by Gus Burns
HIGHLAND PARK, MI - It's Wednesday evening. The street is quiet. It'll soon be time to "vogue."
From the exterior of the Ruth Ellis Drop-in Center, a beige, two-story building on Victor Street in Highland Park, just a stone's throw from a large industrial warehouse, unless you are part of the Detroit-area gay/transgender scene, you wouldn't have a clue what's about to happen inside.
Within 15 minutes, a flick of the speaker switch will fill with the upstairs with thumping DJ-style dance music inducing dozens of mostly gay or transgender young black men to gyrate, pump, twirl, spin, slide and smack their bodies in a sometimes artistically violent manner on the wooden dance floor.
This is "vogue," a modeling-inspired dance style named after the magazine and a term popularized in the mainstream public by Madonna's 1990 hit of the same name.
The dance is one of several events that are part of the "ball culture," an underground social activity and competition within the LGBT community. Participants create groups of competitors called "families" who compete against others in events such as "catwalk," drag and Vogue dance.
The only hint the Ruth Ellis Center is a support organization and vogue gathering place for the LGBT community is a rainbow flag painted as the backdrop to a Detroit "D" on the outside of the west-facing wall.
Visitors, most between 17 and 24, press a buzzer and wait for the electronic door lock to click open.
Once up the tight stairwell, you enter an area that many gay and transgender residents of Metro Detroit call their sanctuary.
Behind the check-in desk volunteers chat and laugh with visitors, nearly all of whom are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender or questioning (LGBTQ is the preferred acronym).
Vogue Night, held on Monday and Wednesday each week, usually draws a predominantly gay, black male crowd numbering in the dozens, says Donnie Isaac, 22, of Detroit.
Many of them are homeless.
It's like telling your story, but through movements.
Isaac discovered the center himself about six years ago when he first announced his own homosexuality to friends and family. He hasn't left. Now he's paid to work as a part-time youth adviser. His job is part supervisor, part mentor.
To the left of the entrance, next to many rows of educational pamphlets related to gay and transgender issues are bins filled with various hygiene products, all free for the taking — lube, feminine products, toothpaste, deodorant, condoms.
Beyond the meeting rooms is a closet area with shirts, pants, dresses and high heels. Anyone who needs them may take them. In an adjacent room is a washing machine and dryer. "Soiled clothes," "soiled towels," say two signs on the wall with arrows pointed to bins below.
As you proceed past the computer area, which several people are utilizing, and the kitchen, where one of the cooks is cleaning dishes, the room opens to a dance floor with a pool table and a living room area with couches and a big-screen TV.
There's a buzz in the air, chatter and laughing in the direction of the dance floor. A man rushes towards the dance floor and friends while tucking two pink balloons under his tied-up T-shirt to mimic breasts. Another puts balloons in the rear of his shorts to accentuate his buttocks.
When the first beats to "Harlem Shake" leave the large speakers, bodies seek motion; some dance almost robotic, jerky and quick, others gracefully twirl, spin, leap and fall to the floor.
At Vogue Night, "you see dance moves you'd never expect to see out of another human being," says Isaac. "You'll see a bunch of LGBTQ members — and plus — dancing to a distinct music to them that they love, and it's completely not choreographed."
The dances are each Monday and Wednesday from about 6:45 p.m. to 8:45 p.m. The center uses the events not only as a chance for safe social interaction, but as a means of outreach, to bring in those who might be interested in the center's services, counseling or housing assistance.
"From my experience, the art of voguing is like basically a way of expressing yourself, letting out your emotions in a peaceful way without physical violence," said Bernard E. Norris, 25, of Detroit, who has been visiting the center for seven years. "It's like telling your story, but through movements."
He doesn't join the freestyle dancers. "It's beneath me," Norris jokes before turning toward the door and heading home for the night.
For more information about the Ruth Ellis Center, visit their website: http://www.ruthelliscenter.org/
Reference Link: http://www.mlive.com/news/detroit/index.ssf/2013/08/vogue_underground_lgbt_dance_c.html
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