I look around in the maze of your rivers,

I walk in for the fresh waters.

I get lost in the streams in

the rocky floors that hurt my feet.

I walk out from the discomfort 

of my foot’s bleeding vein. 

But I pause for a second

as the sun shines its rays,

seeing white flower petals

that you placed,

floating in the water.

I blink unfocused

I smile with widening eyes,

and I walk back in 

to enjoy the glimmering light.

I’m floating on my back  

in the warm river

with a smile, 

then in the shower

of the evaporating waterfall. 

Soon it dries up.

The flowers shrivel down.

I start to shiver and beg

for the warm rain to come.

But it never comes and

I’m left with pale skin 

and chattering teeth.

The post Dry River appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

In his landmark book entitled “Why We Can’t Wait,” Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. recounted the 1963 events of the civil rights movement in Birmingham, Alabama, and beyond. The book’s title is fashioned as a response to criticism that King received for helping to lead such efforts at a time when racial strife and resistance to civil rights was high. White moderates (and even many members of the Black community) were urging King to slow down, wait for a later time to address the grievances of the African American community and consider more accommodating avenues for bringing about change in society. The then-34-year-old, young adult Baptist preacher would have none of it. 

In response to warnings that it was not the right time to advocate for justice for the African American community, King said, “For years now, I have heard the word ‘Wait!’ It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This ‘Wait’ has almost always meant ‘Never.’ We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that ‘justice too long delayed is justice denied.”

These wise words from Dr. King should help the African American community at this moment as it relates to the struggle for reparations.

Maryland residents are justifiably disappointed by Governor Wes Moore’s decision to veto a crucial reparations bill that was passed in April. I strongly urge the governor and those who supported his decision to rethink this stance. This bill is not merely important; it is a necessary next step toward justice and equality that our state desperately needs.

Gov. Moore vetoed the bill because he believed we’d already had enough studies; it was time for action. However, Senate Bill 587 does provide the steps that could be viewed as the next building block in this generations-long fight for what’s right.

In explaining his veto, Governor Moore cited two commissions by name. 

The Commission to Coordinate the Study, Commemoration, and Impact of Slavery’s History and Legacy in Maryland, formed in 2001, worked to preserve, catalog and make available cultural resources about the history and legacy of slavery in Maryland. That commission last met fourteen years ago and was formally abolished in 2019. Much of their work is filed away in the Maryland State Archives.

The other group that the Governor cited — Maryland Truth and Reconciliation Commission — released its interim report in 2020. They were tasked to uncover lynchings in Maryland between 1854 and 1933. Its final report is expected to be released later this year.

I support both of these efforts, as they contribute to the historical context needed to help people understand why we need reparations. But as the governor states, we need action. That’s exactly what the current bill offers.

If signed into law, the bill would establish a commission to examine inequitable government policies toward African Americans in Maryland, how public and private institutions have benefited from them, and the number of individuals whose ancestors were enslaved in our state. It would look into the feasibility of administering a reparations fund. The commission would also evaluate eligibility for potential recipients of benefits.

Gov. Moore noted that he’s worked legislatively to close wealth gaps and other disparities. He has indeed increased opportunities for historically Black colleges and universities, Black-owned businesses and Black first-time homeowners. This is commendable and timely. I am among the many that appreciate Governor Moore’s leadership in these valuable ways. 

However, we must be careful not to confuse the laudable initiatives of one administration with this bill that would codify a more intentional effort to reverse the harm caused by centuries of racist laws and policies. If reparations is codified in state law, it will matter less who the governor is or what political party is in power. Reparations would be the law of the land in the Free State.

Despite having African Americans in the position of Governor, Attorney General, and Speaker of the House, there are clergy members, politicians and community leaders who are saying that though they support reparations, now is not the right time to take the next steps to pursue it. Though the Democratic Party is in control of Maryland’s House and Senate, these leaders express concern that if we make progress on reparations right now it will provoke the ire of President Trump and will bring us greater trouble from this federal administration. Their concerns are genuine and have some validity.

However, I believe that the trouble that they fear is already here. The masses of African Americans in this country and in our state have been and are already suffering under horrific realities in various ways that are rippling through the generations of our families. The quality of life of our descendants and those yet unborn would be adversely affected by our decision to shrink back at this moment. We cannot surrender hard earned gains in the struggle for reparations made by those on whose shoulders we stand. We must gain ground in both good and tough times; not retreat from it.

No matter what administration is in power, there will always be reasons to put reparations on hold. All eyes are on Maryland, the only state with a Black governor, to see if we can take steps to effectively deliver meaningful change that honors the legacies of our Black families and addresses the harm that has led to current state-sanctioned inequities.

