My Montrose: A Coming Out Story

 Jason Loyd Clement

June 2009, National Trust for Historic Preservation

I’ve been employed at the National Trust for Historic Preservation for seven months.

And if you asked Dolores McDonagh, our Vice President for Membership and the creator of our This Place Matters campaign, she’d say without blinking an eye that seven months is plenty of time to have taken at least one picture in front of a historic place that is close to my heart. 

Truth be told, I had a plan all along. I wanted my first stab at documenting the places that tell my story to start at the humble site that matters perhaps the most to me, located at the corner of Westheimer and Yoakum in Houston’s gayborhood, Montrose.

I finally made it happen a week ago while visiting my old stomping ground. You’re probably thinking, “It took a flight across the country for you to take a photo in front of a tiled wall?” Point taken, but I assure you: that tiled wall was and still is a place that means the world to me.

I attended high school in one of the countless master-planned communities that are inorganically grown on Houston’s fringe. Dubbed First Colony, this massive development straddles land among the first granted to Stephen F. Austin in his succession quest for Texas. With a lineage like that, it’s easy to imagine there is a historical marker every fifteen feet or so. Instead, those who engineered First Colony took a bite out of the sprawl playbook and spit out a non-place of impervious nothingness, trees that grow in straight lines, and residential “neighborhoods” marketed by income level.

One Sunday, a sixteen-year-old version of myself received an AOL instant message from a guy named Leo, a fellow junior at my high school who had recently come out. It was an invitation to an afternoon in Montrose. I knew immediately that his invite originated after weeks of rumors that started after other classmates spotted my screen name in gay chat rooms. 

Suddenly, denial was not my gut reaction. 

With the cursor and my heart pulsing at near-equal intervals, I remember looking down at the little AOL man who was sprinting in an endless loop at the bottom of our instant message window. I realized that, just like him, I had been running for years, but from my truth.

The next thing I knew, the First Colony entrance sign surrounded by faux gas lights disappeared in Leo’s rearview mirror; I was Montrose bound.

Our first stop was at a meeting for the Houston Area Teen Collation of Homosexuals. He said I would have fun even if I didn’t talk, which wasn’t going to be complicated – I was terrified. 

He was right. The room was welcoming and full of catty and creative free spirits. Ten minutes in, a clipboard landed on my lap. It was a newcomer questionnaire, and in addition to name and e-mail, there was a section with five checkboxes: straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender. With the weight of Leo’s stare on my right hand, I put it in writing: Jason Loyd Clement is gay.

After what felt like milliseconds, we ended up at a place so appropriately named that it made me chuckle – Crossroads. A combo bookstore and coffee shop, it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. An espresso machine hummed under a disco ball, Madonna sang over thumping speakers about a beautiful stranger, and there were stacks of books and magazines about the community I just entered.

Surrounded by Leo and his “family” at a patio table, I was given one of the rainbow bracelets they sold inside and introduced to an entirely new language: I was now a “newbie,” my best female friend was my “hag,” and only “bears” and “otters” went to the bar across the street. 

I knew my life was never going to be the same. 

My curfew came and went, but I didn’t care. Around 10:00 PM, Leo fumbled and grabbed my hand beneath the table. That moment was more significant than checking a box. 

I was out, and I was living. 

Fast forward to today, some ten years later. Crossroads has closed its doors like many beloved gay cafes and bookstores. While I wish I could walk in and bob to cheese pop while I wait for a latte, I’m thankful that one of the most salient moments of my life is tied to a historic building that still stands. A place I can visit, run my hands along the subway tile where the patio was, and remember when I said goodbye to hiding. 

Montrose has changed, but that’s Houston. Even so, it’s still a place where the city’s infamous Walgreens-Texaco-Whataburger development pattern is pleasantly interrupted by bungalow-housed independent businesses and old buildings that face the street rather than empty parking lots. Places where people connect and find community. 

The rainbow flags still fly high, and just like in high school, Montrose is where I go to breathe when visiting.

Knowing the obstacles gay teens face, I’m lucky to have found places – and people – that mattered to me.

So, to anyone questioning or simply scared: don’t give up searching for yours. 

That place exists, and you’ll find it when you’re ready.