Arts & Entertainment
How Dolly became a folk saint for Appalachian queers
Judging others is ‘God’s job, not a human responsibility or capacity’
American singer-songwriter and actress Dolly Parton died last month. Parton’s death was announced by the family with a tribute video in which her nephew Bryan Seaver noted that her final wish was to rest in a “beautiful bed of plush cotton” so that she could finally be comfortable after a lifetime of wearing rhinestones. Fans across the country and the Internet thanked her and took up the mantle — wearing rhinestones, cowgirl boots, and glittering hats to honor her legacy and hosted events incorporating her favorite colors (pink and yellow) alongside butterflies in celebration of her life.
Parton’s memorial has drawn an interestingly pan-generational crowd — from conservative elders to their queer and trans grandchildren and everyone in between who admired Parton not just for her music but also her commitment to putting books in the hands of children across the country to openly and defiantly expressing her love and affection for LGBTQ+ people, including her long-time driver and assistant who is a trans man. But for one group of folks, queer and trans Appalachians, Parton represented something special — the possibility of coexistence.
Along with being for some the first person who told queer and trans people she loved and affirmed them in her Tennessee drawl, Parton fiercely defended the fact that she and we could hold two things at once. For Parton, this meant being both a devout Christian and an out and proud advocate for the LGBTQ+ community, and for many queer and trans Appalachians, this meant the ability to be LGBTQ+ and people of faith, people from the country, people with accents who don’t have to give up their mountain heritage in order to join communities of affinity and solidarity.
Parton made clear that loving LGBTQ+ people was not a caveat to her faith, but it was directly the result of it. Parton was an LGBTQ+ ally because of how she was raised and what she believed. It was because she believed in a social justice gospel that she stood in solidarity with the LGBTQ+ community, even in the face of intense criticism (including after her death when eulogized by far right Christian leaders and public figures).
Dolly repeatedly shared her love for and faith in the LGBTQ+ community, most recently in the face of a Tennessee anti-trans law reported that sharing with The Hollywood Reporter: “I just want everybody to be treated good. They cannot help that any more than I can help being Dolly Parton.”
“I do not believe we should criticize and judge other people,” she said. “We should be accepting and loving. We are all God’s children.” Judging, she believed, was “God’s job, not a human responsibility or capacity.
For many LGBTQ+ people raised in faith traditions that continue to deny our existence or who argue that we can be changed to fit a cisgender, heterosexual norm, Parton was the devout Christian “meemaw” who we all knew — for some of us, they knew and loved us as we were and are but for others, the people who spoke and speak with her Appalachian tongue hurt us and continue to do so in the name of faith, continue to shun and try to convert us in the name of the same God Dolly knew.
Dolly never tried to change who we were. She believed that we, just like her, were exactly who we were meant to be. She never spurned her LGBTQ+ friends, questioning if the rumors she was a lesbian were so bad and joking that “if I hadn’t been a woman, I would’ve been a drag queen.” Parton changed lives, I know, by being a proud Christian woman who continued to love and stand with LGBTQ+ people.
And unlike other LGBTQ+ allies in name only, Parton’s allyship was never performative. Parton co-owned Sandollar Productions, one of the companies that produced “Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt,”the 1989 documentary about the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt. She wrote the Oscar-nominated song “Travelin’ Thru” for the 2005 film “Transamerica,” and when a Dollywood visitor was asked to turn a shirt recognizing marriage equality inside out to cover the message, she publicly apologized, offered refunds, and reinforced that “all families are welcome” at the park.
Hers was a Christian faith that stood firmly on action (best seen in her support of marginalized communities across the country), and for queer and trans people, including The Skeptic Pastor, also known as Jeremy Steele, it was a ministry. Steele put it best when he described Dolly Parton as “a lifeline and honestly a minister to me.” “When I hear these things, when I see these videos, she’s talking to me, and especially growing up in the Deep South, closeted queer, this was everything.”
