BANISHED BOOKS

Sometimes I subject myself to punishment. Not in a masochistic way. There’s no gratification. In this case, it was to affirm a sad truth I already knew. 

 

I’d had a medical appointment last week on Vancouver’s Davie Street which was once the heart of the city’s “gay village.” That always seemed sad in and of itself. There’s never been anything pretty about the street. There were gay bars and gay businesses scattered among a hodgepodge of other establishments—a bakery that always seemed to have a lot of flies doing aerobatic loops, a hardware store that made mops and dustpans look especially dull, an overrated Greek restaurant that always had people lining the sidewalk. I lived in the area for a year or two and avoided most of the spots, not needing an apricot Danish, another toilet bowl cleaner or an instant, unanimous rejection at Celebrities as Crystal Waters sang “100% Pure Love.” The videostore was my most frequent destination.

 

The clubs are still there though I haven’t been in one in about a decade. The hardware store and bakery remain. Same for the Greek restaurant though I don’t think it draws the lines it once did.  The videostore is, alas, long gone. 

 

After my appointment, I should have headed east to begin the half hour walk home, but I paused and opted to go one more block in the other direction. Tucked away off Davie Street is Little Sister’s, a business I first knew from its previous location on the second floor of an old house on Thurlow Street. Back then, in the ’90s, it was a queer bookstore that always had people milling about, checking out books and each other. This was a place to be amongst other queers without having to order a drink. If no one made a move to take you home, you could at least leave with a work of fiction by Paul Monette, Armistead Maupin or a hot, new author, “hot” because he had a certain way with words, not necessarily on account of his photo on the back flap. 

 

The bookstore is very much part of gay history in Vancouver. It endured an ongoing battle with the Canada Border Services Agency which blocked the importation of various books the authority deemed obscene. Little Sister’s sued the government in 1990 and the case slooowly made its way through the court system until, a full decade later, the Canadian Supreme Court ruled in favor of the bookstore, stating the border agency had violated the Charter of Rights and Freedoms which protects against discrimination based on, inter alia, sexual orientation. 

 

A book once banned from entry
into Canada for delivery to
Little Sister's.

Also, of note, the bookstore had been smoke-bombed three times at its prior location, acts of intimidation that did not lead to the business shuttering. Thus, Little Sister’s was more than a place to buy a book by Maupin, or the blocked children’s book, Belinda’s Bouquet, or maybe even a titillating magazine. Its struggles reflected our own, as it trudged on despite hatred and discrimination. 

 

In 1996, the bookstore opened at its new location. Its doors being twenty steps back from the other businesses on Davie, patrons could take the back alley and park behind the store, never to be seen by pedestrians and drivers on the busy street. It seemed ideal as there were many more closeted queers at the time. (Yes, I always checked for a spot in the back first.) I clearly remember going to the store when it first opened. While its prior location had books stuffed in boxes, crammed everywhere with limited opportunities to prominently display anything, the new spot had rows and rows of beautiful shelves, of cherry wood according to my recollection. I remember thinking the rent to be much higher and the bookcases alone must have been a huge budget item in the re-lo plan. It was a stunningly beautiful space, a true showcase for queer lit that seemed to elevate the city and its gay ghetto, the otherwise lackluster Davie Street. 

 

That was long ago. Back in 2013, I blogged how much had changed. The bookstore, then named Little Sister’s Book & Art Emporium, seemed to retain the work “Book” in its sign as nothing more than a nod to the past. Gone were all the beautiful shelves. Gone were the books. The space was filled with those bright, cheaply made, Lycra and mesh short shorts and tank tops that are apropos for Pride parades, raves and not much else. There were prime displays of cock rings and dildos. Aside from a collection of greeting cards, I saw nothing to validate the word “Art” in the Little Sister’s sign either. It was a novelty store, a cross between International Male and a gay version of that ’80s mall standard, Spencer’s. A gay Barnes & Noble? Wishful thinking.

 

It’s that sort of thinking that made me opt for another walkthrough. I’d been buoyed in the past year by a new queer bookstore in Seattle. Seattle may be a UNESCO-designated  City of Literature, but surely Vancouverites didn’t just hike and build cock ring collections. We have just as much rain. Weren’t we readers, too? Couldn’t we enjoy in-person book browsing just as much? 

 

Hide and Seek: 
the book version

Hopeful, yes, but still I braced. I entered Little Sister’s Book & Art Emporium, empty at 10:30 on the weekday morning, and it was like passing through a time capsule. Sadly, from 2013, not 1996. Gaudy rainbow clothing plus a vast supply of lube, dildos and those ring things. Books? Yes, I found a few, seemingly hidden on plain shelves, first a few hundred used books, then “newer” books against another wall—one shelf poetry, one shelf memoir, four shelves of other nonfiction, four shelves for children, five shelves fiction. Strangely, the two display shelves with book covers fully on view were placed as a seeming afterthought at the bottom of the bookcase, level with my shoes. Bookselling was clearly not the draw. 

