There I was on a recent summer evening, drinking coffee in a crowded Hell’s Kitchen cafe in Manhattan. I wasn’t texting, tweeting, or scrolling; just drinking coffee – like a psychopath.
I was surrounded by a sea of vibrant faces, primarily gay, and illuminated mainly by the glow of their smartphone screens. The irony isn’t lost on me – here I am, in New York City, in a place teeming with potential connections, yet feeling completely isolated and unseen.
The lack of casual conversation and interaction was so itense that I could hear every word of a customer’s order. A playlist of songs by angry women streamed in the background. An overzealous barista occasionally drowned out Melissa Ethridge’s angst: “Sandra?! Hot Venti chai tea latte with a double shot of vanilla. Sandra?!!”
It wasn’t always this way. Not long ago, communal spaces buzzed with animated conversations, laughter, and the eclectic, spontaneous energy of people genuinely present and in the moment;. This evening, as I survey my surroundings, I see a fragmented landscape divided by invisible barriers of technology and generational gaps. A scenario confirmed by the cafe’s near-deafening silence.
The generational divide, especially in the gay community, is stark. As a Gen Xer, I’m part of a dying breed that straddles the line between the analog and digital worlds. I know what life is like without the internet. I know (and occasionally miss) the freedom of living life off the grid. Growing up, we didn’t take pictures of our food or air our family’s dirty laundry in public, and if we WERE acting up or getting in trouble, no one was recording it. As the saying goes, it didn’t happen if there were no photos.
I grew up when being gay was still a struggle and scary. AIDS decimated our community, collectively making homosexuals the target of hatred and violence.
Conversely, I am part of this digital world and a grateful beneficiary of the internet and its possibilities. But, as an analog OG living among digital natives, the disconnect between our generations is palpable. I see younger queer folks, their identities fluid, their flamboyant manners unchallenged, and their knowledge of gay history limited to RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Their uninterest in gay history and lack of appreciation of what took place to provide the rights we now enjoy puts a chip on the shoulders of many older members of the LGBT community, which only reinforces the generational divide.
A divide exacerbated by the shift from physical to digital spaces. The coffee shop I sit in is a perfect microcosm of society. While online platforms have undoubtedly provided invaluable resources and connections for many in our community, especially those in isolated areas, they’ve also contributed to the erosion of our physical gathering spaces. Gay bars are closing, community centers are struggling, and the art of face-to-face connection seems to be fading.
I’m willing to wager that if you walked into any gay bar in Anywhere, USA, what should be a lively scene would instead be a tableau of people hunched over their phones, swiping and tapping rather than cruising and groping. Without question, digital devices are damaging our interpersonal abilities. We’ve become so accustomed to the comfort of our smartphones that we’ve forgotten how to navigate the natural world and the clumsiness that goes with it.
Human lives cannot be explained by single categories such as gender, race, and sexual orientation. And this intersectionality adds another layer of complexity to our community. As a cisgender gay man, I recognize that my experiences are just one facet of the LGBT mirror ball. Whether you admit it or not, deep down, you must know that the All-for-One-and-One-for-All image the LGBT community puts forth every June is just a facade. On July 1st, we fall back into the factions that continue to separate our community. Whether it’s twink, trans, drag queen, bear, daddy, non-binary, leather, or whatever – our community isn’t the love fest we pretend it to be.
If we want to narrow the divide, we need to start by getting to know one another on a fundamental level. Relax, girl; no one is looking to be your bestie. But as a gesture of human kindness, you should be able to hold a conversation with someone who isn’t an exact clone of yourself. Bitches, you know who you are.
So, when it comes to becoming the “community” we call ourselves, we should ask how we can come together. How can we create physical spaces that embrace and celebrate all identities and interests?
It’s a challenging quest, but our tribe has faced worse. I’m inspired by the advice found in the gospel of Inaya Day: Take your problems to the dance floor.
A recent outing gives me hope. I attended a gay daytime dance party where all digital devices were checked at the door. The transformation I witnessed was remarkable. Without the constant distraction of notifications, social media, and obligatory selfies, people talked. They laughed. They danced. They connected and engaged in ways I haven’t seen in years. It was a powerful reminder of what we’ve been missing.
And for the socially co-dependant types, it was proof of what we older queens have always known: your friends will find you. You don’t need to drop a pin or cling to your text messages like a digital life preserver. Part of the experience is walking around, exploring, mingling, flitting, or whatever until you find your clique and all is right with the world.
If you should meet your Mr. Right Now and decide to get down and dirty, no busybody is hovering over you, filming it and counting the seconds until he can post it to his InstaTeleFaceGramTokChat.
If you don’t listen to Inaya, listen to Madonna; music makes people come together.
Since the 1970s, the dance floor has been a sacred place for gays to gather, leave the week’s stress behind, kiki, and carry on until the wee hours, free from judgment. A spiritual place. A temple of our people. We touch one another and connect, directing our energy toward a common goal: to give ourselves and each other the strength to carry on, to have pride and the courage to live out loud.
Why is the dance floor so sacred? Because it’s a place where we can find rare moments of connection, joy, and liberation. It’s about being outrageous, reclaiming our space, celebrating who we are, and being seen – unapologetically. We take our problems to the dance floor and dance through the pain and the joy, the past and the future. By the journey’s end, as the sun slowly rises, we step into the sunlight, renewed with the spirit to celebrate ourselves and not be ashamed of who we are – even if just for a moment.
We are missing that these days, and we need to get it back.
The event I attended was a one-off experiment in social gatherings. But what if we created digital-free events like this regularly. Not just in New York but in every city. Think of a safe space to dance, feel awkward, make social stumbles, and maybe meet someone new. Someone unexpected. You might discover that your life partner has been hiding in plain sight, but in a place, you would never look.
The challenge of closing the gap between the analog dinosaurs and the digital newbies while ensuring that the gay interests are included and welcomed is challenging. But so what? We queers are a resilient bunch.
It’s a long road ahead, and the first step is always the hardest. It starts with each of us making a conscious effort to reach out and come together… and maybe cum together.
Thank you for reading. Please contact me with your opinion on this piece or suggest topics for future articles.
RyanRockfordNYC@gmail.com
