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A magazine exploring and celebrating the LGBTQ community in St. Louis Publisher Chris Keating Editor in Chief Chris Andoe E D I T O R I A L Associate Editor Melissa Meinzer Director of Social Media Jolene Gosha Contributing Writers Joss Barton, Eric Berger, Patrick Collins, Seán Collins, Melinda Cooper, Sage Freeman, Nancy Fuller, Joshua Phelps, K. Templeton, Cami Thomas Editor at Large Sarah Fenske

A R T Art Director Evan Sult Contributing Photographers Theo Welling, Susan Bennet, Lindy Drew, James Griesedieck, Monica Mileur, Sharon Knotts, Jess Luther, Sara Bannoura

P R O D U C T I O N Production Manager Jack Beil M U LT I M E D I A A D V E R T I S I N G Sales Director Colin Bell Senior Account Executive Cathleen Criswell, Erica Kenney Account Managers Emily Fear, Jennifer Samuel Multimedia Account Executive Michael Gaines, Jackie Mundy Event Coordinator Grace Richard C I R C U L A T I O N Circulation Manager Kevin G. Powers E U C L I D M E D I A G R O U P Chief Executive Officer Andrew Zelman Chief Operating Officers Chris Keating, Michael Wagner Human Resources Director Lisa Beilstein VP of Digital Services Stacy Volhein Creative Director Tom Carlson www.euclidmediagroup.com N A T I O N A L A D V E R T I S I N G VMG Advertising 1-888-278-9866, www.voicemediagroup.com

Out In STL is published quarterly

by Euclid Media Group Verified Audit Member Out In STL

308 N. 21st Street, Suite 300, St. Louis, MO 63103 www.outinstl.com General information: 314-754-5966 Fax administrative: 314-754-5955 Fax editorial: 314-754-6416

Founded in 2017

Out in STL is available free of charge, limited to one copy per reader. Additional copies of the current issue may be purchased for $1.00 plus postage, payable in advance at the Out in STL office. Out in STL may be distributed only by Out in STL authorized distributors. No person may, without prior written permission of Out in STL, take more than one copy of each Out in STL weekly issue.

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR:

CHRIS ANDOE

O

ne thing I love about being a writer is that people tell you their best and most riveting stories. Think about a typical conversation with someone you’ve just met, and how reserved the parties are. By contrast, people sit down with a writer and right out of the gate tell us what drives them, what’s defined them, what it was like at their highest and their lowest moments.

That certainly held true while interviewing the fascinating personalities we’re featuring for our Influence Issue — from a harrowing tale of running away at fifteen from Bryon Dawayne Pierson Jr. to a moment so tender I felt like a trespasser as Janessa Highland paused mid-sentence and lovingly looked at her friend and mentor Alicia Markstone, making sure it was OK to continue.

Writers have permission to ask people who they really are. It’s rarely an easy question to answer, unless of course you’re Joss Barton. Her response, which she delivered without skipping a beat, will certainly knock more than a few wigs back.

The profiles in these pages, masterfully crafted by Melissa Meinzer, Patrick Collins, Joss Barton, Sage Freeman and Joshua Phelps, will introduce you to a few of the rising stars as well as the established pillars defining St. Louis’ LGBTQ community. This illustrious group of influencers entrusted us with their best, and it was these writers’ job to take what they shared and compose something worthy of them.

I couldn’t be prouder of how our team has executed that task.

Chris Andoe Editor in chief

The entire contents of Out in STL are copyright 2018 by Out in STL, LLC. No portion may be reproduced in whole or in part by any means, including electronic retrieval systems, without the expressed written permission of the Publisher, Out in STL, 308 N. 21st Street, Suite 300, St. Louis, MO 63103. Please call the Out in STL office for back-issue information, 314-754-5966.

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CHRIS ANDOE

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fashion

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Better Together HOW ALICIA MARKSTONE AND JANESSA HIGHLAND SAVED EACH OTHER — AND ROSE TO THE TOP

BY CHRIS AND OE

W

hen Janessa Highland became show director at Martha’s Vineyard in Springfield, Missouri, in 2011, she knew she was following in big footsteps. That included those of Alicia Markstone, the 2002 Miss Gay USofA at Large, who had gone from small-town Missouri to Florida to be the show director at the famed Suncoast Resort Hotel.

But when the two performers first met in person six years later, it was hardly a warm-and-fuzzy moment.

By then, Highland had moved to St. Louis, where she embraced a reputation as a villainess of sorts due to her outspoken ways. Dubbed “the Queen of Controversy,” she was blacklisted from nearly A triumphant House of Markstone every stage in town and at the Maximum Exposure even felt her name was too Fashion Series. Alicia Markstone much of a liability to pass down to her drag daughis top center. Clockwise from top ter Brooklyn Burroughs. left: Ryan James, Tassandra Behind that intimidatCrush, Vega Markstone-Hunter, ing mask, however, she Janessa Highland, Brooklyn was still the same starBurroughs and Danielle Hunter. struck kid, and when she CHRIS ANDOE learned that Markstone would be in town performing, she dragged Burroughs out so they could meet her.

