My Family’s Queer Legacy Made Me the Witch I Am Today
My family was radically ahead of their time.
I inherited…
• A belief that everyone deserves beauty, safety, and belonging.
• A knowing that chosen family is sacred.
• A fire that won’t let me be anything but inclusive, radical, and real.
I never grew up seeing labels.
Being gay or bisexual was just as natural as being a Virgo, preferring chocolate over vanilla, or indulging in a Neapolitan sundae with all the fixings, or perhaps preferring sorbet instead... or not having a sweet tooth at all.
That’s not to say I was blind to adversity. I’ve seen the heartbreak, the isolation, the deep ache that comes from being “othered”—from not being accepted by family, by peers, by the world. Having to suffocate your spark just to make it by in the world.
As I said, I come from a family that was radically ahead of their time.
My great-grandparents on my mother’s side, George and Lucille—lovingly known as Great-Grampy and Granna—once owned one of the earliest LGBTQ-friendly establishments in Chicago. It was called Pinky’s. And let’s be real—with a name like that, it’s hard to believe it wasn’t originally meant to be a gay bar.
Now, I’ve heard this story told a couple different ways. And as it is the begging of Pride Month, I got nostalgic and asked my grandmother to regale me with the tale, so I could share it with all of you.
The story of how Pinky’s (1957— 1959), though short-lived, became a sanctuary for the queer community.
A tale I carry like a sacred heirloom, passed to me by my grandmother.
Spoken with pride. Etched in laughter, cheek, and love.
It began in the late 1950s.
Granna and Great-Grampy had rented a storefront at 1011 Irving Park Road in Chicago, Illinois.
The dream was simple: open a restaurant, work hard, make it through. But the dream struggled to light. Business was slow. The bar, though beautifully decorated, sat empty most nights. And my great-grandparents were—quite literally—starving.
Just around the corner stood a well-known gay bar called Kitty Sheon’s, run by a woman of the same name. It was protected—Kitty’s husband was the local police commander. That little detail granted her a kind of untouchable status, even in an era when being queer could land you behind bars or worse.
One quiet afternoon, the door to Pinky’s creaked open.
In stepped Howie M, a gentleman who’d just had a falling out with Kitty herself. As the story goes, he was fuming—storming down the street—when something about the empty restaurant caught his eye.
Inside, my Great-Grampy sat at the bar, shuffling cards for a game of solitaire. Granna leaned across the counter, chin in her hand, watching another hopeless day roll by. The place was silent. Still.
And Howie? Well, he just walked right in.
He ordered a drink. Sat down. And within minutes, he and Granna were talking like old friends. Granna was magnetic—a natural with people. Somewhere in the conversation, he said it.
Not in a whisper, not in shame—but in the kind of voice people used when they were tired of hiding:
“You know, I’m… well, what I’m trying to say is… I’m not much of a ladies man, so much as a man’s man.. if you catch my meaning.”
“Aaaannd?” she said, waiting for him to say something that should be condemning, but nothing followed.
“Long as you’re a good person, sweetheart… what’s it matter who you love?”
He stared at her, stunned for a beat. And then? He smiled. And then, with a chuckle and the warmth of something real in his voice, he said:
“I really, really like you. You’re a beautiful young couple,” Howie told her. “This place? It’s stunning. I feel just awful—nobody’s coming in, and you’ve done such a gorgeous job.”
Then he said something Granna never forgot:
“You have hors d’oeuvres ready here tomorrow—Sunday afternoon—and I promise you, this place will be packed.”
With that, he slid off the stool and left.
Now, Grampy—practical, skeptical, broke—was not having it.
“You’re gonna listen to some guy we don’t even know?”
“I’m gonna take a chance,” Granna replied.
“With what money? I’m not giving you the money for this.”
“The hell you aren’t.”
And just like that, Granna reached into the till, took fifty dollars—a fortune to them at the time—and started calling everyone she knew.
“Where the hell are you going to find hors d’oeuvres on a Sunday?” Grampy demanded.
“Oh, I’ll find them.”
She pulled in Aunt Virginia, a dear family friend. They worked the phones like their lives depended on it. And somehow—miraculously—they found hors d’oeuvres. They picked them up. They prepped. They prayed.
And on Sunday afternoon?
The doors opened—and the place was packed.