This was another critical part of Parton’s legacy. The 80-year-old was also fiercely open about and proud of her Tennessee heritage. Despite continued attacks on her appearance, her background, and the way that she spoke (something many people from the mountains experience), Parton did not try to cover up her humble beginnings and how they shaped not just her understanding of faith but her legacy of action.
For many LGBTQ+ people born and raised in Appalachia (along with the South and Midwest), we rarely see representation of our strong and mighty communities in the media. In all three regions, gay bars served as vital sanctuaries and community hubs in rural and blue-collar regions, although many are shuttering after the economic downtown during the COVID-19 pandemic and communities shifting increasingly online. From The Shamrock in Bluefield, W. Va., to The Jungle in Nashville, and The Mark III Tap Room in Muncie, Ind., these gay bars show us that LGBTQ+ people have always and will always live across the country.
While depictions of thriving queer communities on screen are largely contained to the East and West Coasts, the queer and trans people raised with accents and communities like Dolly’s know that there is a rich queer subculture at home, one that our ancestors created for us and we continue to nurture and celebrate. But largely because of continued trauma from far right religious pundits, of continued caricatures of “red necks,” and out of fear that people with our voices and our backgrounds will be bigoted and close-minded, we are hesitant to share who we are, to show up as ourselves in spaces of affinity and solidarity.
Parton’s legacy, as queer artist Grace Haley painted beautifully on a bright pink horse after the icon’s passing, was that “it’s okay to be gay in Tennessee.”
As someone who was incredibly hesitant joining queer spaces in Washington, D.C. because of growing up in the Midwest and going to school in the Rust Belt, I didn’t know if I’d fit in, but as soon as I walked up to the doors at the Adams-Morgan gay bar Pitchers and saw that cardboard cut out of Dolly Parton in the window, I realized I was welcome — not just the part of me that is queer but also the part of me that pronounces it “pee-can” pie.
Yes, Parton was and is controversial for many reasons. Some have argued that she could have been louder on some issues, especially the ongoing human rights crisis in Gaza, and some have pointed out that she died a millionaire. Although she gave away much of her money and established programs promoting literacy and healthcare in rural parts of the country, including in Tennessee where she grew up, some pointed out that she still contributes to a system of capitalist exploitation that extracted humanity out of her own community. Others have also criticized her involvement with the U.S. military.
But it’s important to remember that Parton was human. When people call her an angel, we all know what they mean, but it can sometimes make it hard for us to feel that we can ever be who she was or that we should even try.
Instead, people online are urging others to remember her instead as a folk hero, as a folk saint — complex and human but also someone that we can become, someone whose memory we can call on for strength and hope in times of struggle. As the LGBTQ+ community mourns her passing, I am heartened to see her recognized in this way, to see her canonized in the queer community as a folk saint of Appalachia, a folk saint of queer allies, and a folk saint of the Appalachian queers just like me.
a&e features
Bar Betsie, inviting and intimate, marks one-year anniversary
Not that a basic vodka-soda should ever dare to appear in print on the craft cocktail list at year-old Bar Betsie, but if it did, its name would be written in big black block letters, back-lit, on a marquee behind the 14-seat bar, with its ingredients – Tito’s, seltzer water – sitting visible on a shelf above.
Inviting and intimate, and with that arresting visual representation of cocktail ingredients along the wall, Bar Betsie has brought its vibes-forward approach to a dynamic corner of bustling Union Market. The sophomore effort from owners JP Sabatier, Ralph Brabham, and Drew Porterfield, the trio took a different tack at Bar Betsie than at their other, older (though not by much) 14th Street bar, Jane Jane.
Bar Betsie allowed Sabatier, Brabham, and Porterfield to expand their creativity. The three first connected several years ago, when JP was manager of Maydan and Brabham and Porterfield owned Beau Thai and BKK Cookshop. Immediately hitting it off, they dreamed of opening a bar together and in 2021, it became a reality, in the form of Jane Jane.