The two greeted Markstone in full drag and humbly asked for her opinion on what they were doing right and what needed

improvement.

“Can I be honest?” Markstone asked. “Your makeup is horrible.”

FAL L OF A DI VA In the year prior to meeting Highland, Markstone saw her world crumble. For decades, she’d earned her living as a fulltime entertainer, but Suncoast, her employer of fifteen years and the place where her reign was unquestioned, had recently succumbed to the wrecking ball to make way for a Home Depot. Political controversies drove her from her next job at Hamburger Mary’s, and nearly all those she mentored along the way turned their backs on her, or quietly slinked away as life moved on.

“When you get old, nobody wants you around,” Markstone says.

The life of an entertainer is often paycheck to paycheck, and when those paychecks stopped, Markstone was left in a desperate situation. She decided to retire and return to Rock Island, Illinois, but didn’t even have a way to get there until a friend set

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“I’m fortunate that I was raised to believe suicide was the ultimate sin,” she recalls. “I know several entertainers who killed themselves when they got old, and I definitely would have.” up a GoFundMe, which she found humiliating, even if she was grateful that the campaign raised the funds she needed.

Life in Rock Island was bleak. Markstone did little more than watch television and stare at the walls. “I’m fortunate that I was raised to believe suicide was the ultimate sin,” she recalls. “I know several entertainers who killed themselves when they got old, and I definitely would have.”

After a year of solitude, Markstone began making limited appearances. Weeks after giving Highland and Burroughs her brutally honest assessment of their makeup, she was performing in Cape Girardeau, where to her surprise, the two fans were back for more.

“Is this better?” a revamped Highland asked.

SE W ING , B U T S K E PT I CA L “I’d always heard about Markstone and all the legendary stories of her costume designs, including how she won nationals with her acclaimed Mary Poppins performance,” Highland recalls. She asked Markstone if she could hire her to create a Mary Poppins costume for the Miss Gay St. Louis America Competition. Markstone quoted her $500. Highland agreed, and soon surprised her with payment in full.

“I’ve probably donated $100,000 in clothes to queens over the years, and I did it because I wanted to be liked,” Markstone says. But at this point in her life, Markstone didn’t trust anyone and really didn’t want to like Highland. Markstone tried to be abrasive in an effort to push her away, but Highland kept her word and accepted her criticism.

Impressed by the younger performer’s tenacity, Markstone began to let her guard down. Still, she expected that their business arrangement would be finite and that Highland would soon move on.

Highland won Miss Gay St. Louis America, and then it was full speed ahead in pursuit of Miss Gay Missouri America.

Markstone would spend weeks at a time at Highland’s St. Louis County home, helping her prepare. The preparation went way beyond designing and sewing, however. Markstone saw that what was in greatest need of alteration was Highland’s attitude and outlook on life.

“She was bitter and mad and angry when she should be in her prime. She was angry too soon,” Markstone recalls.

“How bad do you want this?” she asked Highland, who eventually conceded that she really wanted it.

“I’m going to tell you what was told to me when I was going after Miss Gay USofA at Large: You’re going to have to learn how to eat a lot of shit,” she said. Highland needed to hum-

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ble herself, Markstone told her, pick her battles, make amends and, most importantly, shed her “Queen of Controversy” moniker.

“She taught me how to be a star without acting like a star,” Highland says.

Highland won Miss Gay Missouri America, but rather than saying their goodbyes as Markstone had anticipated, Highland invited her to move in with her and Burroughs. Since March 2018 the three have shared a home that’s a drag wonderland; they can count Markstone met with immediate on one hand how many times success at this year’s Maximum they’ve so much as gotten tesExposure Fashion Series, using ty with one another. dramatic color, texture and Sitting together, Highland attitude to win over the crowd. begins telling the story of goSHAWN KENESSEY ing to Rock Island to get Markstone’s things. She pauses and looks at the older performer as if to make sure that it’s OK to continue.

“Oh God, that,” Markstone says, tossing her head back.

“Go ahead.”

“In the kitchen I saw…” Highland says, holding back tears, “A food pantry schedule. I stepped outside and cried. I was sad, and was angry that our community didn’t take care of someone who spent her life taking care of everyone else.”

B U I L DI NG AN EM PI RE On the heels of Highland’s successes, all eyes were on Markstone, and orders for custom gowns came rolling in. In 2018, the former performer launched Markstone Creations. She is currently booked out for months. A half-dozen of her gowns will be worn by various contenders in the 2019 Miss Gay Missouri America pageant, and notables including Alexis Mateo of RuPaul fame have given them exposure. She’s even expanding to the bridal market.

