Last month, Willy's, a queer-owned bar that quickly became a community hub, abruptly closed in Wynwood. And as of July, Spanish Marie, a Kendall brewery-turned-suburban-drag-haven, is no longer hosting drag shows. These losses aren't isolated incidents; together, they amount to a painful shift in Miami's cultural landscape.
"I feel like drag as a whole really has been on an uptick of wanting and need from so many people," says New Times' Best Performer Jellika Boom. "So, it really is perplexing how all of these venues that were queer-friendly and drag-loving are being closed down."
For the Kendall-based performer and producer, the closure of Spanish Marie's drag programming was devastating. "I could not stop crying for at least a week straight," she admits. "We built such a community there. And the fact that that was being taken away from us was just devastating. Queer spaces are so important to have, whether there's drag queens there or not. Just having a central hub for queer individuals to be themselves and feel comfortable — it's very rare to find, not only in Florida, but across the world."
The timing could not feel more cruel. Even as drag gains mainstream visibility — from RuPaul's Drag Race to sold-out brunches — local stages are vanishing. Boom points to rising rents, gentrification, and Florida's anti-drag crusade. "Not only are girls losing work," she says, "but we're losing the space to share our art and spread our voices."
Karla Croqueta says Miami's disappearing drag spaces are a symptom of greater shifts in the city.
Photo by William Ford
"Everything in Miami is going to shit, my friend," she says bluntly. "There's nothing in Miami that feels like 'real Miami' anymore. Miami spaces are no longer Miami spaces. They're spaces by people who have an idea of what Miami is, but moved here from New York, California, or Oregon. It's become a melting pot for the rich to play and the poor to struggle."
Croqueta, a Cuban American born and raised in Miami, sees the city's transformation through a deeply personal lens. She remembers growing up in Hialeah, frequenting local venues like the Stage, and watching entire neighborhoods erased by development. "I can't afford to buy a house in the city, and I was born and raised here. I've had a longstanding, successful career, but I can't afford to buy a home. The city is being run by developers who have no idea what the culture is here."
She says Gramps' imminent closure is a sign of corporate greed and cultural erasure. "We're being priced out of our own city. Wynwood was once a queer area. That's going to be gone. Kendall had Spanish Marie. That could soon be gone too," she says. "People say, 'Just open up a new place.' Baby, it takes hundreds of thousands of dollars to do that. Who has that money?"
But despite their grievances, both Boom and Croqueta resist despair. Boom insists that resilience is baked into queer survival. "One thing about queer people is that we rise up. When there's one crumb left on the table, we're going to make a whole four-course meal. We just need to support each other, show up for each other, and fight for our spaces."
Croqueta sees hope in reinvention. "I do see a resurgence in underground parties; in house parties," she says. "We are resilient. We're not going anywhere. This isn't the end. They're not winning. I'm just re-strategizing. Being an artist is expensive, but being an artist is also a job. And I'm not giving up."
Both performers share the same message: Queer spaces matter because they invigorate people who often feel excluded everywhere else. "We don't have the luxury to just walk into any space and feel comfortable," Boom says. "We deserve a space to vogue, to dance to Britney Spears, to shine."
Croqueta agrees. For her, drag has always been about living authentically, whether in a dive bar or under neon lights. "Karla is just your everyday Cuban lady," she says. "She didn't do laser on her face. She's hairy, she's loud, she's real, and that representation matters. It tells people you can be yourself."
