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Years ago, in my early 20s I worked in one of Vancouver’s biggest gay bars. I lived in the gay village and would consider myself a part of the gay community. That said, with the benefit of hindsight, I look back on that time in life and can recall a feeling of alienation from my community. I never quite understood what it was: Was I not White enough? Was I not buff enough? Was I not casual enough about sex? Was I too analytical? Was I not fun enough? While most people experience adolescence as a time of self-doubt, I, like many gay men, were brimming with a false sense of confidence until they encountered “the community�. Indeed, it wasn’t until I started properly dating men that I realized that my race was an issue at all. All of this is captured wonderfully in a quote from Jeremy Atherton Lin’s Gay Bar: Why We Went Out: “I was under the impression I was always late to the party, but in fact, I may not have been invited.�

Promotion for this book started late last year and when I read advanced reviews about it, I was excited. Gay Bar: Why We Went Out is marketed as three books in one. First, a travelogue about the various bars that Lin has frequented throughout the various stages of his life. Second, gay cultural criticism, more on this later. And third, a memoir of Lin’s big gay life. It should come as no surprise that I love book that delve into the political and cultural. That said, there being so little cultural criticism of the gay community from the point of view of a gay Asian male, (Lin is the product of a biracial marriage) I was incredibly excited to dive into this debut work of non-fiction, believing, albeit selfishly, that it would speak to my experience.

After finishing this book, my overall experience is far more nuanced than my expectations. Take for example, the subject of race. Despite the above passage, Lin writes about his race only two other times: one, in a moving vignette in which he visits his Asian relatives; and second, in a London bar, when another person of colour, a black man, suddenly arrives on the scene. In this latter encounter, there is no dialogue, simply the tacit acknowledgement of being an “other� in a space in which you are minority among a minority. While I did not expect this book to be about a racial gay experience, it’s omission from much of the book’s discourse, is stunning. All of the venues that Lin visits are predominantly white. In fact, the traditionally Black and LatinX bars, from which much of mainstream gay culture is derided from, is only briefly mentioned in Lin’s otherwise fantastic history of gay venues. In one particularly disappointing chapter, Lin begins to explore the relationship that has evolved in London between anti-Muslim skinheads, the Brexit movement, and gay culture. Sadly, this goes nowhere; a worthwhile and important conversation, left on the side.

Perhaps even more problematic is Lin’s equating gay nightlife with gay desire. To Lin, “late at night all the men in the room are referred to as ‘boys� and this approximation of Neverland, evinces a mindset of perennial searching.� Lin writes in exacting detail about his prolific sex life, and yet despite this being a memoir, we know nothing of his friendships, his siblings, his mentors, his coworkers, or any other relationship that may give us an inkling of who this individual is other than his proclivity to group and public sex. To many people, the gay bar has meant many things other than a room in which to pick up. One need only watch an episode of Pose or Ru Paul’s Drag Race to understand the community one can find in a gay bar. Lin however seems content to only explore the seedier side of gay life. How disappointing and yet unsurprising. While sex positivity is something that is something that has always been attributed to the gay community, it’s important to remember how narrow that community has viewed beauty and attractiveness: White, cisgender, masculine. Moreover, those individuals born in other cultures may have different relationships to sex, gender, relationships, and monogamy. Sexual freedom and choice is a privilege that can be exercised only by those in power.

It’s no surprise that the death of the Gay Bar is happening in a time where the traditional gay community, (white, cisgender, masculine) find themselves at an inflection point. Increasingly, White, cisgender, gay men find themselves in positions of power and privilege. Rather than a minority band of merry misfits, they are the gatekeepers of gay culture, gay social norms, and gay beauty. One need only look at the online discourse of “Gays Over Covid� or “Gays for Trump� to recognize that something is afoot. All of this is fascinating stuff. Sadly, Lin doesn’t seem particularly interesting in having that conversation.

Where the book is more successful is as travelogue. The way that Lin can give a sense of geography both literal and social to a bar is probably the strongest aspect of the book. Indeed, it’s stunning how much history can be found within the walls of a gay bar.

Overall, it’s clear I was disappointed with this book. It was perfectly fine and there were genuine moments of interest. That said, it never got into the conversation I was really hoping it would get into. Maybe that’s on me and not on the author. That said, I can’t help be feel that an opportunity was lost here.