PreservationNation

I’ve been on the clock as a full-timer at the National Trust for Historic Preservation for seven months and a little bit of change.

In my mind, that’s hardly a blip on the radar. After all, I recently had to ask a co-worker how to photocopy something (there are strange codes involved), and I still have no clue how snail mail reaches my desk (it magically appears in my chair during Diet Coke runs), much less how to send it myself.

My own hang-ups as a perpetual late adopter aside, if you were to ask Dolores McDonagh, our vice president for membership and one of the loudest cheerleaders on the squad for our This Place Matters campaign, she would say without blinking that seven months is more than enough time to have taken at least one picture in front of a near-and-dear space or place.

She’s absolutely right, and truth be told, I’ve had a plan all along. For me, my first stab at documenting the places that tell my story simply had to happen at the place that matters the most – 1,412 miles away from my home today at the corner of Westheimer and Yoakum in the Houston gayborhood of Montrose.

A week ago today, while on a tour of my old stomping ground in the Lone Star State, I finally made it happen. Now, you’re probably thinking, “It took seven months and a flight across the country for you to take a photo in front of a wall?” Point taken, but I assure you: that wall is the backdrop to a place that means the world to me.

You see, I attended high school in one of the countless master planned communities that are inorganically grown on Houston’s fringe. Dubbed First Colony, this massive development straddles land that was among the first to be granted to Stephen F. Austin in his quest to colonize Texas. Now, with a fascinating lineage like that, it’s easy to imagine there being a historical marker every fifteen feet or so. Instead, the suits who engineered First Colony took a big bite out of the sprawl playbook and mechanically spit out a non-place where the pioneering efforts of the Father of Texas are commemorated by miles of impervious nothingness, trees that grow in straight lines, and “neighborhoods” that are marketed on billboards by income level.

One Sunday afternoon, a sixteen-year-old version of myself received a jaw-dropping AOL instant message from a handsome guy by the name of Leo, a fellow junior at my non-place high school who had recently come out. It was a point-blank invitation to an afternoon in Montrose. I knew immediately that his friendly e-vite was predicated on two weeks of rumors that had started and then swirled after my screen name was spotted in a gay chat room. However, in that moment, denial was suddenly not my gut reaction. With the cursor and my heart pulsing at near-equal intervals, I remember looking down at the little yellow AOL man who was running – sprinting – in an endless loop at the bottom of our instant message window. He just kept going and going and going…

Next thing I knew, the cheese-tastic First Colony sign that was surrounded by faux gas lights was disappearing in Leo’s rearview mirror; I was Montrose bound.

Our first stop was at the weekly meeting for the Houston Area Teen Collation of Homosexuals, or HATCH as Leo called it. He said I would have fun “even if I didn’t talk” (which wasn’t going to be hard), and he was dead on – the room was warm, welcoming, and full of catty and creative free spirits. Ten minutes in and a clipboard landed square on my lap. It was a newcomer questionnaire, and in addition to name and e-mail, there was an optional section with five boxes: straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender. With the full weight of Leo’s stare on my right hand, I took a deep breath and put it in writing – Jason Clement is gay.

After what felt like milliseconds (but was actually about an hour), we wound up at a place that was so appropriately named that it made me chuckle – Crossroads. A combo bookstore and coffee shop, it was unlike anything I had ever seen. An espresso machine hummed under a shiny disco ball, Madonna sang over thumping speakers about a beautiful stranger, and there were stacks and stacks of gay magazines (some of which had kids my age on them…who knew?!?). Surrounded by Leo and his “family” at a curbside patio table, I was ceremoniously given one of the rainbow bracelets that they sold inside for a buck, and then told about a whole new language: I was now a “newbie;” my best female friend was my “hag;” and only “bears,” “cubs” and “otters” went to the bar across the street.

My life was never going to be the same, and I loved it.

My Sunday curfew quickly came and went that night on the patio, but I didn’t care – halfway through my little initiation, Leo had nervously fumbled and then grabbed my hand beneath the table. This was so much bigger than simply checking off a box. It was action. I felt connected to something. It was electric. I was living.

Fast forward to today, some ten years later. Like so many loved gay bookstores across the country, Crossroads has closed its doors. While I wish I could walk in and bob up and down to cheese pop while I wait for a latte, I’m thankful – and grow more and more so as I get older – that one of the most salient moments of my life is defined by a building that still stands today.

Montrose itself has changed as well, but that’s the name of the game in condo-creep Houston. Even so, it’s still a place where the city’s infamous Walgreens-Texaco-Whataburger-Walgreens-Texaco-Whataburger development pattern is (albeit temporarily) interrupted by bungalow-housed independent businesses and buildings that face the street rather than empty parking lots. The rainbow flags still fly high, and just like in high school, it’s still where I go during each and every trip home to breathe.

Knowing what we know about the problems gay teens face today, I know I’m lucky to have found a place that mattered so much to me – a place where I knew I fit. So, to every questioning sixteen-year-old out there: Don’t give up on looking for your own. It’s out there, and you will find it.

Jason Clement is an online content provider for PreservationNation.org. He would like to remind all the other late adopters out there to please check out our This Place Matters campaign. After all, Dolores says so.

Join the National Trust for Historic Preservation as we celebrate Pride + Preservation throughout the month of June. Want to help us show some pride in place? Upload a This Place Matters photo of a building, site or neighborhood that matters to you and your local LGBT community.

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This entry was posted on Thursday, June 18th, 2009 at 9:21 am and is filed under lgbt heritage. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.