THE YEAR 1969 was when the straight brother of my high school girlfriend introduced me to the two gay men who would change my life forever. Savannah, like New York, had its own gay counter-culture that gathered in a Stonewall-like club known as the Basement, which was located in the basement of the neglected Armory Building that later became the home of the Savannah College of Art and Design. The entrance, like a stairway descent into Caliban’s den, still exists on the corner of Bull and Gordon Streets.
In 1969, Savannah was arguably more tolerant of gays than New York. In any event, there were no bar raids like the famous one at Stonewall. Perhaps gays kept a lower profile, slipping into the basement bar and dancing the night away undisturbed. For young gays like myself, it was a daring adventure and an act of bravery to go down those steps. Once a year, around St. Patrick’s Day, when Savannah has its own Irish form of Mardi Gras, the Basement held what was known as the Sara Awards, the biggest gay event of the year. The bar gave out awards of all kinds to people who contributed to the community, as well as awards of infamy. The evening was a drag extravaganza and most of Savannah knew about it and loved it.
The Stonewall riots changed everything. Drag queens in Savannah took on a brave new attitude. In 1969, I was having sex with J. B., one of my two new gay friends—a revolution and a revelation unto itself. J. B. had a straight female roommate whose boyfriend often slept over, just as I did. We all got up in the morning and had bacon and eggs together. My second gay friend was a professor at what is now Armstrong Atlantic University. He was out and proud in 1969 and was a pioneer in promoting academic freedom to discuss gay writers, artists, and gay-related issues.
For Savannah, the 60’s was a decade of rebirth. The downtown historic district went through an astonishing revival. My professor friend restored a grand Italianate mansion on Gaston Street directly across from the gorgeous Forsythe Park. The part that gays played in the restoration of Savannah was essential—long before the arrival of the notorious Jim Williams of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (1994) fame.
But the biggest change to gay life in Savannah was the antiwar movement and the hippie Counterculture. My professor friend opened his basement to the one and only underground paper Savannah has ever had, Albion’s Voice. My straight friend was arrested for selling it; my father, a Savannah attorney, got the case dismissed. The law he was accused of violating simply didn’t exist. The paper not only attacked the Viet Nam war and the pollution of Savannah’s chemical and paper mills, it advocated acceptance of alternate lifestyles and of gays in particular.
By the early 1970’s, Savannah saw the opening of gay discos: first Woody’s on River Street, which quickly became the most popular late night club in the city. It had a huge dance floor and an owner who created ever wilder scenes. When the bar was finally closed for drug arrests, Dr. Feelgood’s opened on Drayton Street and quickly dominated Savannah’s gay nights. Not all was tolerance and gaiety, however. By now, everyone knows about the spectacular killing in the Mercer House. But there were two, even more sensational murders in Savannah in the 70’s involving gay victims. The first was of one of the three owners of Dr. Feelgood’s. He was found dead in his high-rise apartment with a pink electric toothbrush inserted in his rectum. The accused pleaded insanity by reason of cocaine consumption and fear of a homosexual assault. His attorney called the apartment a “den of Satan.” The jury agreed and found the accused not guilty, even though he’d admitted to killing the victim and setting his apartment on fire. He went to jail anyway because, by admitting he’d used cocaine, he was in violation of his parole for a prior drug arrest.
The second bizarre murder occurred after a Miss Savannah contest. One of the judges, a married man with children from Columbus, Georgia, got into an altercation with an army ranger in an adult bookstore. The ranger and three of his fellow army buddies attacked the man in a nearby parking lot. They beat him to a pulp, his brains literally kicked out of his head by the army boots. The rangers then went to a doughnut shop, where they were apprehended. The trial was completely mishandled. The first ranger was tried separately, and his defense was that the other rangers struck the fatal blows. When the other three were tried, they argued it was the first ranger who did all the beating. They were found guilty of simple battery. The key evidence that won over the jury included the rangers’ Boy Scout badges and a small bottle of amyl nitrite—poppers—that “proved” the victim was gay and had made a pass at the shocked and outraged ranger.
Savannah has had more than its share of murder and mayhem. My professor friend was brutally murdered in his home by two hustlers in 1986. They were apprehended, tried, and sentenced to life in prison despite using the “homosexual panic” defense. By 1991, my second gay friend was dead from AIDS. There is certainly a sense that gays are fine and a part of the city’s cultural heritage. But the city prefers that gays know the place and time for being visible. Savannah is as eccentric a city as any in the nation. In the springtime, it is as beautiful as any city in the world. Today, Savannah has a robust gay community, several busy gay clubs, and a Pride celebration that draws thousands to see the likes of RuPaul and other gay celebrities. Gay life didn’t begin in 1969, but it ascended the steps of the Basement Bar and never went underground again.
Jack Miller is a teacher and writer in Atlanta.