Featuring a short list of craft, rotating cocktails and shareable bar snacks, Bar Betsie is Jane Jane’s “grittier, edgier” sister. While Jane is named after Porterfield’s mother, Bar Betsie gets its moniker from Sabatier’s mom.
“While Jane Jane is going on a field trip, Bar Betsie feels like you’re skipping school,” says Brabham. Bar Betsie brings more of a party vibe, he says. They landed in the Union Market neighborhood after thinking through what a second bar might feel like: not a carbon copy, but an atmosphere unique to its physical space and surroundings. Union Market and its transitional nature translates to the bar’s interiors: its mood lighting regardless of time of day, the crushed-velvet booths, the blood-red curved curtains to the bathrooms and kitchen, and the air of timeless mystique contrast to the elevated, buttoned-up cocktail bar that is Jane Jane. No one would bat an eye if a cabaret broke out on top of the bar. When in Bar Betsie, they say, it’s as if the warm lighting cuts through the vibe (and the stories) of 50-year-old cigarette smoke in the air.
They decided to make the cocktail menu more concise: 12 to 15 signature drinks at a time. Tequila and mezcal lead the program (again, a nod to mom Betsie, who prefers agave-based liquors). Drinks rotate seasonally (a cocktail flip is happening this month) and are developed committee-style to ensure that the whole team has input. The Clover Cult has been especially popular, with bluecoat gin, raspberry, vermouth, and lemon, but passed through a high-speed blender that whips the drink into a frenzy: it’s a “yummy, sweet cocktail with foam with a beautiful pink color,” says Brabham.
Beers feature locally brewed options, like from DC Brau and Atlas, alongside a wine program featuring skin-contact wines. And hewing to that party-forward vibe, there’s a host of shooters like the blackberry firing squad with tequila and lime.
As for the food, Bar Betsie has a true kitchen, allowing Sabatier to stretch his cheffy wings (he attended the Culinary Institute of America). Bar snacks are plentiful, including Buffalo chicken dip, a giant pretzel with beer cheese, and chicken tinga nachos that are “fucking delicious” says Raplh. “We’re aiming for food that’s snacky, salty, crunchy, and tasty to pair with the drinks.” Guest chefs show up on Sundays for kitchen cameos.
Since opening Bar Betsie, the trio has welcomed some additional acclaim. They’ve begun to set up activations with other bars; last month, they held a pop-up at new cocktail den Frank’s Wild Years, and there’s an upcoming collaboration with Death &Co, the famed bar in Blagden.
Bar Betsie occupies a unique place in the city’s pantheon of drinking destinations. All three owners are gay, and yet this (like Jane Jane) is not a gay bar.
“We never hide who we are,” say Brabham and Porterfield. “There’s always the recognition of the community we come from, and love, and want to celebrate.”
They want people to know who they are and what they stand for, showing that by being inclusive and open in their support of the community. They work to ensure that the staff is diverse and inclusive as well. They also dropped an exclusive Easter egg: behind the medicine-cabinet mirrors in the bathroom is a video screen playing footage of drag queens either getting ready, fixing, or removing makeup and wigs. “It’s a little IYKYK moment, something fun and true to who we are as a queer-celebrating and owned space,” they say.
Movies
10 years later, we still can’t shake Barry Jenkins’s ‘Moonlight’
Landmark queer film returned to theaters this past weekend
It all started back at the Telluride Film Festival, where “Moonlight” had its world premiere in 2016, kicking off a successful awards season run. It instantly became the year’s critical darling, and it wound up winning three Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Adapted Screenplay (for Jenkins), and Best Supporting Actor (for Mahershala Ali.)
But there’s a world where an independently made film like “Moonlight,” featuring an all-Black cast with mostly unknown actors, and a story exploring how queerness intersects with toxic masculinity and race, gets easily overlooked. The fact that the film won Best Picture on Hollywood’s biggest stage not only cemented its place in film history, but helped the story reach more Black and queer people.