In January, Markstone wowed the runway at the Maximum Exposure Fashion Series, where, channeling her inner Donatella Versace, the 53-year-old followed her models wearing a black-sequin pantsuit with slicked-back blond hair and dramatic eyeshadow. The mostly straight crowd roared in thunderous applause.

“I’m used to being on stage so I wasn’t nervous,” Markstone recalls. Still, seeing the video afterwards made it real, and reminded her of how far she has come. Seeing her fashions come to life on the runway was also something new. “I thought, ‘Wow. I made that!’”

Separately, Highland was a pariah and Markstone was out to pasture. But together, they are a powerhouse enjoying a meteoric rise. More importantly, they are family.

Highland sums it up. “Family isn’t necessarily the people you share DNA with, it’s those you choose to share your life with,” she says. “We are strong separately but together we rise.”

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feature

The

Influ “My shit is for queer people.

Trans people.

Faggots.”

JOSS BARTON

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MEET FIFTEEN LGBTQ COMMUNITY M E M B E R S M A K I N G A M A J O R I M PAC T I N S T. L O U I S

luencers

W

here do we get off, telling you who the influencers are in this town?

Well, we’d like to think we keep our ears to the ground and watch who’s moving and who’s shaking, who’s driving the discussion and who’s pressing buttons.

This collection tells the stories of fifteen standout St. Louis queers, people who are distinguishing themselves through service, artistry, entrepreneurship and pure beautiful outrageousness. They are among the many who make the human tapestry in this town so rich.

Our task here is to shine a little light on people who are shaping the discourse and pushing forward the daily conversation of life. Some might be very familiar to you, and others might be total unknowns.

We hope both to honor their efforts and expand your mental roster of people contributing to our community.

How did we choose? We brainstormed, we talked, we hit up the most plugged-in people we knew. We discussed and strategized and maybe even argued a tiny little bit, and then went forth and chatted up some of our heroes. It was our privilege, really, to pick this group of brains.

We hope to repeat this task year after year, learning about different people who are influencing big and small aspects of all our lives. We’re proud to present the inaugural class of St. Louis’ LGBTQ Influencers.

We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.

MELISSA MEINZER AND CHRIS ANDOE

JOSS BARTON A

It’s by some cosmic fluke that the people of 2019 St. Louis get to experience the outrageous wonder that is Joss Barton, when everything about her indicates she rightfully belongs in the provocative art scene of 1970s New York — a time when the city was so sinister, tourists were given brochures with survival tips.

The thick-skinned, street-smart Barton would have not only thrived in that scene,

NEC ESSARY

DEFIA NC E

she would have owned it. Yet somehow she also flourishes in our time’s most politically correct activist circles, speaking her truth without compromising her irreverent, noholds-barred style and saying things that would ruin just about anyone else.

Asked what words define her, Barton, 32, doesn’t hesitate for a second. “Poet. Journalist. Femme fatale. Drunk bitch. Good cook.

PO RT R A I T S BY

Cunt. Dreamer. Performance artist. Pessimist.

Realist. Fashion model. Tranny. Cum slut.”

On her art, Barton says, “My shit is for queer people. Trans people. Faggots.”

The themes of Barton’s art are drugs, sex, culture and politics. She could be reciting a seventeen-minute poem at Austin’s OUTsider Fest, or doing an occasional drag performance, CONTINUED ON PG 11

T HE O W E L L I N G

except photo of Cami Thomas by Trina Quach and photo of Mo Costello, courtesy Mo Costello.

Art direction and design by PAIGE BRUBECK and EVAN SULT. Many thanks to ELECTROPOLIS STUDIOS. SPRING 2019 | OUTINSTL

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Clockwise from top left: Tony Corso, Christa Cunningham, Shawn Jennings Kohrs with Vinny, Mo Costello, Cami Thomas, Sayer Johnson and Dr. Christopher Lewis.

TONY CORSO BO O

BOO

BRINGS

Tony Corso — better known around these parts as Boo Boo — revitalized the Bartender Revue at Just John a decade ago, making it the hotly anticipated annual event it remains today.

The annual drag comedy event, held in January, raises money for charities handpicked by Corso and Just John co-founder Jeromy Ruot.

Founded in 1980 at Faces in East St. Louis, the Bartender Revue went on a long hiatus before Corso willed it back into existence. He says he and a former coworker, James Dunse, talked for years about bringing it back. “We were like, ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s bring this back. Let’s just do this!’” Corso says.

Corso, 51, has been working at Just John for fifteen years. (Previously, he was a bartender at the Central West End’s Loading Zone.)

For the past two years, he’s juggled that with working as as a florist at Ken Miesner’s Flower Shoppe.

Outside of work, Corso is an avid cyclist, a cake decorator and a loving father to his fifteen-year-old daughter.

“She’s my world,” he says. “She’s a very old soul, laid back. She’s got

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BUC KS

a heart of gold and she’s musically gifted, academically gifted.”

