bunker.”

“And plants,” Sage added quietly. “Living things.”

“And better lighting that doesn’t make everyone look like they’re dying of consumption,” River contributed, pausing in their spackeling to survey the room with clinical assessment.

Brandon was rewiring light fixtures with the methodical precision of someone who’d learned that shortcuts in electrical work led to house fires. “These outlets haven’t been up to code since the Carter administration. It’s a miracle nobody’s been electrocuted.”

“The miracle is that we’ve all survived this long,” Sarah observed, her voice carrying the weight of someone who’d questioned everything and found most answers inadequate.

By late afternoon, the transformation was stunning. The walls glowed with their new sunset crimson, warm and inviting without being oppressive. The ceiling, now a clean white, made the space feel twice as large. Someone—probably Sage—had started a mural near the bar, flowing lines that suggested movement and growth without being too literal about it.

Phoenix had transformed the stage area into something that looked professional, complete with proper lighting and sound equipment that Brandon had somehow coaxed back to life.

“This is what happens when you combine artistic vision with actual competence,” Phoenix announced, striking a pose under the newly functional spotlight.

The pool table had been restored to something approaching respectability, its felt patched but clean, cues replaced with ones that wouldn’t give you splinters. Ezra’s beanbag had migrated to a new corner where natural light from the windows could reach it, surrounded by plants that Dani had somehow manifested from thin air.

Della emerged from the kitchen, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Kitchen’s clean enough to actually cook in again. Who knew there was stainless steel under all that fucking grime?”

“You’re a miracle worker,” I told her, meaning it. The kitchen gleamed with the kind of cleanliness that promised good food made with actual care.

Bubba had somehow transformed the storage area into something approaching organization. “Everything’s got its place now. Won’t have to dig through mountains of shit to find what you need.”

Julie had established a permanent refreshment station that looked like it could handle anything from quiet conversations to full-scale celebrations. “Snacks are the foundation of any successful community gathering,” she announced with the authority of someone who’d fed countless people through countless crises.

As evening approached, Miguel lit the Christmas lights—now carefully restrung by Brandon and actually working—and the space transformed again. The warm glow bounced off our fresh walls, creating the kind of atmosphere that made broken people feel whole, even if just for a few hours.

Phoenix collapsed onto the newly cleaned couch with dramatic flair. “I’m never moving again. This is where I live now.”

“You already live here half the time anyway,” Marcus pointed out, settling beside them with the easy familiarity of chosen family.

River stretched their paint-stained fingers. “My back’s fucked, but damn if this place doesn’t look like somewhere worth spending time.”

Miranda surveyed the transformed space with satisfaction. “We did good work today. This place looks like what it’s always been—home.”

Sage held up their napkin sketches—detailed plans for murals that would tell our stories without words, abstract representations of transformation and resilience. “These could work,” they said quietly, and everyone gathered around to look.

The designs were stunning, flowing patterns that spoke of journeys and arrivals, of breaking and rebuilding, of finding family in unexpected places.

Elaine raised her fresh rum collins—Miguel had been keeping her supplied all day. “To making something beautiful out of broken pieces. And to whoever’s buying the next round.”

“That would be the house,” Della called out, her voice carrying across the newly acoustically-improved space. “Today’s work earned everyone a drink on the management.”

“To art, to community, and to the radical act of creating spaces where people can exist authentically!” Phoenix called out with theatrical flair.

“To getting shit done,” Brandon added, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who’d spent the day fixing things that mattered.

Renee flexed, her muscles catching the light. “To spaces strong enough to hold all of us, in all our fucking glory.”

Remy’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “To my grand-mère, who always said that a house becomes a home when you put your love into the walls.”

Dani raised her water bottle, crystals catching the newly improved lighting. “To cleansing old energy and welcoming new possibilities.”

Eileen lifted her coffee cup with the precision of someone accustomed to toasting in turbulent conditions. “To the radical act of making space for joy.”