If a state with so many democratic African Africans in political leadership from the top down cannot deliver on taking this sensible step for reparations; I shudder to think about the message that it will send across the nation in our community and beyond. What would it say about the Democratic party if they can’t deliver for the Black community even when they have all of the cards in their hands?

We can’t wait because Black people are suffering economically, socially and physically. We can’t wait because our people don’t have access to land for homes and farming. We can’t wait because laws continue to disproportionately criminalize and incarcerate Black people. Reparations is a political and economic solution that will drastically reduce the negative effects of the racist, discriminatory policies that have haunted us for centuries.

In his book, “Should America Pay? Slavery And The Raging Debate On Reparations,” Dr. Raymond Winbush lists other communities that have already received reparations in the United States. From Jewish Holocaust survivors to Indigenous communities to Japanese Americans and more. These groups have already received (and some are still receiving) reparations in the form of cash payments, land and more. In fact, Abraham Lincoln signed an 1862 bill that even paid slaveowners $300 for each enslaved African freed while our ancestors received nothing.

Why should African Americans wait a second longer for something that others have already received?

As we approach Juneteenth – a national holiday that celebrates liberation for African Americans – I urge Gov. Moore to reverse course and honor the wishes of the elected members of the Maryland General Assembly and many of the citizens of this state. I encourage my colleagues in the clergy to embrace a boldness not based on political calculations, but rather one rooted in the liberatory gospel that’s rich in stories that spotlight saints who stood up in difficult times.

Let us remember the wisdom of our ancestors who struggled for freedom, whose invaluable lessons can guide us as we move forward today. Now is the critical moment to prioritize reparations. We cannot wait a second longer.

We still have the opportunity to come together, take a stand and do what’s right by our ancestors, ourselves and our descendants.

The Rev. Dr. Heber Brown, III is the executive director of the Black Church Food Security Network.

The post Opinion: Why we can’t wait for reparations appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

Emily Saneski
University of Maryland School of Nursing

“Congratulations, Dr. cutie! You worked so hard to get to this day, and now, after 5 years (and 2 kids!), it’s finally here! I’m so proud of you. Happy graduation! You have a doctorate! Your patients are lucky to have you. Let’s celebrate! Love, Your IT guy and biggest fan.” – Matthew Dudley

Jaela Morris
University of Maryland Baltimore School of Social work.

Young Elder, a 23-year-old emerging social worker, earned her BSW from Coppin State University (‘24) and her MSW from the University of Maryland School of Social Work. She combines her passion for barbering and community healing through “Leadership Through Barbering,” now in its second cohort at Achievement Academy. As a mental health therapist intern at Billie Holiday Elementary and Katherine Johnson, she supports students’ emotional well-being. She currently offers affordable haircuts at Baltimore Unity Hall. Known for leading with EXTRA love, Young Elder is committed to helping Baltimore youth define success on their own terms through purpose and passion.

The post Congratulations Class of 2025 appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

Dedicated to Aiden, 

Eternity will never be enough 

to make up for the time I haven’t spent with you

   In Fanfiction 

   Hanahaki

   is the beautiful death

 by unrequited love.

  Flowers growing in the airways.

     The air squeezed from my lungs

        as my heart lays heavy on the bed,

 With that rainy musky late night scent,

 and pain from your mark

    as I’m pinned with my hands locked 

                              to yours.

     And the morning,

     so sickeningly sweet.

              Coddled to your chest and neck,

                a fresh sea breeze 

              yet the heat

      of the night before lingers.

        The heat of your 

      skin to mine reassures me

 that you give me 

 air – clear my lungs

 of those pining petals.

My hanahaki is your absence.

Hugging the grey shirt you never said I could keep

     on a bed meant for one, not 

                 one half.

Fighting with aftergloom 

so I may hold onto the embers 

that were once a blazing inferno

    that replaced my breath 

        with yours.

My hanahaki is once finding

                 Eden.

The entire garden brushed 

  with bronze, gold, and crimson 

     stardust. 

You pressed a flower to my lips and left me

With only the taste of you

to reminisce.

The post Hanahaki appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

As Baltimore commemorates the 50th anniversary of Pride, and in the spirit of the enduring declaration “We Will Not Be Erased,” Baltimore Beat is honored to dedicate this Pride issue to the diverse experiences and perspectives of our city’s vibrant LGBTQIA+ community. 

We invited our readers to share their reflections, stories, art, and insights on what Pride means to them this year. Here are some of the pieces we received.