The Revue has raised funds for ten organizations and LGBTQ campaigns — more than $46,000 during Corso’s tenure. The event typically raffles gift baskets filled with bottles of liquor and gift cards from gay bars and businesses, as well as selling vodka-infused gummy bears. To bring in even more money, the bar enlists the help of various local drag queens, with Corso as one of the performers.

“I’ve done some pretty ridiculous stuff up there,” Corso says.

Corso says the event wouldn’t be possible without DJ Danny Morris, showrunner (and Pride St. Louis president) Matt Harper and Just John owners John Oberkramer and Ruot.

Last year, the Bartender Revue raised around $13,000 for the Washington University Transgender Center at St. Louis Children’s Hospital. The event was highly emotional for Corso.

“I started crying because I didn’t know that something like this was happening in St. Louis,” Corso says. “The youth [are] our future and they need to know that they have a place that they’re welcome and there’s a community out there for them.”

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MO COSTELLO THE

Mo Costello, the Mo in MoKaBe’s Coffee House, insists that her establishment’s standing as a community cornerstone has nothing to do with her. “I get a lot of credit for this, but we’ve literally just allowed the space to be the space,” says Costello, a youthful, angular mother of three adult children who has been sober longer than many of her customers have been alive.

Located on Arsenal just west of South Grand, MoKaBe’s is lively and well-lit. From protesting wars to standing in solidarity with the uprising in Ferguson to confronting churches that seek to dehumanize the LGBTQ community, MoKaBe’s has served as an unofficial local HQ for fighting back for a quarter-century. “We’re a very grassroots disorganization,” Costello says. “For the most part my involvement is to stay the fuck out of the way and let it occur. I think that’s the magic.”

Costello, 66, began envisioning the magic of MoKaBe’s when she was growing up in Kirkwood. “I felt so stunted growing up,” she recalls. “Everyone looking like me, Catholic schools, everyone kind of climbing up the same ladder. It just rubbed me the wrong way.”

Yet during that suburban childhood, a vision of a truly diverse space took form. “My dream was to have a place where different people feel welcome, different ethnicities, races, belief systems, gender identities, in order to create a really vibrant space,” she says.

“But you can’t force it, so we’ve let it evolve.”

GR ASSROOTS

DISORGA NIZER

After being kicked out of Visitation Academy (for reasons she won’t disclose), Costello graduated from Ursuline Academy in 1970 with an already well-developed sense of rebellion. Then she embarked on a bartending career in St. Louis County, the influences of which can be seen in today’s MoKaBe’s. “You can walk in and sit at the bar and engage if you want, or you can sit at a table and read a book,” she says. “It’s been a very important thing, this counter. It’s part of the bar scene I wanted to happen here.”

But though the MoKaBe’s space is reminiscent of a bar, sobriety runs deep in its DNA. In addition to Costello, many of the employees are sober. “Sobriety and queer have been a connection for me, though not intentionally,” she says. “I don’t go to meetings like I used to, but there are always sober people here so I can still do my step work.”

Costello, who came out in conjunction with the launch of MoKaBe’s, believes the presence of sober people has been a draw for many. “When people know there’s sober people down at this place, it makes it more inviting and welcoming,” she says.

Although she is steadfast in her refusal to take credit, it’s impossible to miss the joy in Costello’s voice as she reflects on the shop’s evolution. Initially, MoKaBe’s was a place where lesbians felt safe getting together, which was even more important 25 years ago

JOSS BARTON CONTINUED FROM PG 9

or even removing a butt plug on stage.

Barton draws from her experiences, having lived a fast life on the assumption that, as a trans woman, she likely wouldn’t live past 30. She has lost sisters to HIV and suicide, but she’s been most anxious about the prospect of being killed by a trick.

“Guys change once they’ve gotten off, or sometimes in the middle of sex, even. You can see them change,” Barton explains, discussing the rage some men experience regarding their attraction to transwomen. “I was riding in a car with a guy who took on an ominous vibe and he said, ‘You know you should be careful who you let in your house and car.’”

Barton thought to herself, “This could be the end.” Yet she sur-

than today. It wasn’t long before gay men started frequenting MoKaBe’s as well, followed by others.

Today, Costello sees MoKaBe’s as a neighborhood/community establishment. Even though there’s an extensive menu and a popular Sunday brunch, she still thinks of MoKaBe’s not as a coffee shop or a café but a coffee house, a term she believes brings political implications forward from previous eras.

Although she’s not crazy about it, and she held out as long as possible, MoKaBe’s does have WiFi. “You can do a lot on social media, whether it’s Tinder or politics or whatever, but you still need to talk about it,” she says. “You can’t interact with just a machine.”

Despite the proliferation of technology, Costello is optimistic about the future of activism. “From what I see of queer youth, I think they’re claiming who they really are and that they have an understanding of the systems that need to be torn down and rebuilt,” she says.

