Steven LaChance Blog

The year was 1985, and the air was thick with tension in my small college town. A new gay bar was opening—the first of its kind in the area. For many, it was a beacon of hope, a safe space where the queer community could gather, dance, and simply exist. But for others, it was a target. The town was in an uproar, and the hate was palpable. Threats poured in: the bar would be burned to the ground, patrons would be beaten, and the establishment would be wiped off the map. This was the reality of being queer in 1985.

You might think the bar would have been too frightened to open its doors. You might assume no one would show up, too scared to face the backlash. But that wasn’t the case. The opposite happened. The queer community and its allies showed up in force. Inside, the music played, the drinks flowed, and the energy was electric. Outside, an angry mob of rednecks raged and screamed, their hatred spilling into the night.

The police? They were called, but they never came. In a small college town, law enforcement either turned a blind eye—chalking it up to “boys will be boys”—or they were part of the problem. In 1985, many cops were openly hostile toward the queer community, and they had no qualms about looking the other way when hate reared its ugly head.

But that night, something remarkable happened. Despite the chaos outside, the party inside didn’t stop. We danced. We drank. We stood proud and united. The hateful mob screamed into the night, but their anger couldn’t touch us. When the early hours of the morning arrived and we finally stepped outside, they were gone. Long gone.

What did that night prove? It proved that standing up to hate is not just necessary—it’s powerful. It proved that when we come together in numbers, we are stronger than those who seek to tear us down. The mob knew they were outnumbered. They knew that if they tried to harm us, they’d be met with resistance. Yes, we were prepared to defend ourselves—baseball bats and all—but we didn’t have to. Our unity was our greatest weapon.

The next night, the rednecks stayed home. The bar remained open without incident. It was a battle won, a small but significant victory in the fight for our right to exist.

That night taught me a lesson I carry with me to this day: we must stand against hate, even when it feels like no one is on our side. We must stick together, ready to fight for our right to exist in whatever way necessary. The queer community has always been resilient, creative, and unyielding in the face of adversity. And that’s exactly what we’ll continue to do—today, tomorrow, and always.

In a world that often feels divided, let’s remember the power of unity. Let’s remember that when we stand together, we are unstoppable.