Abby Higgs

Growing up, my family attended First Baptist Church in Richmond, Indiana — brick chapel, hellfire at nine and eleven. The minister, Reverend Moore, was a squat, silver-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses. He hated homosexuals – so much that when he wasn’t decrying “the gay agenda” from the pulpit, he was doing so via megaphone on street corners in his spare time. It was fun for him, I assumed; he clearly loved it. Which meant he hated me. Not that Rev. Moore ever looked in my direction at church – never spared me a glance – but his words settled into me when he preached like dust in the lungs, steadily making it harder for me to breathe in that otherwise calm — too calm — chapel. Eventually, I stopped going altogether.

Until I met another Reverend Moore nearly two decades later. At the Unitarian Church on West Franklin during Baltimore Pride. I’d stopped in to use the restroom, glitter clinging to my sweat-slick arms and legs. “Make sure you’re drinking enough water,” said a voice from the depths of the darkened sanctuary. A middle-aged, silver-haired man stepped into the light, smiling. He wore a nametag on his bright-green shirt — “Reverend Moore” — and carried a megaphone in one hand. “Gotta go tell God’s children how beautiful they are today,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. Then he walked out the front door of the church to the sidewalk, lifted his megaphone, and shouted at everybody and nobody nearby: “I love you and God loves you just the way you are!”

Kenneth Watson, Jr. JD

Growing up, I always felt different — though I didn’t yet have the words for it. My father would watch me, saying, “Look how big your eyes get when you’re paying attention.” And I was always paying attention — to the small shifts, the sideways glances, the words that said I was “sweet” but meant something else. My stutter felt like the fear in my chest, a silence I learned to carry.

Even in a house full of siblings, I felt like an island. I learned to make myself small, to quiet the parts of me that didn’t fit — because back then, safety meant not being seen.

But with time, I learned that those quiet parts of me — the parts I was told to tuck away — are the very pieces that make me whole. My queerness isn’t something to be hidden; it’s the truth of my being. It’s the light that refused to be snuffed out.

My birthday falls at the start of Pride Month, as if the universe itself was saying: you belong here. Today, I live as both that young boy and his protector — honoring his innocence, his grace, his unbroken spirit.

To any little Black boy who feels alone: you are not. You are seen, you are whole, and you are no less of a man because of who you love or who makes you feel safe. Your story matters—and it will not be erased.

Coraline Ismael Karim

From Oranges to Crabs

I moved here from the Sunshine State, from Tampa, a city for tech bros and tax-evading philanthropists, the haven of gentrifiers, if you will, where white and cis faces filled practically every space one enters, and growing up there as a Muslim trans woman taught me the essence of isolation. It was a very rare occurrence to see someone like me, if at all. At times, I felt like I had to dig through concrete with my bare hands just to even see a brown-skinned transgender woman.

And then I moved to Baltimore in January of 2025. I left that place I once called home out of fear of being beaten and removed from society, losing my autonomy in all spaces, once again, because calling me every derivative that their small minds can think of became appropriate once again.

The isolation that clung to my neck for so many years began to wither when I came here. Just down the street from home there’s a Yemeni restaurant full of Muslim faces making the best falafel and not once have they made me feel unwelcomed. They play the same Muslim prayers I grew up with and treat me like I’m their family, like habibti. There are black and brown trans faces everywhere here, and the separation of the self I once felt for twenty-five years of my life is now a passing memory. I am home. That’s what Pride is. It isn’t booths from corporations pretending they ever cared about us or another oil company acting like flaring a rainbow means they want to see my tribe in their spaces — no. Pride is about seeing your people out in public. It’s about laughing with those who call you their own. It’s about home.

Fern Aurelius

My works are homunculi; created from the anguish of expression and the decaying bibliosmia of my collage hoard, bound with non-toxic glue, and a few drops of my own blood. I’ve formed them to provoke the minds of all who view them.

Art is never only about the artist. My pieces are reflections of the niche that I occupy in this world: a tender, complicated space I share with a loving, vibrant, and resilient community.

Rahne Alexander

Pride is a place in time. It’s an emotion; it’s a sin. It’s a bunch of lions; it’s a fucking riot. It’s summer day, as it goeth before the fall. But the feeling, the swelling, that elusive warmth that escapes and perplexes me? The Pride of memes and commodity? Look, I love a quippy racerback as much as the next femme but even the best tanks fade. I have had my share of Prides where I’m too debauched or detached to focus on the fight immediately ahead of me. We all can’t possibly be always already on.  We need our beauty sleep. We need to dream. We need to watch out for each other. Without that, there is no Pride. 