And she’s pleased, generally, with the role her life’s work plays in the lives of so many others. “Whether it’s giving up one side of the place for people to make protest signs or happily providing a table for the reading group from Webster Groves, this is a space where people can be creative,” Costello says. “This has happened after years of allowing the space to evolve rather than trying to direct it.”

PATRICK COLLINS

vived.

In 2016, Barton was having sex while high on meth. In the corner of the room, she saw the ghost of a dear friend who had committed suicide, sitting and watching her with a forlorn look of concern. That was a wake-up call.

“I said to myself, ‘I can’t be a strung-out tranny trying to survive piecemeal.’” Barton had ambitions she wanted to pursue, and dialed the partying way back.

“I love drugs,” Barton says, “but nobody on meth cares about you.”

Barton has been told that her art has “a necessary defiance” about it, and that description resonates with her. Discussing the times we’re living in, Barton says, “This is a crisis. I’m writing in defiance of the systems we are accepting blindly. Each day is a new nightmare, and I seek to break

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SEAN MICHAEL CONSC IOUS

Sean Michael is the mastermind behind the socially conscious theatre troupe the Q Collective. Founded in February 2018 in the context of the #MeToo movement, various protests and the Women’s March, the Q Collective has a mission of “exploring the spectrum of gender, sexuality and romantic orientation” through the lens of intersectionality and acceptance.

Before forming the Q Collective, Michael worked with local actor and playwright Donald Miller on Open, a 2015 play about a gay couple exploring open relationships. A southern California native, Michael also launched the Coming Out Festival in 2018.

Realizing they had a voice that others in the community perhaps did not, Michael stood empowered to start the new company. (Michael’s friend and close colleague Scott Miller, the founder of New Line Theatre, provided critical support.) The Q in its name aims to reclaim queer and other sexualities, while “the Collective” is to remind all of inclusiveness and community.

All hasn’t been rainbows, though — no pun intended. The Q Collective’s challenges have included a lack of a financial foundation, as the theatre troupe originally started with just an idea and a passion. Finding willing actors who want to show off their skills has also been a challenge, Michael says.

Still, the troupe is mounting some impressive productions. Last winter, the Q Collective opened its second season with the inaugural Transluminate Festival featuring works by and about transgender, agender and genderfluid folks, including the playwriting and directorial debut of Elon Ptah. In June, the collective will perform fan favorite Hedwig and the Angry Inch at the Monocle.

The collective’s founder has made an impact both by demanding quality and knowing that they — and the community as a whole — deserve better, by fighting for better. Being accepting and recognizing the different skill sets and mentalities of everyone Michael works with

T H E AT R E

are some of the ways they instill a sense of expression and selfownership in actors, directors and audiences.

That includes not only giving direction but hearing and seeing how one takes direction as well, Michael says. This allows Michael to gauge and tailor a director’s cues, meeting actors where they are and setting them up for success.

As for success, Michael sees it as having to the ability to change at least one person’s mind. A friend provided a quotation that they always carry with them: “Art cannot change the world. Art can change minds.” To Michael, that statement says that if even a few eyes can be opened to the struggles and pitfalls of the queer community, then the mission has been accomplished.

“Coming out is more than just coming out as straight or gay,” says Michael, 30. For them, and the collective as a whole, coming out is also about acknowledging your struggles, pain and fear, and then creating the necessary safe spaces to encourage healing through artistry.

The various panels and workshops that the Q Collective offers, including an “Intimacy, Sexuality and Consent On-Stage” panel, explore issues of consent and sexuality in theatre while giving queers who may not have a voice a platform to speak their truths.

SAGE FREEMAN

CHRISTA CUNNINGHAM REMOVING

From starting a real estate company in New Jersey, to coming out as transgender to her ex-partner of fourteen years, to signing away her business to start a new life in St. Louis, Christa Cunningham’s only constant has been change.

After rebooting her life in 2006, Cunningham, now 49, enrolled at Southern Illinois UniversityEdwardsville (SIUE). In Cunningham’s senior year, she signed up for a social work class that wasn’t even a part of the curriculum for her major.

“That class opened up my entire mindset: ‘I just spent three years in the wrong direction. I should be doing social work,’” she recalls. “And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since — without a social work degree.”

Cunningham, who began the transitioning

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BARRIERS

process in 2015, learned of the non-profit organization Metro Trans Umbrella Group (MTUG). Since then, she has facilitated a support group for MTUG and is a board member, secretary and director of operations at the non-profit Pride St. Louis.

