Hidden away in a tiny corner of southeast Indianapolis is a tiny little gay bar where the crowd sings karaoke unlike any other in town. Every Monday at 9pm you will hear classic ballads and jazz standards set to live piano music just like it always used to be.

The average age is about 60. I am easily the youngest. Without a doubt I am the only woman in the room, which makes me mostly invisible. Tonight, I am nothing more than my best friend’s hag. My personal history and queer politics don’t matter to these men. This place is their sanctuary. Tradition. A tribute to a time when being the youngest person in the room was still a major feat of courage.

With every song the old men’s faces drift far from their wrinkled foreheads and sagging cheeks. Toes tapping, quietly singing along, one man holds his drink a little tighter, closes his eyes, smiles. Another man stares into his gin and tonic so that we might not see him cry. A third man nods his head in time to the music and laughs.

As the night goes on, I all but disappear just as each and every man around me slips away on some far off memory. Without a doubt I am no longer the youngest person in the room. We are all in our twenties with our whole lives ahead of us just waiting for the next big adventure.