Dani Lopez

This series was made as an ode to my older sibling Pili Lopez and his career practice as a Queer, Colombian tattoo artist at a local queer-owned Baltimore tattoo shop called Fruit Camp. We are both Queer Colombian artists living and working in Baltimore. 

Some of my favorite memories from the previous 2024 Pride celebration were photographing Pili’s partner Santana Sankofa, my sister-in-law, performing at Baltimore Trans Pride. Seeing everyone dance and sing to songs from a loved one was healing. I am looking forward to taking photos at this year’s pride to document the abundance Queer joy in the city.

My-Azia Johnson

Sweating like a Whore at Church (Excerpt 1)

Our story followed the stars, charted by our placements which naturally brought us into this world dirty, wet, and fiery, predestined to leave us winded from committing the most unholy of acts. I’m watching you paint a self portrait, layering colors of depth and dimension. 

Together, we frequently craft our own beauty, sitting intertwined with silence and gratitude, we let each other in, rooting into deeper and deeper depths of enlightenment. The memories from last night, such a blessing. Then you interrupt my daylusting and encourage me to do more than just admire your secret project. I’ve been chosen to gently touch the sprouts and burrow through the dirt of your greenhouse that’s still mucky in thick, fleshy bands of fresh paint. My soul is resurrected with each chance I get to feel you wet and undone like this. Access to any part of you feels spiritual and sacred. 

I always ask what your artistic intent is when you display your work to me. We guide each other to feel where the spirit is moving, and our chapel-worthy artistry fogs out every single thought and window of doubt. We sometimes luxuriously take turns stroking paint-covered brushes made of silicone or bone, other times we’re inspired to move more hastily. I see your hand, and I’m becoming a fanatic for your craft. From above, our bodies present as undulating lines in different shades of brown, embossed with cotton pillows and cold sheets christened with sweat. Art possessed with breath and death.

Everett Patterson

Yasmine Bolden

Baltimore Pride Abcederian 

An ancestry of belonging to anyone but ourselves ends here.
Bends beneath my binder and swells into a syncopated
call and response that begins: all Black trans survival is improvizational jazz. Nearly
dies on my lips while I’m singing with sapphics
entering the Pink Pony Club. Is made a deer in headlights by
faces that can Anansi spider, sliding between boy
girl boy girl. Whatever we do, we know we
have to remember everything. We could be tipsy
indolent after sad twerking to Southern hip-hop or
joaning in a way that’s code for: I love you pink-soft and red-hot. Several
Konas and bisexual cocktails in, we’d still
look for the wide-eyed form of our
most hurting histories. Bless the homegirl whose purse pockets
naloxone, water, and grandma candies. Who
opens her palms, taking her
place on the right hand side of the road, waiting. Who takes being the
queer salt of the earth seriously. Whose
rage could rival God’s. Whose pride holds my
sweaty hand in the hospital where I misgender myself, at
the parade where everyone knows and
understands both of my names: the one I was given and the one I wasn’t allowed to have. Voracious is the only word to describe the
way my ancestors must’ve felt. I know it from the way I’ve got to be capital
X xtra as soon as May and June kiss again.
You can feel a hunger that ripples through my lineage. A
zest wild and horned and all our own.

Glori Mahammitt

Matt Hurd

Pride is finally feeling like you can be yourself after masking a significant part of who you are for a long time. It is a destination that I wasn’t sure I would make it to, honestly. There is often a gap between when you “know” and when you “come out” (for the first time – because I’ve learned it is continuous), and that period of discontent* can be hard. I am just grateful to be here now. Moving to Baltimore and finding the community here was the best thing to ever happen to me. 

I love you, Baltimore 💚

Barbara Perez Marquez

TACITURN

crawled into bed last night
your paced breathing a metronome
my heartbeat attempting to match it
lull myself into unconscious bliss

sleep eludes me and I turn
my hand finds your warm skin
your body existing in stasis
mine grasping at sleep like mist

the night goes on without me
moonlight shows me your silhouette
tracing it to memorize it
mind flooding with images of you

tasting our first kiss
insatiably wanting to domesticate
our bleeding hearts
urgently searching for home

John Graff

Thomas Alice Woronowicz

Peel

I want
The moon’s
Mouth
Inside my
Mouth
My Bodily
Confessions
Blue fucked
Up bangs
I have found myself
Some circular
Accident
The truth
Lies further
From it
Always half
Something
But
Round

Peach

It’s love that’s
The reason I care
What my hair
Looks like

When
I am
Alone

I want to be
My own rock-
Star

Removing
Just enough
To show

The post What Does Pride Mean to You? appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

