The NYC Walking Tour Redefining What Qualifies as Queer History
The public historians that make up Close Friends Collective are making sure local queer narratives never fade into obscurity.
To the untrained eye, a Close Friends Collective tour could appear to be just a particularly inquisitive group of buddies out for a leisurely stroll in downtown Manhattan. But what’s actually happening is much more special.
Close Friends Collective is a public history organization that takes locals and tourists on queer walking tours through the Lower East Side and the East Village. In collaboration with the non-profit Henry Street Settlement and the bookstore Bluestockings Cooperative, the two-hour storytelling journeys include six stops—which change based on who is guiding the tour, the time of year, and current events—and discuss topics like the importance of queer spaces and how they’ve evolved over the centuries.
The name of the group is a cheeky nod to the way many queer romantic relationships have been diminished and erased by people referring to them as anything from close friends to roommates. At the forefront of the organization are the six founders and guides: Salonee Bhaman, Jimmy Fay, Natalie Hill, erin reid, Katie Vogel, and Daniel Walber. A mix of historians, educators, and a postdoctoral fellow, the crew was drawn together three years ago by a love of public history and a shared desire to not let local queer narratives fade into obscurity.
“There’s this idea at museums and other institutions of history that a specific degree of proof is needed to call something queer, to call someone gay in history,” says Hill. “By not being tied to that limitation, it allows us to share more lesser-known queer history than other institutions or historians.” “It’s history for the people and not from the ivory tower,” Bhaman adds.
With summer programming in full swing, I joined a Sunday afternoon tour of the Lower East Side. I arrive early—something I’ve been futilely attempting to make my new norm—at the Abrons Art Center, and am greeted by three of the six founders. A little after 11 am, a small group of us stagger across sloped, amphitheater-style seating, for the founders’ intro followed by an inaugural icebreaker: Share your name, pronouns, and how you found the Close Friends Collective. We exchange affirming nods and kind smiles as an ease settles across the group.
One of our first stops is outside the Seward Park Educational Campus on Ludlow Street. Now home to a public school ground, the building housed the Essex Market Police Court in the 1850s. It was here that a person named Charley was repeatedly arrested for the offense of cross dressing. The guides hand out laminated copies of an old newspaper article and a fictional depiction of what Charley might have looked like—we learn that Charley wore trousers and top hats, and possessed a “rough, boyish swagger.” Our guides explain how significant Charley was to history, as one of NYC’s first recorded transgender presences. “Charley slays,” says someone in the group.
We make our way along a busy stretch of Delancey Street, stopping in front of a now-closed subway restroom. In the 1930s, bathrooms like this one (along with parks and piers) were top cruising spots in the city. Cruising—the act of traveling to a certain destination in search of a casual and anonymous sexual partner—played (and still plays) a significant role in queer culture as a moment for people to experience their true sexuality, especially during times when homosexuality was criminalized in the US. The conversation opens to the group and we discuss what modern-day cruising looks like, from Grindr to Jacob Riis Beach and Fire Island. But compared to these more curated apps and destinations, what was so unique about bathroom cruising in NYC during the early to mid 20th century was how it created queer social space that spanned across race, socioeconomic backgrounds, and religious beliefs.
We briefly head uptown into the East Village for the next two stops. First, we admire intimate shots of gay sailors and the cruising scene at Chelsea Piers taken by the woefully underrated queer photographer and activist Alvin Baltrop, outside of what was once his apartment on First Avenue. Next, we stroll over to Avenue B to the site that previously housed STAR House (Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries), which was founded by the trans- and queer-rights activists Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera. Here, we encounter the most harrowing section of the tour. The guides connect a speaker, turn up the volume, and play an emotional clip of a Sylvia Rivera speech. The audio echoes through the quiet street, and when it’s over a poignant silence hangs over us. Eventually, my neighbor breaks the silence, “The strain in her voice stood out to me. The exhaustion of the fight.”
Back on the Lower East Side, we end the tour at queer-, trans-, and worker-owned Bluestockings Cooperative. A pillar of the community, the bookstore and cafe doubles as a resource hub by distributing free narcan, wellness literature, and hygienic products. Before we head our separate ways, the guides impart a final bit of knowledge upon us via book lists of their favorite reads—all of which can be found within the shop.
I peep around the bookstore, pocket the book list for later, and say my farewells. Among my fellow commuters on the Q train, I reflect on the day.
It’s easy to see why Close Friends Collective has so many repeat customers. While learning about niche queer figures and historical facts, a special bond is formed between the group. From platonic friendships to budding romances, we leave no longer strangers, but like-minded souls—allies.
“[Close Friends Collective] creates the conditions for a more connected world,” confirms Bhaman.
And in this day and age—with LGBTQIA+ books being banned in school systems, an increase in violence against the queer community, and continued transgender discrimination—organizations like the Close Friends Collective are more important than ever. “The stakes are so high for what education means, what we’re allowed to discuss, and people’s curiosities—especially that of young folks—are often shut down,” says Reid.
“It’s a combination of joy and intensity to make the assertion that queer people have always existed,” expresses Walber. “It’s essential to be able to say that we’ve always been here and always will be.”