Jeremy Atherton Lin: "We went to bars for sexual desire, for a thirst for connection and to dissolve ourselves within the group"

BarcelonaA cultural, historical, and personal journey through emblematic spaces that have been disappearing in the United States and the United Kingdom: gay bars. Capitán Swing has published [in Spanish] Gay Bar. Fragments of those parties, the book with which essayist Jeremy Atherton Lin (1974) reflects on these venues, their utopias and taboos; the feeling of euphoria, disinhibition, and sexual freedom that breathed there, and the need (or not) for them to still exist. We interview him via Zoom on the occasion of International LGTBIQ+ Pride Day.

You suggest that gay bars were spaces of refuge and self-exclusion for protection for decades. What role can these spaces play today?

— If gay bars are to re-emerge, they must be more inclusive, they must cater to a wide variety of sexual and gender identities. When we talk about the need to reclaim venues, we do so for all the various reasons related to social repression, discomfort, taboos, and marginalization. But historically, bars have been predominantly occupied by gay men. Lesbians used to have a more domestic social life, with parties and gatherings at home.

Does the need to reclaim these spaces indicate problems with current society?

— Look, in reality these places not only offered you a safe space, but they also made you a target. As Foucault said: "Visibility is a trap." When you occupy a space, there is always someone who wants to take it from you.

The feeling of loneliness within the community is growing. Apps have made it easier to meet people, but you explain that they do it in a more superficial way than in bars. Has the idea of community weakened?

— Things have changed a lot due to social media and its main danger is that people tend to become a kind of product. Everything is reduced to a set of criteria with which, supposedly, you have to fit into a social group or with a potential partner, instead of relying on real experience. What is someone's laugh like? What does it smell like? How can a person you didn't expect to be attracted to end up surprising you, captivating you, and making you change your mind?

Do you feel nostalgic because apps have been replacing the bars described in the book?

— If I feel nostalgic for anything, it's precisely for surprise, for bumping into people you didn't expect to meet, experiencing encounters that weren't planned and that depended on chance and the direction the night took. When I go out to socialize, I'm a rather restless person. Always with the feeling that I have to go to the next place, that I can't miss anything. There's a kind of desperation in this constant search for euphoria.

Do you think new generations are aware that many rights have been won in nocturnal spaces?

— I believe they have a richer historical vision because they have access to much more information. For years it has been easy to stick to a superficial reading and idealize history, turning figures from the past into perfect heroes. But the work of researchers, historians, and essayists is necessary to clarify that the past is often messy, contradictory, and full of nuances, and that its protagonists are not necessarily impeccable. And one admirable thing about this generation is that they do not tend to understand each struggle as if it were an isolated phenomenon. They understand that homophobia and transphobia are linked to colonialism, that they are inscribed within a capitalist structure, and that race and class are also part of the queer experience.

But you claim that inside the bars there was the ambivalence of protection and discrimination.

— Many of the venues I write about have very exclusive access policies for women, trans people, or racialized people. They haven't always been ideal. As I explain in the book, they haven't always been a refuge away from society's problems and hierarchies, but rather a reflection of those same problems.

The book questions what happens when a community believes it no longer needs its spaces. Does social integration imply the disappearance of certain places?

— It is a curious question, because we have examples of social integration, such as gay marriage, but, at the same time, people feel very identified with their group. Do people who are part of minorities need these spaces of self-segregation without having to constantly explain who they are? Do we need spaces where it is necessary to explain ourselves, because only then can we create bonds with people with different identities, find forms of political solidarity and, at the same time, build real local communities that work? These are open questions.

Progress is usually measured in terms of laws and rights.

— Identity is not just an abstract idea: legally it exists, because people are classified into categories with which certain rights or freedoms are denied to them and they are placed in a certain position before the law. It is often taken for granted that the defenders of the rights of a certain group have chosen a defined position. And it is true that there is a sense of belonging, but identities have been attributed to us. Therefore, a large part of the objection to so-called identity politics seems fallacious to me, because it accuses people of voluntarily clinging to an identity when in reality society has assigned it.

Is the way the collective learned to live desire, sex, and intimacy relevant in their book?

— For me it was very important to recognize that we often went to these bars driven by sexual desire, by a thirst for human connection, for intimacy, and a need to surrender to the euphoria of the dance floor. I didn't go out to find myself, but to lose myself, to dissolve within a group, for anonymity. It is easy to eliminate this entire dimension to present a more respectable image when the dignity of a collective is claimed. But for me it was important that the people who frequent these spaces – and who appear in the book – were not judged for being sexually open, for surrendering to excesses or pleasures, and that these impulses could be recognized as legitimate motives.

Explain that when bars started to become more visible, there was a strong self-censorship.

— When they stopped having their windows covered and people could look inside from the street, there was a constant concern that the image projected would be neutral and harmless, acceptable in the eyes of society. But these places must also be reclaimed as sexual and erotic spaces, and not be reduced solely to places of identity recognition or personal affirmation. I am now presenting my second book and many people tell me that Gay Bar has continued to sell steadily after four years. And I don't think it's because it offers a definitive vision of bars, but precisely because of the constant tension between the feeling of belonging and alienation that runs through the book and with which many people identify.

His book came out just after the pandemic. The closure of bars was no longer a matter solely for the collective: they had closed us all in.

— [River] Yes, and in fact, during the promotion many people read it and told me that for them it was like a kind of substitute experience for going out at night. I think people really missed that feeling. I myself wrote the book quite quickly because I wanted to convey that frenetic, euphoric rhythm.

Barcelona still maintains a very active queer nightlife, but it is increasingly crossed by the logic of consumption. Is the risk of it becoming a product real?

— It is a very broad question, because there is a permanent debate about who is really local and who is a tourist in a given space. In the case of gay communities, when they settle in a neighborhood, they are often perceived as if they were not originally from there. Then it stabilizes. And then new layers of this same debate appear, as if gay bars also establish boundaries when heterosexual women go there. There are many reasons why this behavior is perfectly understandable: perhaps they feel safer there, they perceive a less predatory environment than in spaces frequented mostly by heterosexual men... It is complicated to answer.

Many activists argue that Pride has lost some of its ability to provoke and has become commercialized. How do you see it?

— In the United Kingdom and the United States, the current more conservative political climate means that many companies have less presence at events, and I believe this creates an interesting opportunity to make Pride more authentic and more solid. The possibility that it can once again be more of a space for protest than just celebration. It also reinforces the feeling that it has emerged from the grassroots, that it serves to celebrate us, but also to face what is happening, what has happened, and what can be improved.