In 2009, the former location of Fort Worth’s oldest consecutive gay bar, The 651, reopened as the Rainbow Lounge. Just over a week later, on June 28 — the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall riots — Fort Worth police officers and agents from the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission stormed the bar. I remember seeing news reports of the raid on TV, another instance of violence against my various intersectional identities. Officers zip-tied and arrested patrons for public intoxication, marching them into waiting paddy wagons. One young man, Chad Gibson, was thrown to the ground so roughly he suffered a head injury and bleeding in the brain. The event ignited an international controversy, leading to the creation of Fairness Fort Worth, a local activist group that successfully negotiated sweeping reforms, including changes to the city’s anti-discrimination policies and diversity training for all city officials.

Years later, when I finally visited the Rainbow Lounge, I’d been warned it might feel anticlimactic after the much fancier, shinier spaces I’d frequented in Dallas’s gayborhood, like Station 4 and Sue Ellen’s. But Rainbow felt like home. It was tiny, yet expansive in its embrace. I bumped into a high school teacher there; classmates I didn’t know were out. We exchanged looks of understanding, forming unspoken bonds. For a night, before I came out to my family, I would bloom into full embodiment on the sticky dance floor and by the wooden bar of the Rainbow Lounge in Fort Worth.

When I moved to Baltimore, I decided I wouldn’t remain in the closet any longer; I would live in my truth as a bisexual woman. It was then I met my late friend Josh, a kindred spirit and fellow club kid. I’ll never forget the day Josh introduced me to Leon’s: post-warehouse rave in some unmarked location, followed by an after-party. Josh, not ready for the night to end, suggested Leon’s of Baltimore, a space roughly the size of Rainbow, located in Mount Vernon. This was during Pride month, and he ordered me a dangerously strong vodka sunrise. (It was “morning,” after all.) From that moment, I was hooked.

After Josh passed away, I often found solace at Leon’s, visiting our favorite bartender, who had traveled with Josh. We’d share drinks, stories, and tears. These are the bonds that form chosen families, often stemming from the people you meet in those underground spaces, places where you are allowed to move freely. So many of my closest relationships are with people I met on a dance floor. 

In researching this piece, I encountered McKenzie Wark’s concept of “xeno-euphoria,” which she describes as “the ecstasy of becoming alien to oneself, riding the strangeness of the beats of techno music into somatics that are not honed into natural wholeness or a oneness but toward technological dissociation and a relational subjectivity.” This, I believe, is the most applicable definition for what I mean when I say dance floors and queer spaces are incubators for folks to “lose themselves.” It’s not about disappearance, but about becoming part of a moment where others are also seeking connection, facilitated by the music.

These people, my chosen family, and these structures — from Rainbow in Fort Worth to Leon’s in Baltimore — are “third places.” They are sanctuaries where folks on the fringe of society — the marginalized — can congregate, find community, and locate kinship. 

They’re where people flirt, fall in love, fight, order rounds of shots, lose their keys, stumble, place dirty coins in jukeboxes, or queue up TouchTunes. With each of these small, communal acts, we affirm that we are alive. 

This historical context makes the ongoing loss of physical spaces, such as the demolition of Grand Central —  a beloved nightclub that was destroyed in 2021 by developers Landmark Partners — particularly resonant. When I first moved to Baltimore in 2016, Google searches for neighborhoods within walking distance of my school consistently pointed to Mount Vernon, lauded as “the gayborhood.” Yet, in my time here, I’ve witnessed countless brick-and-mortar queer spaces close their doors due to a global pandemic, rising rents, and gentrification. Sanchez Sanders, who transitioned to bartending during COVID after a career as a chef, observes the challenges Mount Vernon faces. 

“I think COVID was a big part of it, and the lack of foot traffic, lack of retail and grocery, the theft and vandalism as well,” he said.

Despite these closures, dance floors — whether in established clubs, temporary party spaces, or bars like Leon’s — have always been, and must continue to be, places of rapture and refuge.

Iconic brick-and-mortar spaces like the Gallery Bar, The Hippo, The Paradox, and Grand Central, along with those like O’Dell’s before my time, served as havens for survival, both spiritually and physically. What does it mean when these vital anchors of community are gone?

These losses mean the roles that music and joyful queer expression play in creating and maintaining community and resistance are even more critical. We find sanctuary when we have the freedom to be enmeshed in our countercultures. In this current political and social landscape, we long for the dancefloor, just as we ached during the pandemic lockdown to be in community again — under neon lights, the creep of fog, and the sweaty amalgamation of a grinding crowd. We long for a place to sit and have a drink with dignity, to meet a cute stranger, to not feel alien, to perhaps muster up the courage to sing karaoke. 

