Columbia's queer creatives on standing their ground, finding space in a red state

This is a story of profiles on queer people who live, work and create in Columbia, S.C. 

Chelsea Ford, restaurant owner & bartender (They/Them)

Working in the food and beverage industry is not for the faint of heart. Minimum wage, long hours, and unruly and rude customers weigh on service workers’ mental and physical health.

As a longtime barista at Drip Coffee and then Curiosity Coffee, Chelsea Ford (who uses they/them pronouns) saw all of this firsthand. It’s why they, along with Jess Ochoa, Will Green and a third, unnamed partner opened The Hoot.

Situated on Rosewood Drive in a warm, casual basement space, The Hoot was envisioned as a space for servers, bartenders, chefs and bussers to find a career where they’re supported and paid.

“Food and beverage has a lot of toxic tendencies, and we really wanted to create a space where people could love what they do — and not at the expense of their mental health,” Ford said.

Ford moved to Columbia in 2015, around the same time they came out as queer and started working in coffee shops. Since, Ford and their business partners have become outspoken advocates for workers’ rights. The issues Ford saw for years came to a boil during the COVID-19 pandemic.

“The lack of respect for the people who are serving them food and bev, as if food and bev aren't two of the main components of life, is wild,” Ford said.

Ford wants The Hoot to be a place of inclusion and respect; it’s a sentiment they echo when speaking on the broader queer community in Columbia.

“The fact of the matter is that the LGBTQ+ community is everywhere, so there's gonna be a cross-section everywhere,” Ford explained. “It's just whether or not it's visible.”

Terrance Henderson, choreographer and performance artist (He/Him)

When he first began teaching and dancing in Columbia more than 20 years ago, Terrance Henderson was a “unicorn.” Being Gay, Black and a performer, the spaces he was in were not filled with folks who looked, loved or sounded like him.

It’s why Henderson stayed in Columbia. The years since have taught him a lot: how to say “no,” how to protect his peace and how to lay the groundwork for those who will come after him. It’s as rewarding a job as it is exhausting.

“What made me feel out of place a lot of times felt like it was my real purpose here,” Henderson, who uses he/him pronouns, said. “I'm a whole person. I always wanted to be a whole person. And so my purpose in the community was also important.”

As the founding member of Vibrations Dance Company, a musical and stage choreographer and a teacher, Henderson has done just that. And his investment in Columbia has paid off — but it hasn’t been without ignorance.

“A lot of my journey was sort of the struggle of trying to exist inside of the boxes that were created and then ultimately learning that I don't fit in any of that,” Henderson said. “And then (to) just get in there and start really knocking the walls down, actually.”

With a little perspective and a lot of life experience, Henderson has thought a lot about the needs of Columbia and its creative community. For one, community members need to be taken seriously, and they need a seat at the table, he said.

“We have a ways to go in terms of valuing artists’ perspectives on how the world works,” Henderson said. “That's where I would like to see us move more to, and I think that I've spent this last part of my career in that space of trying to be a voice toward the creative perspective.”

After so many years of being the advocate and the boundary breaker, Henderson wants to take something for himself, too. In Columbia, particularly in the dance world, “being Black is a constant,” he said. His race and sexual identity were things he used to tamper down or hide in certain spaces, all so he could keep moving upward.

But now Henderson is one of the most sought-after choreographers in the city. He’s an established artist with a perspective no one else can claim. He wants to own it.

“That's been a lot of it: trying to navigate how to be my full self,” Henderson said.

Cassie Premo Steele, writer & poet (She/Her)

Cassie Premo Steele came out as a lesbian in 2012. Four years later, when Donald Trump won the U.S. presidency, she felt a fear she had never felt before. A fear for her daughters and neighbors, yes, but also a fear for herself.

But the poet had a lifeline: her “Gilead Sisters,” a writing group of mostly queer women who met once a week to talk about writing, life and their core truths.

“During what I call The Plague Years, when it was particularly hard to be gay in South Carolina, I had this lifeline of these Gilead sisters, and they really helped me write poems that originated as just journal entries telling the absolute truth to myself on the page,” Premo Steele, who uses she/her pronouns, said.

(Gilead is a region in the Middle East referred to in the Christian Bible. It was also used by Margaret Atwood as the name of the patriarchal regime that stripped away rights for women in “The Handmaid’s Tale.”)

Those poems became “Swimming in Gilead,” a collection due out this fall that examines what it meant to navigate the rough political and social waters of the past several years.