Adapted from Tarell Alvin McCraney’s unproduced, autobiographical play “In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue,” Jenkins follows a boy named Chiron, introduced to the audience as Little, over the course of three pivotal moments in his upbringing. Set in Miami, the film tracks Chiron’s days as an outcast struggling to make it through elementary school, to his first sexual encounter with another boy, to his adult days making a living as a drug dealer. Chiron suffocates while living with his abusive, drug-addicted mother (Naomie Harris) and eventually finds refuge and safety in the home of surrogate parents Juan (Ali) and Teresa (Janelle Monáe) as he struggles to reckon with his queerness.
Jenkins’s images instantly became iconic: Juan holding Little in the ocean, a moment reminiscent of a young boy’s baptism; Chiron resting his head on Kevin’s (André Holland) shoulder as the two reconcile their love for one another; Little looking back at the audience as the waves crash.
The film mainly features locals from Miami. One of the smartest choices Jenkins and his casting director, Yesi Ramirez, made when shaping out Chiron’s journey was casting three different actors (Alex Hibbert, Ashton Sanders, and Trevante Rhodes) to play the character as he physically comes of age. Jenkins deliberately never had the three actors meet despite portraying the same character — quite the atypical approach to casting.
“I wanted [that decision] to be a comment on the way of the world we live in, and how society has this effect on these young men who grow up in a community like the one depicted in the film,” Jenkins said in a Creative Screenwriting interview in February 2017. “To me, the best way to show that was to illustrate this change in the character, and what happens to the people who are playing him at each stage.”
In the decade since “Moonlight”’s release, dozens of filmmakers cite Jenkins as one of their biggest influences, including Joe Talbot (“The Last Black Man in San Francisco”). And you can see his film’s footprints all over “Nickel Boys, If I Go Will They Miss Me” and “Waves,” all films that use evocative imagery to tell grounded, Black-led stories.
To date, “Moonlight” remains the lowest-budget film to ever win Best Picture, made for a mere $1.5 million dollars. It was also the first film that A24, the indie distributor that was still building a name for itself back in 2016, fully financed and produced itself. “Moonlight” went on to gross over $60 million at the global box office, largely thanks to the Oscars platform.
In our current political and media landscape under the Trump-Vance administration, “Moonlight” has the potential to save even more lives. In the early days depicted in Chiron’s upbringing, he is taught to live with shame, to keep his head down at school. It’s all about survival. But by the end of the film, Chiron reconnects with Kevin and finds himself remembering all the emotions he felt after being touched by a man for the first time. It’s a small step, a small embrace, but a crucial one for Chiron to start coming to terms with himself.
Jenkins still gets emotional when watching scenes back from the film now. Speaking with Vanity Fair at this year’s Telluride Film Festival, where “Moonlight” screened for its 10th anniversary, Jenkins admitted he was a “crying mess” when revisiting the last 15 minutes of the film earlier in the year.
“Maybe over the next few months I’ll get some more understanding of it, but I think it was just how meaningful it was that we created this thing,” Jenkins said. “It’s not about the film itself, but just how meaningful it was that we actually did it.
In the decade since “Moonlight”’s release, Jenkins went on to direct another acclaimed film, “If Beale Street Could Talk,” and recently made “Mufasa: The Lion King.” He’s set to return to his more independent roots with “Be My Baby” starring Zendaya, which will also be distributed by A24, and an Alvin Ailey biopic. The Oscar winner continues to mentor emerging filmmakers and writers through the Sundance Labs, visiting colleges around the country to teach what he learned from making his breakout film.
Now that “Moonlight” is back in theaters, it’s the perfect opportunity for queer and Black people to experience this tender, intimate, nuanced film on the big screen. It’s a modern classic with the potential to continue making people feel seen and embraced for every aspect of their identity.
Theater
‘Some Like It Hot’ a wild ride at renovated Bernard Family Theatre
Exhilarating show brimming with fun, feeling, and focus on gender exploration
“Some Like It Hot”
Through Nov. 8
Olney Theatre Center
2001 Olney-Sandy Spring Rd.
Olney, Md.