“The things that need to be done for the community is always a driving factor, a driving force. It does get you down because sometimes you’re dealing with people that have nothing, that need help, that need resources,” says Cunningham. “So many times people [fall] in the cracks. And you see it happen so often that if there’s anything a few of us can do to help them overcome the barriers that they have, I’m totally for that.” JOSHUA PHELPS

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DAVID DWIGHT IV FO R GED

Philadelphia-area native David Dwight IV, 25, didn’t plan on sticking around after getting his biomedical engineering degree from Washington University in St. Louis. But his priorities and his trajectory had to pivot: During his final year, unarmed Ferguson teenager Michael Brown was killed by police, and things changed.

“The killing of Michael Brown Jr. and the young people who raised their voices in the streets pushed me to do more and raise my own voice as a young queer black man,” Dwight says. “The tragedy of that event and the militarized response by the police demanded that we collectively be, and do, differently. Demanded that St. Louis examine ugly truths of life here. When a national call went out for students to stage a walkout on the first day of classes I co-led one at Washington University that brought out over 300 students, faculty and staff for a silent march across campus.”

Dwight and other leaders from the march ended up connecting with students from

FROM

FERGUSON

other campuses to form St. Louis Students in Solidarity, which activated students to build community, join in protests and activism across the region, and leverage their privilege to achieve racial justice.

“It was messy and difficult work, but we delivered demands to the chancellor and provost of Wash U to make some major changes. We didn’t get everything we advocated for, but our pushing caused them to direct almost half-a-million dollars towards equity initiatives and sparked an almost doubling of the black students in the following years.”

Through that work, Dwight learned about the Ferguson Commission, a group charged by the governor with studying the response to Brown’s death and charting a path forward.

He was able to work with the commission as an intern, which led his career into a completely different space from the biomedical engineering track he’d initially considered. He now serves as senior strategy and partnerships catalyst for Forward Through Ferguson.

“One of the areas we’ve focused in on at Forward Through Ferguson are the huge rates at which our youngest black students, at seven to ten years old, are suspended out of school compared to white students,” he says. “I helped launch the Keep Kids in Class campaign to combat it. We joined a group of community organizations to plan a regional school assembly where all of St. Louis’ superintendents, all 30 of them, came together to take a hard look at the data, hear from parents and students, and make commitments to take action on reducing racial disparities.”

Dwight has no regrets about the unexpected trajectory his life has taken.

“Being a doctor is great, and you can have that personal impact and relationship, helping people with health issues, but I realized I wanted to have a different kind of impact with my life,” he has written. “I couldn’t imagine not doing something that’s related to these issues.”

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NIKIA MUNSON A

SELF-LOVE

If you’ve done any work learning about positive female sexuality in St. Louis in recent years, you probably know Nikia Munson. The educator, facilitator and explorer has long understood the importance of creating safe and respectful spaces for sexual self-discovery and learning.

In 2014, Munson joined Sex Positive St. Louis, the community resource for discussion, education and connection on sexuality. As part of the group’s leadership, the 29-year-old attends and facilitates workshops, discussions and social events built around sex positivity in all its facets.

“I’m all about giving people a safe space in order to just be themselves,” says Munson. “A lot of times we don’t even have the opportunity to under-

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A DVO C AT E

stand what we enjoy because we’re so busy trying to conform to the images that society is putting on.”

As a queer woman of color, Munson says it’s important to transmit that queers, women and people of color need to internalize that they deserve pleasure as much as anyone else. One specific zone of her interest is an area we could all stand to learn more about and destigmatize.

“I like to focus on self-pleasure and just general body love,” Munson says. “Whenever I get around women and we talk about orgasms, I love seeing women just light up.

They’re like, ‘Oh my god, I never thought it could be described that way!’ and I’m like, ‘Oh honey, you have so much to learn about.’”

MELISSA MEINZER

CHUCK J. PFOUTZ R UNNING

THE

In 2013, photographer and producer Chuck Pfoutz attended his first drag pageant. He was inspired. “Some of the best production I’d ever seen,” Pfoutz says.

“I was fascinated by how far people would go to win a crown,” he adds. “Hours of effort to achieve something great and entertain while doing it. I documented 30 pageants. I wasn’t just photographing. I was taking notes.”

Soon Pfoutz put his own spin on the art form, producing the “Man-Crush Monday,” “Top-Notch Tuesday” and now “Woman- Crush Wednesday” events at Grey Fox Pub. Recorded on video, the pageants include various themes from burlesque to lip sync battles, with

R U N WAY

the winner decided by the always-lively audience.

Pfoutz, 30, launched his most ambitious project yet last July, the Maximum Exposure Fashion Series, which is something like Pose meets Project Runway. The events feature about a dozen local and national designers and nearly 100 models and entertainers. The second event in the series took place in January, and the incredible response has spurred Pfoutz to take the show on the road beginning with a Chicago extravaganza this summer.

Pfoutz is always scouting for talent, but these days, increasingly, the talent scouts him.

CHRIS ANDOE

SAYER JOHNSON Sayer Johnson is a busy dude, to put it mildly. The executive director and co-founder of the Metro Trans Umbrella Group, or MTUG, always has another project in the works to serve his community — to make life easier, safer or better for his trans siblings.