Laughter filled the room. Music spilled from the piano tucked inside the bamboo cage behind the bar—a cage built by Great-Grampy himself. Candles flickered. Drinks flowed. And for the first time, the local gay community had a space that felt… different.
Not a dive. Not a back-alley speakeasy.
But somewhere with carpeting. Ambience. Intention.
Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere they could feel human.
Somewhere that felt like home.
From there, Pinky’s took off.
Granna and Great-Grampy became known for their outrageous Halloween parties—costume contests, dancing ’til the early hours. Word spread like wildfire. And the community kept showing up.
Until one day, Great-Grampy got a call.
A friend tipped him off—a raid was coming.
Grampy, protective to the bone, immediately cleared the bar.
He told everyone:
“Get out! Get out—I don’t want any of you getting arrested.”
But when Granna heard?
She stormed down to the bar and raised hell for the authorities.
“What the hell are you doing?! These are my friends! There are women here too! We’re having a good time with our friends—you can’t raid us for that!”
That moment—of standing up, of fighting back—wasn’t just about that night.
It was about every night. Every person who needed sanctuary—and got it.
After the raid, Pinky’s was no longer safe. But the spirit didn’t die—it evolved.
In 1960, in the same spot, they underwent a renaissance and opened Les Fontaines Rouges.
This wasn’t your average restaurant. It was a spectacle.
The restaurant had chandeliers, tuxedoed servers, and two fountains that gushed red wine.
They became famous for flaming desserts, tableside Caesar salads, and an atmosphere that couldn’t be replicated.
One day, a food critic came in unannounced.
He raved in the paper about this “fabulous continental French restaurant”—and boom. Overnight, it exploded in popularity.
My family couldn’t help but laugh.
The name was French. So was the waiter, Rimón .
But everything else? A beautiful smorgasbord of cultural inclusivity.
“We were about as French as a fried potato! The only thing French about us was the name and our one waiter, Rimón! Our chefs and salad girl were Black. All but one of our waiters were gay. I mean, look at —we’re mostly Greek and English! But oh, was it fabulous.”
They had car handlers. Lines out the door. Every evening felt like a party! Such a great crowd of people.
And still—everyone was welcome.
Queer, straight, Black, white, poor, wealthy—if you walked through their doors, you were treated like family.
The restaurant stood for 22 years. Great-Grampy passed suddenly from a heart attack at 58 years old. Les Fontaines Rouges closed its doors permanently in 1982—but the legacy lives on.
My great-grandparents put everything into that restaurant.
My grandmother worked there with her brothers. She eventually would meet my grandfather there.
My mother, her sisters, and cousins grew up playing under the tables, on the piano, and behind the bar.
Though we no longer own it, the spirit of it—the laughter, the found family, the late-night storytelling from regulars who had nowhere else to go—lives on.
Though most of the beloved souls we knew from those days have dearly departed from this realm, my great-grandparents, our adopted “uncles,” and lifelong family friends… Every Pride Month, I feel them with me. I carry that legacy in everything I do.
I don’t serve food or tend bar—but I do hold space. I feed souls. I welcome misfits. I listen. I laugh. I love fiercely. I witness and celebrate them as their adoptive Auntie—their Emotional Support Witch.
And let me be crystal fucking clear:
Pride is not just a rainbow-colored logo.
It is not a limited-edition corporate cash grab dropped in June and forgotten by July.
Pinky’s existed long before the rainbow flag.
In fact, we weren’t blessed with that symbol until 1978, when Gilbert Baker, an openly gay man and drag queen, designed it.
Pinky’s existed before it was safe to be loud.
Before hashtags. Before campaigns. Before rainbow sneakers.
We celebrate Pride every. damn. day. of the year.
But in June? You bet your asses we go all out.
Just like Granna did when she took that fifty dollars and bet on love.
Just like Great-Grampy did when he protected his friends, warning the patrons in the bar.
Just like my grandmother does every time she tells these stories to me.
Not because it’s trendy—but because it’s sacred.
Because we remember.
I honor Pride by living it.
By continuing the work my great-grandparents began:
providing spaces and services where people feel safe, seen, and supported.
Where community is chosen.
Where love in all its forms is not just allowed—
It’s welcomed with open arms.
So wherever you are on your journey—know this:
You are safe.
You are seen.
You are enough.
And when you’re with me, you are already home.
Happy Pride Month, my darlings.
I love you. Always.
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