Two sides of town.

A shooting in Roanoke brings gays and lesbians together, but fear still keeps some in the closet

Roanoke, Va., is a relatively large city of 96,000 people in the predominantly rural Blue Ridge mountains of southwest Virginia. A former railroad town located halfway between New York City and Atlanta, it has long been a place to where local lesbians and gay men have gravitated, a place where they feel safe. But on Friday night, September 22, all of that changed when Ronald Edward Gay, a 53-year-old Vietnam veteran with a history of mental illness, allegedly walked into the Backstreet Cafe and opened fire on the crowd gathered there. One gay man, Danny Lee Over-street, was killed in the attack; six others were wounded, and the incident thrust Roanoke's unassuming gay and lesbian population into the national spotlight.

Gay, who police and family members say was angry about being teased for much of his life because of his last name, was said to have targeted the local hangout because of its gay clientele, telling one witness that he wanted to "waste some faggots." Gay was quickly arrested and charged with murder, and activists across the country immediately labeled the attack an antigay hate crime. An outpouring of sympathy and support for the shooting victims, and the gay community in general, underscored the widespread belief that the town is fairly tolerant.

Yet the town's image may be more complicated than the response to the shooting indicates. Roanoke is also the city where prosecutors charged a group of gay men caught cruising in a local park under the state's rarely enforced sodomy law. And some of the witnesses of the attack were concerned that being found at a gay bar could mean the end of their jobs.

Still, local activists say that Roanoke is overall a gay-friendly place. "Frankly, my own experience [as a gay man in Roanoke] has been very positive," says prominent local attorney and longtime gay activist Sam Garrison. "The anecdotal evidence from lots of other folks who have shared their coming-out experiences with me suggests that most Roanokers are pretty accepting. Based on all I know about here and all I think I know about other places, I consider Roanoke to be above average in tolerance-acceptance levels, both for our part of the country and for our size city. It's not San Francisco, but I understand that there are homophobes in San Francisco too."

The Rev. Catherine Houchins, pastor of the predominantly lesbian and gay Metropolitan Community Church of the Blue Ridge, located in Roanoke, tends to agree: "I tell people that you can be as out in Roanoke as you can in West Hollywood [Calif.], and the comfort level for gay people here has risen, I think, in the last few years." Houchins became pastor of MCC of the Blue Ridge in November 1998 and grew up about 30 miles outside of Roanoke. She says that she and her longtime partner, Jeannie, are "very out" and that, in her experience, there has been little harassment of gays in Roanoke. Regarding those fearful of losing their jobs if they are publicly out, Houchins says, "Of course, some people worry, but that's true anywhere."

As the story of the crime unfolded in the media, locals both gay and straight, naturally, expressed shock and outrage. But there seem to be conflicting indications about the level of acceptance lesbians and gay men have felt as part of Roanoke's larger community, in spite of this recent show of support. Most recently and perhaps most tellingly--John Collins, one of those who were wounded at the Backstreet Cafe, told The Washington Post that he was afraid of losing his job at a Roanoke car dealership after being outed as a gay man in the wake of the tragedy. Several other reports stated that some who were interviewed asked that their identities be kept secret, echoing the fears Collins expressed.

The town has seen other, less violent outbursts of antigay sentiment. In the mid '90s a local advertising company refused to place a gay-themed billboard with rainbow colors and the words DIVERSITY ENRICHES. In 1995 the general manager of Roanoke's public radio station pulled the nationally syndicated talk show Fresh Air from the station's lineup, in part because he claimed the show had a "hidden agenda to promote homosexuality."

The most concerted legal attack on gay men occurred in 1998, when the Roanoke police department launched a sting operation to curb cruising at a local park. However, instead of charging those arrested with public indecency, local officials went so far as to charge 18 men soliciting oral sex under the state's "crimes against nature" statute. One man was found guilty, two saw their cases dropped, juries acquitted three, and 12 pleaded guilty in order to appeal and challenge the constitutionality of the antisodomy law. The appeals are still pending.

Still, Garrison says, fears of antigay feelings are largely unfounded. "As a lawyer whom people consult when they think they've been discriminated against," he adds, "it does not seem to me that antigay job discrimination runs rampant here. I think that is the typical talk of the habitually, perhaps pathologically, closeted. The fear of losing jobs far exceeds the reality of losing jobs, as best I can tell."

A representative of 10 of the men appealing their cases from the 1998 sting, Garrison says, "Taken as a whole, these prosecutions brought to light some--but not predominant--homophobia in the general population." In fact, according to Garrison, as the cases garnered more publicity, there were only a few letters to the editor of The Roanoke Times applauding the police sting operation and at least a dozen condemning it. "The newspaper itself twice editorialized for repeal of the antisodomy law," he says.

Garrison concedes that gays and lesbians were "not very" visible prior to the shooting. "Indeed, not as much lately as 10 years ago--until Friday, September 22, of course," he says.

"I think we straight people in Roanoke have generally been unaware of the true community of gays and lesbians before--all its organizations, what it consists of, all the diversity within it," says Mary Bishop, a veteran reporter with The Roanoke Times who has lived and worked in Roanoke for 13 years. Bishop is part of a team of journalists organized in the spring to improve the paper's coverage of gay issues. Early on, she says, the paper encountered some trepidation on the part of some gay men and women. "I interviewed nine gays and lesbians for background for our team early in the summer," she says, "and only two said they would let us use their names or photos in the newspaper."

But now, after the shooting, the attitude of the city's gay population seems to have changed. "Gays and lesbians have been coming out in droves here," says Bishop, who has reported extensively on the shootings and the reactions of the people of Roanoke. "My sense is, they were so frightened and so angry, the shootings chased them out of the closet. They've needed to feel the support of each other and their straight allies and to take action, politically and spiritually."

In fact, more than 300 lesbians, gay men, and their supporters crowded the city street outside the Backstreet Cafe for a vigil held the night after the shootings. When organizers asked those in the crowd who wished not to be photographed to step to the back, only a few stepped back.

Even before the shootings, gay men and lesbians were making themselves increasingly--if only occasionally--visible to the greater community. About 1,000 people took part in the city's 11th annual Pride in the Park celebration, held the week before the shooting. And Houchins points out that her congregation meets regularly in a storefront facing one of Roanoke's busiest streets, with a rainbow flag clearly visible in the window.

Regardless of past events, in the aftermath of the violence, Roanoke and its lesbian and gay citizens appear to be pulling together as never before. "All the signs are that it will energize our community," says Garrison. "[The] positive effect will be stronger and more durable than the temporary rise in fear and general insecurity."

Tate, a freelance writer in Los Angeles, is a former editor for RadioSpy.com.

Find more on Roanoke, antigay violence, and links to related Internet sites at www.advocate.com