For queer folks, dancefloors, raves, drag watch nights, karaoke, and parties have become churches; they serve as sanctuaries. It’s not too cliché to draw parallels between religious ecstasy and the ecstasy felt on a dancefloor, where time collapses and differences dissolve. Here, music becomes a conduit for expression, connection, and radical joy in the face of oppression. These moments were critically necessary 50 years ago, and they remain so.

This vibrant community spirit — and the creation of third places — is actively nurtured by the people at the heart of these establishments. At Leon’s, figures like bartender Sanders and entertainment host Stacey Antoine are pivotal in shaping the experience. Sanders, with his Southern Baptist roots and family ties to Cameroon and Panama, believes, “bartenders set the tone.” He sees a diverse clientele, from out-of-town visitors to local regulars who range from age 21 to 70-plus, and makes it a point to ensure comfort and safety. He recalls a memorable moment with a guest who had just come out and was concerned about how he would be perceived in the community. “I told him, ‘If you want to meet people, don’t be scared. Have confidence,’” Sanders told me. This ethos of care is crucial in a world that often lacks it.

Writer and cultural theorist DeForrest Brown Jr.’s notion of  “world-building”  powerfully resonates with the way Baltimore’s LGBTQ hosts, bartenders, and emcees use music to transform spaces into havens. Dancefloors and karaoke nights offer both escape and embodiment in a terrifying and dangerous world that often seeks to erase and minimize us. This year, as Baltimore City Pride celebrates its 50th anniversary, the significance of these spaces — like Leon’s Backroom — remains paramount. My first memories of Pride — of true embodiment and true freedom — were found within these queer spaces.

Two years ago, I learned that my beloved Rainbow Lounge burned down in a fire on June 1, 2017. The loss of such a vital space in Fort Worth underscores the preciousness of enduring establishments like Leon’s, which holds the distinction of being Maryland’s oldest continuously gay bar, a testament to its resilience and the unwavering need for such sanctuaries. Stacey Antoine sees this endurance as vital. 

“Being that it’s one of only a handful of gay bars in the city that’s still standing and has zero chance of closing anytime soon,  I’d say it’s vital to the community for every reason,” he said. Sanders echoes this sentiment with hope for the future. 

“It’s a local bar and it has been around for a long time. I think we are on the right trajectory to be around for another 50 years.”

According to Antoine, the key to this incredible longevity is that Leon’s doesn’t over complicate things. It’s affordable and it’s dependable. It also adapts when it needs to. As evidence, he points to the success of the revamped Miss Leon’s pageant and the popular monthly drag show, “Karmella and the Shady Ladies.”

Nowhere is Leon’s welcoming energy and world-building more palpable than during its renowned karaoke nights, hosted three nights a week by the dynamic Stacey Antoine, with Sanders or another of Leon’s dedicated bartenders. If you go to Leon’s karaoke, be prepared to sing, but don’t feel intimidated. Originally from Harford County, Antoine has been honing his craft at Leon’s for nearly four years after moving his show from the former Grand Central Nightclub. He cultivates an atmosphere he describes as “pretty crowded, fun, and filled with eclectic talent.” 

The crowd is hilarious, jovial, intergenerational, queer, and incredibly supportive of every effort, largely thanks to Stacey Antoine’s encouragement. 

“I tell people all the time: ‘It’s just karaoke. It ain’t the Meyerhoff,’” he laughs. “‘I won’t force you on stage. You can sing from your seat. And don’t mind the audience. They aint nobody!’”

It creates truly special moments, like when he kept karaoke going for a small group celebrating a marriage on a pre-wedding night out when the rest of the city was dead. “They ended up having a blast and were very thankful,” Stacey Antoine recalls. “It was a really touching moment for them and I was just glad to be a part of their evening.”

It’s in these moments, and in the cheers for every singer, that the spirit of Leon’s truly shines, offering, as Stacey Antoine hopes, a place to “support, uplift, entertain, welcome, and provide a safe space for our LGBTQIA+ community.” Or, as he’d simply put it to a newcomer: “Come on out and have a gay ‘ol time with us and drink and sing a spell!”

