Dollar Schnapps and Jell-O Shots
Words by Maggie Herrera
A purple neon sign hangs over the bar in the basement of Club One, the popular gay bar in historic Savannah, located at 1 Jefferson Street. The sign proudly displays a quote from Club One’s first entertainer and transgender performer, The Lady Chablis, who died in 2016.
Two tears in a bucket…motherfuck it!
The sign not only immortalizes her revolutionary impact on Savannah (outside of her feature in John Berendt’s “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil”) but perfectly embodies the energy the club radiates: a light in the darkness, a haven of sorts. Considering recent conservative legislation blocking public performances of drag, it’s become a place of refuge for performers and patrons alike.
With River Street less than a mile from the club, the walk between them littered with Savannah’s famous historic steps and ankle-twisting cobblestone, the touristy areas are filled with thick country accents, tacky whitewashed fashion, and hats and tees painted with red, white and blue. It’s nearly impossible to throw a rock without hitting someone who thinks the election was rigged. That hospitable, drunk but intimidating feeling associated with River and Bay Street (as a young woman walking alone after the sun starts to set) and the sour odor of alcohol and sewage, melts away once the door to the club is propped open.
On a dreary spring Monday evening, nearby bars are open, but few are bustling or encouraging bar hopping. It’s a school night for some, a work night for most. Once you step into Club One, everything shifts. The direct sunlight and subsequent heat might be gone, but the moisture in the air weighs down your clothes and clings to your skin. The humidity creeps down rubber-capped stairs into the basement, while the heat gets only slightly more bearable. It’s dark, only the famed neon light over the bar, along with a claw machine brimming with sex toys, a large teddy bear hanging from a string in a neon machine, a Pac-Man, several pool table lights, and digital gambling machines that cast the corners and crevices of the space in deep shadow. The restrooms are gender-neutral and unassuming, besides a single light switch panel that comically has the switch placed right where a very visually appealing nude man’s groin would be.
You would find it sketchy, if the people weren’t so welcoming and delightful—something akin to ‘southern hospitality,’ but this feels more genuine. A “Honey,” “Love,” or “Sweetheart” is doled out once a towering bouncer makes sure you are over 21. (This is, of course, something serious to consider. Many college students with fakes have had their IDs taken and turned away at the door at this club. Understandably, it’s a risk this already hidden gem of an establishment can’t take).
Someone is almost always laughing in the corner, loosely waving drinks around, which explains the slightly sticky floor. Most of the staff are gathered at the bar, speaking low and looking out at every patron, expecting a familiar face. Falsetto Hi! How are you’s, followed by quick kisses and hugs when someone is recognized, fill the room, and it’s not lost on anyone that this is a close-knit community. 6:30 p.m. rolls around, and the queens (and hosts) are—per usual—running late. Brady Mannix, a Monday-night regular, sets out the hierarchy for the regulars: “I’m the deacon, and this is my congregation.” She motions to the group of other regulars who sit around her, mostly college-aged students. Everyone laughs, but it rings true; the queens and staff agree—she is Deacon Brandy.
Before the night begins, the queens appear but take their time to meet and greet everyone, old and new. They move with a pageant-like grace but aren’t afraid to toss an innuendo or dirty joke around to lighten the mood. “You breathin’ and single? That’s my type,” Club One performer and drag queen Sallie Just Sallie calls out to the room, now full of people from all walks of life. She wears a denim romper, white bedazzled high-top sneakers, a blonde wig styled into a blowout and skin-colored fishnet tights. Her romper is slightly open, and her curves are almost cartoonish, unrealistic. Her hips are accentuated by padding, but any sign of a seam or an irregularity is unnoticeable.
