Shifting Sands
So I was at the Royal Farms store in
Rehoboth on a recent Sunday morning looking for a bandana to keep the
sweat out of my eyes while doing some house painting—the project that
just won’t end. Gazing at the various colors and trying to recall the
old homo hanky code, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on two fab boys
ordering sandwiches and planning their day on the beach.
“No way are we going to Poodle Beach with
all those old queens,” I heard one declare, accentuated by a loud finger
snap. No sir, these waifish, pale, twenty-somethings attired in matching
silver bathing suits and oversized sunglasses were gonna take their cold
cut hoagies and Monster energy drinks right out into the middle of the
crowd off Rehoboth Avenue. So they said. Snap!
As I drove home sporting a new white
bandana emblazoned with fifty and hundred dollar bills—not sure what it
signifies—I couldn’t help but wonder why those two were going to
venture into the midst of all the straight families on the beach. Was it
the proximity to pizza and French fries or some sort of extreme thrill
seeking?
Personally, I’d rather sit among the
poodles and enjoy the manscape. Of course, it’s my choice to spend an
afternoon on the gay beach. I’m not restricted to where I can and
can’t put down my beach chair.
Once upon a time, society did indeed
dictate which spot of sand you could frequent. Delaware, like many states
up through the early 60s, had a host of Jim Crow laws on its books and
black folk wanting to go to the beach in Rehoboth were relegated to what
was called the Crow’s Nest.
It’s not well-documented and it’s
completely ignored by the local history books, but some sleuthing turned
up an interesting article on segregated beaches in Delaware by Wilmington
News Journal writer Victor Greto, whose work I admire.
The Crow’s Nest, as Greto tells it, was a
small patch of beach just north of the Boardwalk and the Henlopen Hotel.
It was busiest on Thursdays, the traditional maid’s day off, and it even
had its own lifeguards. Blacks weren’t welcomed on the beach beyond the
Crow’s Nest and they seldom ventured onto the Boardwalk during the Jim
Crow era.
There were other black-only beaches in the
area. I’ve heard there was one in Lewes. Greto’s article talks about
blacks congregating at Slaughter Beach and at Rosedale Beach over in Oak
Orchard on Rehoboth Bay. In its pre-60s heyday, Rosedale Beach had a
little boardwalk, a hotel, and a dance hall where performers like Ella
Fitzgerald and James Brown performed. It was a stop on what was called the
“Chitlin Circuit,” a network of clubs, bars, and parks along the East
Coast and throughout the South where black entertainers could perform.
White Sussex Countians often anchored their boats offshore to listen to
the music.
I’m too young to remember official Jim
Crow segregation in the South where I grew up, but I do recall vestiges of
it on the Carolina coast. The beach road connecting the little towns of
Windy Hill, Crescent Beach, and Ocean Drive ended abruptly at a chain-link
fence at Atlantic Beach. The road veered westward out to Highway 17 and
then back east again—just to avoid going through the four blocks that
constituted this historically black beach town.
For several years, my family vacationed at
Windy Hill and on a few occasions I’d sneak some beer and go up to the
fence at night to hear the music coming out of the Chocolate Disco in
Atlantic Beach—the soulful sounds of the Tams, the Clovers, the Four
Tops, and the funkier grooves of the Isley Brothers and Curtis Mayfield.
It spoke to me, unlike the Kiss and Aerosmith bands my brothers and
friends all listened to.
The Crow’s Nest was never fenced off like
Atlantic Beach. And even though all segregation of restaurants and public
facilities officially ended in Delaware in 1963, a de facto Crow’s Nest
is said to have continued into the 1970s.
The only segregation on Rehoboth Beach
today is the segregation we gays practice ourselves. I know Poodle Beach
is completely different from the Crow’s Nest and I’m not even trying
to compare the situations. However, I do find it interesting now how the
notion of the gay beach just south of the Boardwalk, separate but equal,
doesn’t bother us. Far from it, we celebrate it. Poodle Beach shows up
each year on lists of America’s best and most popular gay beaches,
attracting more and more visitors each summer.
And why not? Despite the fact that my
stomach isn’t as flat as in years past and I’m noticing some grey
hairs on my chest, I feel comfortable on Poodle Beach. I can ogle the
well-built guy in the red square cut swimsuit and enjoy the fellas
skipping through the surf wearing flowered bathing caps. Dates are made
and hearts are broken. Gay dads build sandcastles with their kids. Couples
hold hands. All without a worry. It’s that kind of place—a haunt, a
hangout, something unique.
And
I think we could use more of that in today’s increasing cookie cutter
world. Snap!
Greenbarn@aol.com.
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