MTUG, founded in 2013, offers meet-ups, trainings and panels that build visibility and community.

“We’ve created systems where there were none in place for trans-expansive adults in the metro area,” says Johnson. (Trans-expansive, our new favorite term, covers the multitude of folks who may not fit under the simple transgender label: nonbinary, genderfluid, agender and more.)

MTUG, says Johnson, serves anywhere between 100 and 150 adults each month.

“Our primary service is social and emotional support,” he says. “That is done through peer educational support groups. That is the heartbeat of the organization.”

One specific piece of support MTUG pro-

BU ILDING

P OWER

vides relates to documentation, which is crucial for the trans-expansive, yet can be a discouraging pile of paperwork and bureaucracy. The group runs three or four clinics a year, helping people obtain the legal documents that meet their presentation.

“We’re realizing a lot of our folks don’t have their basic needs met, so we’re working to fill those gaps,” says Johnson.

Last fall, Vickie and Tom Maxwell, parents to a trans kid, became aware of MTUG after hearing about its first annual telethon, a groovy, old-school 24-hour fundraising variety show. They ended up giving the group a house, which has made a way better headquarters than an office or cubicles.

The house, Johnson says, “has allowed us to provide wrap-around-ish services to our most vulnerable adults.” There are lockers, showers, clothing and laundry facilities and more, as well as administrative space.

The headquarters house is not to be confused with the Trans Queer Flat, another project of Johnson’s, where trans-expansive

folks can live and pay rent in a safe and welcoming atmosphere.

Johnson says it’s a calling for him to serve.

When he came out, he says, he had support all around him.

“I realized a lot of my siblings did not,” he says. “I call this my privilege, to help my siblings.”

And help he does. The events page for MTUG is crammed with support groups — for mental health, for a variety of gender expressions, for significant others of trans humans. MTUG works on community grants, facilitates volunteer work at the Trans Memorial Garden, and even throws plain old just-for-fun parties like the Big Fat Trans-Queer Prom and the Big Fat TransQueer Fall Festival.

“It’s harder to ignore us,” Johnson says.

“We’ve built enough power that if we start to fuss about things, people start to pay attention. We now get invited to the table.

Trans-expansive people are taking up space.”

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DR. CHRISTOPHER LEWIS THE

To his coworkers, Dr. Christopher Lewis is known as the gender doctor. But to the LGBTQ community in the city, the region and beyond, he’s known as a great influencer. Lewis co-founded the Washington University Transgender Center clinic at the St. Louis Children’s Hospital, a cutting-edge center of care for trans youth. “[St. Louis] is very much like a family,” says Lewis, 34. “It has its cliques, but pretty much everyone knows each other and when there’s a major event that happens, we do rally behind one another and give support. The transgender clinic wouldn’t exist without the support of the LGBT and the community at large.”

Lewis, a native of southeast Texas, earned his bachelor’s degree in microbiology at Texas A&M in 2006. He went to medical school at the University of Texas in Galveston, and later moved to St. Louis to enter his pediatric residency at Washington University in 2011, completing the program in 2014.

During his residency, Lewis went through an advocacy rotation program to get exposure to underserved, marginalized and under-

GENDER

DOCTOR

represented populations. It was then he met Dr. Sarah Garwood. “[Sarah] and I were talking during the first week of my rotation in the advocacy course and prior to that, I hadn’t had any experience or education towards transgender health,” Lewis says. “She asked if I was willing and available to go to a couple of meetings with a local support group called TransParent.”

During the meeting, the support group for parents of transgender youth focused on the shortcomings they were up against: lack of access to information, support, and physical and mental health care.

Lewis later went on more than a dozen interviews for his fellowship training and asked each hospital what curriculum they offered in regard to transgender health. “All but one said nothing,” he recalls.

Frustrated by the lack of options, Lewis decided to create the solution he sought. He enlisted the help of mentors across the U.S. who were involved in transgender health.

In August 2017, Lewis and Garwood formed

the Washington University Transgender Center at the St. Louis Children’s Hospital. Since then, the clinic has seen nearly 400 patients. Many come from Missouri and Illinois, though some come from as far as Arkansas to seek help.

Beyond helping transgender youth and young adults with hormonal therapy and surgery, the clinic also helps with legal assistance and community advocacy outreach as well as education regarding transgender health.

In January, the center opened the intersex clinic to provide help and information for people with various hormonal, anatomic and sexual development issues.

Lewis says it’s critical for the medical community to understand these populations.

“You can’t take care of patients you don’t know exist,” he says. “Continuing to educate residents, med students, fellows and even current faculty and staff about issues related to not just transgender health, but intersex health — I think that’s the thing that I get the most reward of from being part of the medical community.”