Sallie, who covers for absent hosts on Monday Drag Bingo, is joined by regular host Treyla Trash. Treyla had gone more formal for tonight, in a blue sequin mini dress, a long brunette curly wig and strappy heels. The usual counterpart to Treyla Trash—2013 winner of Miss Gay America, Blair Williams—is out competing in another drag queen pageant. They easily tower over the entire club—their heights accentuated by their heels—with anyone below the national average craning their necks to look them in the eyes. They’re easily just as beautiful as they are tall, eccentric and unique, their detailed makeup strategically painted across their faces to emphasize their natural features. Long and dramatic false lashes, overlined lips, sharp and highly-arched brows with dramatic highlights and vibrant blush are all accentuated by the club lights—not one flaw.
To see a drag queen out of her usual extravagance is almost akin to sacrilege. Come early enough, and there is a chance you might see someone blanketed in setting powder, wig cap snapped up against their scalp, in a Piggly Wiggly t-shirt, basketball shorts and worn-in flip-flops. There’s nothing shocking or secretive about it, more like a blossoming into another person. Some performers don’t think they’re becoming another person. “I don’t know if it’s a completely different person, or if I just see myself differently and I don’t feel bad about my body,” Sallie says. “I don’t run up and talk to people with the same amount of confidence…but Sallie can just go up to anybody. Sallie is huge. It’s like a Shaquille O’Neal meet and greet.” They give some of the most comforting, warm, solid hugs to strangers and friends—this is truly a safe space, welcoming to everyone who comes to have a fun night.
Tennessee Senate Bill 0003, signed into law on March 2nd 2023, outlaws“male or female impersonators” from performing publicly, or where children (“a person who is not an adult”) can see, making Tennessee the first state to criminalize drag performances. Similar legislation from other states continue to come into the spotlight well into 2025: Texas’ House Bill 938, introduced by Republican Steve Toth, defines drag as, “a performance in which a performer exhibits a gender that is different than the performer's gender recorded at birth using clothing, makeup, or other physical markers and sings, lip syncs, dances, or otherwise performs in a lascivious manner before an audience,” defining lascivious as sexual conduct that is “offensive to community standards of decency. The term includes the intentional exposure of genitalia in the presence of a minor.” When drag queens host library readings, perform for all ages or interact with children, there is pushback from people who believe that drag contributes to the “grooming” or “sexualization” of children. Many argue this is in direct violation of the First Amendment protection of the freedom of speech, but states like West Virginia and South Carolina label drag shows as appealing to “prurient interest,” (West Virginia Senate Bill 507) and “intended to provide sexual stimulation or sexual gratification… by an emphasis on matter depicting, describing, or relating to nudity… seminudity… specific sexual acts, or specific anatomical areas.” (South Carolina House Bill 3381) Each law introduced is strategically phrased in ambiguous language, “because they passed it intentionally to try to chill and prevent people from doing drag, but that’s not really what the law says. It should not even touch any drag performances,” Kathy Sinback, executive director of the ACLU of Tennessee, said to The New York Times.
Fear loomed over the LGBTQ+ community in Savannah in light of Tennessee Senate Bill 0003 signed into law, made all the more apparent by Treyla Trash, who paused the night’s activities to remind everyone that “Drag is not a crime!” The regulars started a habit of looking around at other clubgoers, analyzing their reactions (or lack thereof) for strange behavior. Whether an ally or part of the community, everyone is on high alert. Sallie explains that in her heart, she hopes that anti-drag legislation won’t reach Georgia. Though the state flipped blue in the 2020 election, lawmakers and the voting majority are historically conservative. “We live in a pocket of Georgia that’s not like the rest…Savannah being the Hostess City just feels more open. Like I can walk around down here in drag and not fret, but I know that’s not everywhere in Georgia. I can’t even walk around as a Black man in [much of] Georgia.”