Olneytheatre.org
There’s reason to celebrate at Olney Theatre Center. Currently, they’re debuting their renovated Bernard Family Theatre while inaugurating the soaring new space with a regional premiere of “Some Like It Hot,” the musical adaptation of Billy Wilder’s classic 1959 comedy.
Toying with this cinematic gem took some cojones, but it works.
The film and the Tony Award-winning musical share similar plot lines: After witnessing a mob hit, Chicago musicians Joe and Jerry need to leave town. So, they don dresses, join Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopators all-female band, and board a train headed for warmer climes (Southern California). As Josephine and Daphne, they experience new slants on romance, gift giving, and the male gaze. It’s funny and illuminating.
Helmed by out artistic director Jason Loewith, OTC’s exhilarating production is brimming with fun, feeling, and the musical’s focus on Black identity and gender exploration (recreated for Broadway by writers Matthew López /Amber Ruffin, and songwriting team Marc Schaiman/Scott Whittman).
OTC’s Loewith embraces it all while masterfully bringing together big dance numbers, romantic interludes, slapstick, and what’s more, he makes it look easy.
It’s 1933, deep in the Great Depression, and no-nonsense bandleader Sweet Sue (the excellent Ashleigh King) sets the speakeasy scene with “What Are You Thirsty For?” (not an unusual inquiry during the Prohibition era).
Away from Chicago at San Diego’s glamorous Coronado Hotel, matters become further complicated for Joe (Jacob Tischler) as he pursues the band’s irresistibly unreliable Sugar Kane, sensitively played by the talented Montria Walker. (A couple of her songs, including “A Darker Shade of Blue,” describe a rural Georgia, Jim Crow backstory.)
Meanwhile, Daphne (nonbinary actor Tavis Kordell) is learning a new love language with impish root beer fortune heir Osgood Fielding III (terrific out actor Edward Juvier).
Drinking in a Mexican cantina not far from the hotel, Osgood tenderly serenades Daphne with “Fly, Mariposa, Fly,” a romantic number about metaphorically spreading wings, and transformation. The beloved’s powerful reply number “You Coulda Knocked Me Over with a Feather” is filled with emotional revelation.
In its examination of gender fluidity and self-discovery, the musical isn’t an indoctrination. Instead, audiences accept what’s happening on stage, and soon they’re seduced and painlessly invested in the characters’ wellbeing.
Frank Labovitz’s intelligent costume design is brimming with storytelling. Joe and Jerry’s quick change from guys to girls isn’t flashy — at first. It’s all drab colors, modest hem lengths…street clothes pulled from the Great Depression. Later it’s showbiz silver sequins.
An adept and marvelous actor, Tishler does double duty as the straight and funny man. Even when dolled up for gigs, his Josephine destroys the look with men’s black socks, the dowdy wig, and cockeyed glasses, hilariously setting up a running gag of how Joe, as Josephine, looks so much older than the other girls in the band.
For “Some Like It Hot,” Karla Puno Garcia’s wide-ranging choreography style ranges from those early 1930s flapper flicks (think the young manic Joan Crawford) to something more elegant, Joe and Sugar dancing à la Fred and Ginger in the show’s dreamy number “Let’s Dance the World Away.” Another highlight is the second act’s penultimate number “Tip Top Trouble,” a wild but meticulously staged, gloriously gender bending, sixteen-person, cops and robbers chase sequence.
Top notch music director Christopher Youstra reliably delivers Marc Shaiman’s swinging, 1920s and 30s-inspired score played by a mostly hidden 10-piece band and mimed onstage by Sue’s lively Syncopators.
And in meeting the specialness of the challenge, scenic designer Ryan Douglass transforms the newly renovated theater into a good club setting featuring a colorful inlaid thrust stage surrounded by cabaret tables where just several short yards ahead of Row C, a contented couple is served a bottle of Champagne while settling in before the show starts.
Today, the Bernard Family Theatre with its raftered ceiling and industrial vibe suggests past and promise for the future.
For now, experience the revamped wild ride in a wonderfully redone space.
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