Now, the “acute anxiety” she felt between 2016 and 2020 has faded. “I feel like it's become a condition that I live under,” Premo Steele said. But the tumult of the past decade hasn’t made Premo Steele any less in love with South Carolina.

“(Our family) sees things in the news and they're like, ‘Why do you stay?’ And the answer is, because we need to have a diverse community in order for things to thrive,” Premo Steele said.

Premo Steele wants the outcasts in society — queer folks, people of color, those living with disabilities — to stay and fight. And if anyone gets tired or scared, she wants to lend them a hand.

“I feel like if things are going to get better, then people have to stay to help them get better,” she said. “Even if you're just treading water and not really swimming in Gilead, even if you're just keeping your head above water, call out for friends when you start to go under.”

Nori Noir, DJ & designer (They/Them)

Nori Noir contains multitudes. The Renaissance-esque nonbinary artist, who uses they/them pronouns, is a fashion designer, DJ, artist, director, music producer and photographer.

Each medium refracts a different part of Noir’s identity. Their artwork illustrates the cute, bubbly joy of gender euphoria. Their fashion designs are reminiscent of the grungy subculture they find an audience within. Their remixes are queer-honoring, steeped in the ‘90s club kid culture that influenced much of mainstream culture in the ensuing decades.

“I don't make things that most other people make, so I feel like whenever people are really into my stuff I find a niche crowd,” Noir said. “With Columbia being the type of city that it is, it's really cool to be able to find people that are into the small niche type of art that I do.”

Noir has lived in several cities — from New York to LA to Atlanta to Charlotte — but came back home to be closer to family, and for the Midlands’ lower cost of living.

Over the past 15 years they’ve spent (on and off) in Columbia, Noir has seen how space for everyone can be carved out.

“It shouldn't be a hindrance for people coming here because, whether you're super flamboyant or just normal, there is a community for everyone here,” they said.

Noir said living in bigger cities, people would be shocked Columbia has a dedicated queer scene. It’s small, but it’s here, they explained.

“There are small parties, there are clubs, there are events that are really quiet and lowkey, there are gigs that are big and loud, but there's definitely something for everyone here,” they said.

Beyond finding an audience and a space for themself, Noir uses their artistic endeavors to educate people on where and when queer culture comes from.

“There aren't queer spaces for DJs in Columbia, and there's not a lot of queer music that gets played, so whenever I do a set to Columbia, I make sure that I'm playing a lot of queer artists or stuff that was played in the queer scene from the ‘90s,” Noir said.

Bryanna Myers (a.k.a. Bryanna Lefaris), Drag queen (She/Her)

Family is important to Bryanna Myers.

She has her biological mother, her drag mother and her trans mother. Each woman has poured into Myers. And now, as a rising drag queen in Columbia and beyond, Myers wants to take the love and support she’s received and give it back.

It took her a while to find that place. Her first two years of doing drag, Myers said, were just “trauma.”

“Everything is not always going to be peachy and creamy,” Myers recalled. “You have your ups and downs. When I talked to my drag mom (local queen Paris LeFaris) about me actually wanting to do shows and do pageants, she said I had to find my itch.”

That “itch” wasn’t dancing. It wasn’t singing or comedy or lip-syncing. She found it about a year ago; her itch is making people feel.

“I love making people feel the emotion behind the song. If it's happy, it's happy. If it's a sad song, I'm sorry. If it's a sexual song ...” Myers chuckled.

Her drag persona, Bryanna Lefaris, is known for emotive ballads and gospel truths. It’s an out-loud expression that differs from Myers' quiet, introspective demeanor. And even though she’s found her voice onstage, it can still be a scary way to live when she’s not in the spotlight.

“Every day, I’m a woman. And I don't mind being wherever, however, as I am, but when I have on all that drag makeup, I'm still very shocked to go out places because I hate the whole idea of gay-bashing. Still, I try to stay away from that,” she said.

Being a Black trans woman, Myers sees the divisions and racism that still exists in Columbia and within the queer community. It’s made her avoid certain places, but it’s also made her want to be a queen for the “freaks and the outcasts.”

“One thing I want to see change is to start canceling out the Blacks versus the Whites,” Myers said. “In South Carolina, we have a Black pride and we have regular pride. The African Americans are welcome to Outfests and whatever, but it's not put together. We have to stand as one. We need real unity.”