Adult-only and private performances, which would not be affected by the new legislation, are strictly for audiences over 21 years old. Alcohol is served, sexual innuendo is suggested in their performances and song choices and their humor or bits are focused on mature themes. Drag brunch, however, is open to an audience of all ages, with upbeat, family-friendly songs, dancing and lip-syncing while customers enjoy a brunch meal throughout the performances. Anything inappropriate for children or younger audiences is prohibited during brunch events. This means modest costuming, clean language, and no sexual or suggestive songs or dancing. Queens are placed at risk of assault or harassment by holding nightly adult-only and private performances, not to mention the family-friendly Drag Brunch that happens monthly at The Moon River Brewing Company on nearby Bay Street. Sallie explains the club wouldn’t be overtly affected if a similar law was to pass in Georgia, but that doesn’t eliminate the risk. “Because I know so many people and the scene in Savannah has become so big, you can find drag brunches at multiple venues…we have the “‘Yes, Queen!’ Tour” now, which is a local walk-through city tour with drag queens.”
The beauty of drag and the opportunities brought from a rich culture are in the crosshairs, at risk of being shot down in the name of prejudice and fear. Events like “Drag Brunch,” which have sold out on numerous occasions, would be shut down. A large source of income for Club One would be cut off, and this could mean less funding and payment for performers and organizers. Many believe this risk is far beyond money: the queer culture could potentially die in Savannah, a place it has historically made so beautiful. When talking about how a ban on public drag could impact the community, Sallie voiced her concerns for other girls. “These girls would lose their jobs. That bill terrifies me if it comes to that because these girls would think, ‘What would I do?’ They would have to fall back on [another job] and would no longer be able to perform.” The questions and worries are unasked and unanswered in the basement, but it’s known by all staff and regulars that being in a historically red area of the country brings the risk of a law like this making it into the books.
That accumulation of anxiety and questions brings tension. On the afternoon of May 1, 2023, the Savannah Cabaret, which shares a property with Club One, received hate mail and claims of pedophilia for a 1980’s-themed drag event scheduled on the weekend of May 12, 2023. The drag performers had also received hateful messages, calling them pedophiles or perverts in their direct messages on social media. The event is specifically for adults, with the cabaret’s official website and promotional poster explaining patrons must be over 21. The Savannah Cabaret, which is not associated with Club One or its events, released an official statement to their website following the backlash: “Drag is an art form that has been around for centuries. It’s entertainment. It’s expression. It’s an outlet. It’s a saving grace and a safe space for some people. It’s a community. A family. And most importantly, drag is not a crime.” This whole situation–baseless in fact–begs the question of how the club and performers can live and work safely amidst the hate and threats. The thought of a law confirming these beliefs is this community’s worst nightmare.
I had initially set up meetings with both Sallie and Treyla to get both perspectives, but following the events on May 1, 2023, Treyla had stopped responding to any public outrage or backlash the club and cabaret was receiving online. Standing outside of an inconspicuous brick building that was probably older than America herself, in the southeastern sweltering humidity, I had an anxious realization that our meetings had fallen through to no one’s fault. What started as assignment-based anxiety quickly resigned to patience and understanding. Queer folks who rely on drag as a livelihood—especially in this circumstance—are risking their lives doing what they love at the hands of conservative, highly-skewed and subjective narratives that have been proven false or manipulated. Treyla had to act on what could mean the end of a historic part of the queer community in southeast Georgia, and protecting their image came first, which is respectable at the very least. Though she never responded to further outreach, she continues to perform and deliver heartfelt messages to the queer community from Club One’s basement and The Savannah Cabaret’s stage.
Fear is still looming over the club and their performers, though it’s not obvious. “Drag is not a crime” is now an echo that doesn’t die. Nationwide protests show no signs of slowing or stopping. The Human Rights Campaign has been fighting against each case that explicitly targets drag performances.
The possibility of a ban could not only ruin livelihoods, but mental and community stability of those who find a home in queer and drag-friendly spaces. “Club One was the first place I felt comfortable in my skin and then it was a place where I felt uncomfortable in my skin…the club made me feel comfortable… [everyone at Club One] are my friends. These people see me past what is the physical and what I struggle with, and they see me as a person…that was very enlightening. The club has become my happy place.”
On the chance that similar bills or laws are passed in Georgia, Sallie thinks immediate action is necessary. “I say let’s throw some shit … We’re gonna have to lead a revolution.”