 

I walked out, disheartened and bookless. If the place even remains in business based on a consistent demand for cock rings, let it be a decade before I take another punishing peek.

 

 

GETTING COZY IN A QUEER BOOKSHOP

I like quirk. It’s why I love the Fremont neighborhood in Seattle and why I’ve made it the primary setting for a gay romance novel I’m writing. 

 

Fremont has always been a bigger draw for me than the traditionally gay area of the city, Capitol Hill. While that district may have the gay bars and a larger proportion of gay pedestrians for people watching, the truth is I was done with gay bars by the close of the last century and you can spot queer folks anywhere you go in the Seattle. We really are everywhere. Fremont has a troll under a bridge, a neon Rapunzel peering from a tower at the foot of a drawbridge, huge dinosaur hedges, a rocket ship, a paint-splattered statue of Josef Stalin and, as I discovered just this morning, a piece of the Berlin Wall. It’s also the site of a Google campus and a Solstice Parade which last year featured a fire-breathing dragon, sun gods, a ladybug float and, as always, naked painted cyclists. (Look it up.)

 

Diverse Santas on a 
shopkeeper's roof.

Fremont does everything with a wink, but I like to believe it also ascribes to a higher consciousness. People who weaponize the word woke might risk an aneurysm walking 36^th Street, peeking in store windows and seeing signs that say, “Black Lives Matter,” “Chefs and Restaurants Against Sexual Harassment,” “A Queer + Trans-Owned Workers Coop!” and “We Invite All Humans, Races, Religions, Countries of Origin, Genders, Sexual Orientations into Our Community. Our Doors and Hearts Are Open.” My kind of place.

 

Even more so as of yesterday. Walking with Evan to brunch, I noticed a small white bungalow with bright purple, pink and orange signage on the front: Charlie’s Books and Gifts. When did that spring up? My eyes are always wide open in Fremont and this was an exciting newbie in the hood. I love a bookstore. An independent one is all the better. (I have no desire to give a dime to Amazon.) I stopped and took a pic. “Let’s go in after we eat,” I said. And then my heart skipped a beat. (Much better than suffering an aneurysm.) The stenciled lettering in the front window said: QUEER BOOKS.

 

What?!

 

Gay book boutiques are a rare find these days. When I moved to Los Angeles three decades ago, I’d often pop into A Different Light Bookstore, an LGBT business in West Hollywood. At one point, the store also had locations in The Castro in San Francisco and New York City’s Greenwich Village. By 2011, they were all gone. NYC’s Oscar Wilde Bookshop shuttered in 2009 while Washington, D.C.’s Lambda Rising closed in 2010. The gay bookstore in Vancouver, Little Sister’s, is a sad remnant of what it once was, now relying on sex toys and skimpy gay apparel to stay in business. To open a new bookstore now only seems like a possibility in some fairytale land at the end of a rainbow. Or in Fremont.

 

What started as a sparkly silver “magical disco book cart” that wheeled its way to Seattle markets and Pride events is now a walled haven for queer bibliophiles, going strong after six weeks. It’s a bright space, a swath of pink paint wrapped around the bottom third of the interior walls, the remainder a clean, crisp white. A butcher block topped cart at the entry showcases current queer and queer-friendly reads such as new books by Dolly Parton, Barbra Streisand and The Old Gays. A children’s nook includes stuffed animals, plants on the windowsill and picture books like Big Wig, Perfectly Norman and Bodies are Cool. I browsed general fiction shelves and romance titles while Evan’s eyes were drawn to horror. (I keep telling myself opposites attract.) Near the checkout counter is a bright little banner that says, “YOU BELONG HERE”. Upstairs is a quiet area for reading and writing. What fun it will be to return and write a few scenes of my gay romance on site! 

 

As is the case for most bookstores these days, Charlie’s sells other merchandise, including canvas shopping bags, stickers, cards and t-shirts emblazoned with messages like “Protect Trans Folks” and “Read Banned Queer Books.” 

 

Books and other wares may be ordered online. I tested things out to determine shipping costs, a $20 book costing $6 to ship to Peoria, Illinois to arrive in five business days. It’s a way to back a queer-owned business rather than feeding the ever-ravenous Amazon. I have no ownership in Charlie’s, but sometimes it feels better to spend a little more when it goes to a better place.