The post Finding Rapture and Refuge at Leon’s of Baltimore appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

much like my poetry, i swear am queer 
by accident, backed into its corner

by boys with playground mentalities,
but this isn’t a poem about them.

my chest swells when chosen family
from philadelphia looks around

brewer’s art basement, crowds into little
red room at club charles and thanks

me for bringing them there. in los angeles,
someone tells me the beauty of baltimore

is that someone’s corner bar is some bar
that someone else has never heard of,

and vice versa. i was still straight
when i lived on john street, barely bi

when i moved north to remington.
i was pin-straight the night the hippo

closed, but i was there—because
who among us didn’t start a staunch ally,

an impassioned plea on behalf of communities
i’ll later wish i’d been part of sooner? now

genderless, i find myself proud, but still
learning how we all weave together,

perennially early to the party but late
to the game. how comforting to find

in time: the first rule of queerness is to dissolve
all rules, to be bell hooks’ self that is at odds,

inventing, thriving, living. i don’t want
a life without that anymore—and that means

i am okay that there are people who do not
know my corner bar for for all of the ways

its pours and people have shaped the self
with which i sleep so soundly.

The post pride as a corner bar appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

Over ten years ago, I launched the Maryland Justice Project to ensure that women leaving prison had the tools they needed to succeed as they reentered their communities. MJP is just one of many nonprofit organizations in Maryland that are the backbone of safety in our community — organizations working every day to interrupt cycles of harm, support successful reentry, and meet people where they are. But instead of expanding access to proven safety strategies including mental health care, housing, job support, and evidence-based safety solutions, the Trump administration is threatening to gut critical reentry resources in favor of more punishment, incarceration, and criminalization.

This would take us backward, just as Maryland is beginning to confront how mass incarceration has torn apart families and disproportionately harmed women and communities of color.

According to The Sentencing Project, Maryland has the highest racial disparity in life sentences in the country: 76% of people serving life sentences here are Black. For those sentenced before the age of 25, that number climbs to 82%. Women are being swept into this crisis, too. The Prison Policy Initiative reports that Maryland incarcerates women at a rate of 76 per 100,000 residents — far higher than almost any other democratic country.

Behind every number is a person. One woman we worked with had done everything right after coming home — searching for work and caring for her children — but she still couldn’t secure safe housing and struggled to make ends meet. With nowhere else for her to turn, MJP stepped in with emergency assistance so she could get back on her feet and provide for her and her children. Sadly, we hear stories like hers all the time. And it reminds us that the everyday struggles of reentry too often go unseen and unsupported.

Despite the barriers, we’ve made progress. In 2013 and 2014, MJP led the successful campaign for Ban the Box legislation in Baltimore, removing questions about criminal history from private employment applications. That law removed an enormous barrier to employment for the city’s returning population and meant a fairer shot at jobs for a large portion of Baltimore’s unemployed workforce.

Still, we have more work ahead. Maryland operates multiple prerelease centers for men, but few exist for women — even though we know these centers are essential to helping people find jobs, treatment services, and housing. Without them, women are set up to fail. Having access to resources and funds as soon as they come home often means the difference between going hungry and putting food on the table for themselves and their children.

When reentry services are defunded, the consequences ripple outward: mental health clinics close, homeless shelters lose funding, and job training programs disappear. Women in crisis wind up in emergency rooms, in overcrowded jails, and in rising desperation instead of getting help. But when we invest in housing, job training, addiction recovery, and trauma-informed care, they stabilize — and so do their families and communities.

Most people understand that family stability creates community safety. Research shows that Americans across the political spectrum support increasing access to mental health and addiction care, and they understand that addressing poverty and lack of opportunities would help improve safety in their communities. It’s time for our elected leaders to catch up to that consensus.

We’re calling on Congress, and Maryland’s state and federal policymakers to fund the services that keep people out of the system, not trapped inside it. State leaders in the Governor’s Office of Crime Prevention and Policy and the Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services must prioritize funding for commonsense programs that create safety and stability. Create a centralized reentry support directory. Expand access to pre-release programs for women. The current plan to build a women’s pre-release center is ill-considered and does not meet the requirement outlined in the statute. Invest in communities, not cages. Doing so will transform our state’s approach to safety for the better — preventing crime in the first place, advancing justice, and helping our communities thrive.

Monica Cooper is the founder of the Maryland Justice Project and a distinguished member of the Maryland Democratic State Central Committee for Baltimore’s 40th Legislative District.

The post OP-ED: Community Support Increases Community Safety, Not Incarceration appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

Black folks so afraid to admit that they afraid

Oxymoron;

Contradiction

We don’t pay attention

I’m afraid that if I get passionate

Will they put a price tag on my ass?

My frustration put a hole in the glass

Two dents in my wall

If these walls could talk

They’d start singing lullabies for the nights I lost sleep

PTSD from the day they called backup just for me

I had scars on my neck

I had a slash down my back

I looked like Dred Scott in court under attack

If my passion gets ahead of me

Will they start beheading me?