Sarah’s toast was characteristically direct. “To questioning everything and finding some answers worth keeping.”

Bubba’s deep voice carried across the room. “To family you choose, and spaces that choose you back.”

River raised their scrubs-pocket flask with a grin. “To healing—the kind you do for yourself and the kind you do for community.”

Grubby spoke from their corner, voice still soft but carrying clearly across our newly acoustically-improved space. “It feels… safe. More safe.”

The weight of that observation settled over us like a blanket. We’d done more than paint walls and clean surfaces—we’d renewed the sanctuary that held us together.

Ezra raised their plastic cup of coffee gone cold. “To controlled destruction and intentional creation!”

“To making broken things beautiful,” River added.

Julie’s voice trembled slightly with emotion. “To finding family when your blood relatives don’t understand who you are.”

“To home,” Grubby whispered, and that was the toast that mattered most.

We drank to that—to the space we’d rebuilt, to the family we’d chosen, to the small acts of rebellion that kept us alive in a world that often wished we weren’t. The basement still smelled like paint and possibility, but now it also smelled like hope.

Miguel poured me one last bourbon—something smoother this time, aged enough to have character but not pretension. The liquid caught the newly installed lighting like liquid amber, promising warmth without the burn.

“Thanks, mom,” he said, and I knew he meant more than just showing up today.

“Thanks for building something worth fixing, kid,” I replied, looking around at our transformed sanctuary.

The evening settled around us like a comfortable old coat, conversations flowing in the easy way that came from shared accomplishment. Phoenix was already planning tomorrow’s activities, their voice bright with possibility. Marcus and Brandon were discussing the finer points of electrical work, their conversation the kind of mundane expertise that built trust between strangers.

Sage sketched in the corner, their art now incorporating details from the day’s work, turning our renovation into visual poetry. Dani and Eileen debated the metaphysical implications of space transformation, their voices carrying the weight of women who’d learned to claim space in hostile environments.

Phoenix practiced a new routine on the improved stage, their movements fluid and confident in the better lighting. Renee spotted them casually, her protective instincts extending to anyone brave enough to be vulnerable in front of others.

Remy regaled anyone who’d listen with stories of his grand-mère’s approach to home improvement, his accent thickening with emotion and rum. Julie organized leftover supplies with the efficiency of someone who’d learned that preparation prevented panic.

Bubba and Sarah engaged in philosophical debate about the relationship between physical space and psychological safety, their voices carrying the weight of lived experience. Miranda cleaned paint from under her fingernails with the methodical care of someone who understood that transformation was in the details.

River checked their phone for tomorrow’s shift schedule, already planning how to balance their healthcare work with their commitment to this chosen family. Grubby sat in comfortable silence, their presence a reminder that sometimes the most radical act was simply showing up and staying.

Keira moved through the space with quiet satisfaction, her subtle commentary weaving connections between the day’s work and deeper truths about community building. Elaine held court at the bar, her sharp wit and generous spirit creating the kind of atmosphere where people felt safe to be ridiculous.

Della surveyed her gleaming kitchen with the satisfaction of someone who understood that feeding people was a form of love, and love required clean tools and organized spaces. Ezra sprawled in their newly positioned beanbag, their blue hair catching the improved lighting as they planned tomorrow’s creative projects.

The Sanctuary Bar wasn’t perfect—it never would be. But it was ours, renewed and reimagined by hands that understood what it meant to rebuild from the ground up. As the evening settled around us like a comfortable old coat, I realized that sometimes the most radical act is simply making a space where people can exist fully, completely, without apology.

And tonight, that space glowed crimson-warm and welcoming, ready to hold whatever stories we brought to it next. The air hummed with satisfaction and possibility, thick with the scent of fresh paint and the particular joy that comes from collective accomplishment.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, its own stories of survival and connection. But tonight, surrounded by the family we’d chosen and the space we’d transformed together, everything felt possible. The basement might still be underground, but it no longer felt like hiding. It felt like home.