 

While browsing, I overheard one of the owners, Charlie Hunts, identified on the store’s website as “a man of trans experience,” telling a queer author that readings and other events are planned for the new year. As part of its own social consciousness, the store is currently decorating a little Christmas tree, each ornament representing a patron’s donation to GenPride Center which seeks to provide housing and services for older LGBTQIA+ residents of Seattle and King County. It’s worth repeating: I love indie bookstores! 

 

I made off with a modest first purchase, First Time for Everything, a gay romance by first-time novelist, Henry Fry. Lots of firsts in that sentence. Here’s hoping Charlie’s lasts.

 

  

BOOK ENDS--Part 1

I’m a book guy. I like turning the pages, checking my progress as my bookmark creeps toward the halfway point and wondering what I did to create an orange splotch in the otherwise crisp white margin on page 143. (I swore off Cheetos years ago after my nephew couldn’t help licking the residue off each finger before fetching more from deep inside the bag.)

I have friends who swear by Kindles, Nooks and other techie reading gadgets. “So good for travel,” they all say. Funny how I can’t remember the last time any of them ventured beyond the international food aisle at Safeway.

I know that I’m unlikely to reread the finished books that sit like trophies on my crammed bookshelves. And all I can do is pick up and recycle abandoned plastic bottles discarded in gutters as penance for the fact I am contributing to the elimination of forests of trees that sacrifice their lives so I can hold my beloved tomes.

Logically, I realize I should change my ways. I am sure I could adjust to more hours spent gazing at a screen. Maybe I’d even look good in glasses.

But I don’t want to change.

I like my books, dammit. I like holding them, I like the simple acts of opening and closing them. I like glancing at familiar spines and forgetting most of the plot but recalling varying feelings of satisfaction (and author envy) from each reading experience.

I love wandering into a bookstore, seeking out the one title I’d gone in for and walking out forty-five minutes later with an armload of new reads. Every book shop visit is a treasure hunt and I invariably find a nugget or two of gold. Typically, the book I’d originally sought gets bumped down my reading list as a new Must-Read takes priority.

A week ago, I made a rare appearance on Davie Street in Vancouver’s West End, a gay hub of old that is losing its signs of Pride. In an era of greater acceptance of LGBT people and in a time of rising housing costs, the gays are leaving Vancouver’s gay ghetto and settling in the suburbs. (There is word that one unfortunate fellow even moved to an outlying area, accessible only by ferry.  The fool!)

I had a few minutes to kill so I wandered into Little Sister’s Bookstore aka Little Sister’s Book & Art Emporium, a LGBT bookstore. I wanted to pick up something new in YA gay fiction, a compelling memoir and perhaps a collection of humorous essays. (Surely David Sedaris doesn’t have a monopoly on the market.)

Little Sister’s has long been a business that has struggled to survive. When I first moved to Vancouver, the store filled the upper floor of a dilapidated wooden structure and relied on donations to help pay legal fees arising from censorship battles. Its move to a new space a decade ago with the large uncluttered, well stocked book collection was a sign that it would endure, even thrive. I remember stopping in during its opening weekend and feeling proud that this was a pillar of the gay community, a worthy hub instead of the bars.  

Little Sister’s 2013 looks a lot different. When I walked in, I immediately turned right in order to head to the spacious book section with the beautiful wooden shelves. I was shocked to see plastic hangers with dangling rainbow thongs, glittery kites, sex toys and a large greeting card section. Little Sister’s has always carried this merchandise but not to this scale. And not in the amazing book section.

I pivoted and reoriented myself. Ah, books! They were in the area that used to be a porn magazine or video section—I don’t fully remember as I was always too embarrassed to venture there, a lingering side effect of a reserved upbringing in which “Charlie’s Angels” was too racy.

I wandered over and dutifully surveyed the selection, a sparse mix of new and used books on shabby shelves.  The books in Little Sister’s Bookstore seemed like an afterthought. I shudder when I think of the logic: Well, no one buys cellophane-wrapped magazines anymore with free porn on the internet. Maybe we could unload a few books here. It was probably a sound business decision to relegate books to the back section, away from the windows, away from natural light, away from the natural foot traffic flow of the store. Apparently, lube, thongs and flags are the bigger sellers.

The book nook had a few general headings—Gay Books, Lesbian Books—but the collection seemed no more diverse or in depth than what one might find at any mid-sized urban bookstore (assuming that a few still exist).

I purchased nothing. The shock proved too much. I desperately wanted to support Little Sister’s in hopes that my single book purchase would be just what was needed to spur a book renaissance. Unfortunately, I could not find a promising new piece of YA fiction, an intriguing essay collection or a prized, unexpected nugget. While rainbow flags adorned other parts of the store, the book area might as well have been marked with a white flag.

Book days are over.

And I am in mourning.