I was 17 still thinking bout my legacy

Word to Stevie Wonder I don’t know what’s ahead of me

Black folks swear to God they ain’t afraid

Contradiction;

Oxymoron

The first time I seen a gun drawn

Was sitting in the passenger seat

Couldn’t wrap my mind around where the hell I could be

My momma prolly hate me

She met my pops through poetry

Now look at me—

Every time I write is when you start to notice me

I used to live with her back when I was songwriting

Now I’m breaking down the stanzas talking ’bout Joe Biden

I had to switch it up

My mind was on the move like vehicular

I didn’t wanna be a rapper

Nah, too particular

My momma prolly hate me cause im doing the same

The only difference is I got the same face, different name

My pops poetry ain’t shifting like the way mine’s will

My rhyme schemes gon’ blow minds like the way mine’s will

I made a name for myself—

If I have too much passion

Will the world use aggression for reaction?

Or put a price tag on my ass?

Capitalize and use my lines for hashtags

I can’t compromise myself

Cause that’s all that I got.

911 ain’t gon save me

We get killed by the cops

Baltimore Beat publishes poems from participants in the group Writers in Baltimore Schools, which offers programming that builds skills in literacy and communication while creating a community of support for young writers.

The post Fear(full) appeared first on Baltimore Beat.

As Baltimore commemorates the 50th anniversary of Pride, and in the spirit of the enduring declaration “We Will Not Be Erased,” Baltimore Beat is honored to dedicate our upcoming Pride issue to the diverse experiences and perspectives of our city’s vibrant LGBTQIA+ community.

We invite you to share your reflections, stories, art, and insights on what Pride means to you this year. 

Submission Guidelines: Please note that due to space constraints, we will be selecting a limited number of contributing voices, for print and online. You will be notified via email if your submission is accepted, and will be contacted with next steps. 

We welcome submissions in various forms, including but not limited to:

Written pieces: Personal essays, poems, short stories, reflections (up to 250 words)

Visual art: Photography, illustrations, digital art, scans of physical artwork (please provide high-resolution images)

Other creative expressions: If you have a unique way of expressing your connection to Pride, please feel free to propose it!

Prompts For Reflection: 

Consider the prompts below as a guideline. As we celebrate the golden anniversary of Pride in Baltimore, we are particularly interested in publishing works that offer commentary on how celebrations of Pride have changed through the years in response to political climates, gentrification, and the shuttering of LGBTQ+ spaces in this city.  We will choose submissions that fully reflect the diverse experiences of LGBTQ+ existence, joy, resistance, and celebration in Baltimore City.

What does Pride mean to you personally in 2025, especially considering the 50th anniversary of Baltimore Pride and the theme of “50 Shades of Pride,” a testament to the LGBTQ+ community’s resilience and celebration over the past five decades?

Can you share a significant moment or experience that has affirmed your presence and resisted erasure within the context of Pride?

How has your relationship with Pride evolved over time?

What hopes or visions do you have for the future of Pride in Baltimore and beyond?

What does community mean to you within the context of Pride?

Are there specific aspects of Pride history or activism that resonate with you?

What message or feeling do you want to share with the Baltimore community through your submission?

What are some of your favorite memories of previous Pride celebrations in Baltimore? 

How to Submit:

Please send your submissions to submissions@baltimorebeat.com with the subject line Pride Submission – [Your Name] by Friday, May 30, 2025. 

For visual art, please include your name (if you wish to be credited) and a brief description of your work. For written pieces, please indicate your preferred name for publication.

Important Notes:

The deadline for all submissions is Friday, May 30, 2025.

Please note that while we encourage all members of Baltimore’s LGBTQIA+ community to submit their work, submission does not guarantee publication. 

All submissions will be reviewed by the Baltimore Beat editorial team, and selections will be made based on factors such as relevance to the theme, quality, and available space.

Baltimore Beat may also reach out to individuals with specific expertise or perspectives to contribute to this issue.

We encourage submissions from all members of Baltimore’s LGBTQIA+ community, representing the full spectrum of identities and experiences.

By submitting, you grant the Baltimore Beat the right to publish your work in our Pride issue and potentially on our website and social media platforms. 

You retain the copyright to your work.

If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact us at submissions@baltimorebeat.com.

We eagerly await your creative contributions as we celebrate 50 years of Pride in Baltimore together. Your voices are essential to this commemoration. 

The post Your Pride, Your Story: An Open Call for Baltimore’s LGBTQIA+ Voices appeared first on Baltimore Beat.