I'd like to tell you about a place I used to know. The building is somewhat run-down, the furniture has seen better days, but the love and warmth found inside were unlike anything I'd ever known. It's a place where it's okay to be who you are, love whoever you can without fear of harsh words, cruel stares or worse. It's called the Billy DeFrank Center and it was a place I considered home.

I first visited the Center when I came down from Portland to visit my friend Andrea. She took me to Gay Bingo, where she was a volunteer. I was in awe at the number and diversity of people gathered to play the game that I'd never quite understood. Yet I was instantly drawn in, furiously marking each number as Andrea kept the supply of Cherry Bells coming. It wasn't just the Bingo, it was something far greater than that, friendship, love: it was Community.

When I moved to the Bay Area in September of 1996, it was certainly the biggest impulse decision of my life. I needed to get away from Oregon and all the pain I'd known there, so I was moving back home to Ohio. I was just coming here to visit my friend Andrea on the way. When we finally realized that we should be more than friends, I took a chance, a deep breath, and called the movers. That decision was certainly about Andrea and the strength I found in her, but it was also about Community. I looked forward to a life filled with love at home and fun and friendship at the Center.

The day after the movers returned with my belongings, which had traveled to Chicago, I headed to the Center to volunteer for Bingo. In the Main Hall, surrounded by the sounds of furious daubing and lucky troll dolls peppered with shouts of 'You go girl!', I knew that I was now a part of something special, something I hadn't found anywhere else.

I'd always tried to find this kind of community. In college, I joined the Gay and Lesbian groups, but something was always missing for me. I've never been good at fitting in with my peers, even among the minority groups I was too different. I'd never found the special kind of welcome that I found at the Center and I was eager to be an active part of it. So I dutifully sold special sheets for the extra game after intermission, overcoming some of my shyness to peddle my wares. After a few weeks, I had earned a week off, so we went to play the free game that was our reward for volunteering.

It was fall, the night was damp and drizzly. It rained harder as the game went on, but we didn't think too much of it.

That is, until the power went out.

There was no confusion, no stumbling in the dark. The emergency lights came on and we all stayed in our seats while the volunteers gathered flashlights. We waited a while, and realized that it could be some time before the power came back on so we headed home. The paying players were issued refunds and the place cleared out.

Evidently, someone felt that there was a problem that night. Maybe something bigger, more confusing happened but I sure didn't see it. There was no panic in the air as we filed out, just the disappointment of an unfinished game. Had I known that it was to be the last night of Bingo, that the magic of the Center had started to fade that night, I would have hugged everyone a little harder, and looked back at the place I'd called home a little longer.

I don't know if the way the Center is today is only because of that fateful night, or a combination of everything that's happened since, but it doesn't really matter. Everything that combined to make the Center what it once was is now gone or unrecognizable. Lavender Liquids is gone, business was too slow without Bingo. The bookstore remains a friendly haven, but the sense of community I used to feel when I walked in is gone. The volunteers and staff, even the visitors, are strangers now, kind people who don't know me, who ask if they can help me instead of hugging me hello. It just isn't home to me anymore.

Suggestions? Comments? Send email to liz2d2@aol.com.