JOSHUA PHELPS

SHAWN JENNINGS KOHRS HE

MAKES

A

WISH

Sitting in the garage with family in 2012, Shawn Jennings Kohrs stumbled upon a Facebook post that changed his life. A woman in Kentucky wrote with intimate details about how her thirteen-year-old son knew he was going to die, but still worried about her well-being.

“Two seconds in I was invested, and knew I had to do something,” Kohrs recalls.

He spent all night looking through posts and noticed that the boy, Lane, was a huge St. Louis Cardinals fan. “I decided to try to get the Cardinals to do something for Lane, so I rounded up friends to stand outside the stadium with posters asking people to join in for a picture giving ‘Thumbs Up For Lane Goodwin.’”

The outpouring of love was so incredible that KTVI Fox 2 interviewed Kohrs, and the effort became a social media phenomenon, with hundreds of thousands of Facebook likes on the “Prayers for Lane Goodwin” page. The Cardinals contacted Kohrs, and then Fredbird and the Cardinals staff were photographed giving Lane a thumbs up, with Lane’s name on the scoreboard at Busch Stadium. Cardinals announcer John Rooney, pitcher Chris Carpenter and GM John Mozeliak held “Thumbs Up for Lane” signs when the Cardinals took on the Nationals in Washington, D.C.

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C OME

TRU E

That wasn’t all: Kohrs and his friend Andrew Brooks painted Kohrs’ truck with images of Fredbird, Lane`s name, and yellow ribbons and headed down to Kentucky to meet Lane`s family and deliver the photos.

Kohrs has since made it his mission to to raise awareness about childhood cancer and raise money to fight it. Using his personal Facebook page, Kohrs has helped more families than he can count, doing everything from organizing 300-person flash mobs to getting Reba McEntire to call a girl on her birthday.

“Raising money for families affected by childhood cancer brings me joy, but nothing makes me happier than putting a smile on a child’s face,” says Kohrs, 39.

Sadly, it seems all of this was preparing Kohrs for a battle he was soon to fight close to home. His year-old nephew Vinny was diagnosed with cancer and is undergoing chemo treatment.

“I’ll be doing everything I can for Vinny, just like I have for all the other children affected by this horrible monster that takes the lives of seven children a day,” says Kohrs.

Vinny’s got a powerful ally. With the sheer force of his passion, Kohrs can pull off the unimaginable in a matter of minutes. CHRIS ANDOE FA L L 2 0 1 8

MAXI GLAMOUR GOD

SAVE

Maxi Glamour is our indigo demon queen, dancing the polka and burning Satanic rites down the Mississippi River. For ten years they have summoned plagues of glamorous disco punk to St. Louis that defy attempts at binary categorizations. To simply label Maxi a “drag queen” would be to incur their fiercest voodoo curse. Maxi’s scales are too prismatic.

Maxi’s work is a collage of vibrant queer possibilities, a voyage into steampunk dystopia, a femme fever dream full of horns and venom heels, a ballet of absurdist-avant garde fashion and a fierce dose of black queer liberation. Maxi is a designer, a classically trained flautist, a professional dancer, a show director, an activist and yes, a QUEEN. “I see my purpose as knowing my skills and looking at the needs in my communities and understanding how I can make them better,” says Maxi.

“Drag queens are pillars of queer culture. We are the ones on the mic, we are the ones creating the parties — so how can I work to change them?

To change the culture and society?”

MAXI GLAMOUR

THE

QU EEN

It may sound simple, but Maxi has used this tenet to build a name as one of St. Louis’ most impressive artists. From polka parties at Das Bevo to demon cabarets full of hedonist burlesque to free drag workshops for trans and gender non-binary young artists, Maxi continues to push us to reconsider where the line exists between community and individual artist.

“Drag queens are pillars of queer culture,” Maxi says. “We are the ones on the mic, we are the ones creating the parties, so how can I work to change them? To change the culture and society?”

In terms of racial equity, Maxi says it comes down to not just putting black artists on the stage but putting them on the microphone.

“That is shifting the culture of what is seen as queer leadership in clubs, shows and arts communities,” Maxi says.

One of Maxi’s most influential projects is the quarterly queer arts mini-festival Qu’art, which blends intersectional and multi-disciplinary queer artists on the Crack Fox stage downtown.

“I wanted to bring acts together to expand our conceptions of what queer art is and what it can be here in St. Louis,” says Maxi. “I wanted it to be an event that I would want to be a part of, something I wasn’t seeing in St. Louis.”

The events are organized around themes like club kid wonderlands, cyber freaks, black queer excellence, filth and dismantling the oligarchy. Each Qu’art features panel talks with community leaders, activists and artists on issues touching queer lives: addiction, political mobilization, racism in the LGBT community and sex positivity. Many of the panels intentionally center queer leaders and elders.

“Learn from your queer elders, respect them,” says Maxi, who never reveals their age. “These are the ones that kept the bars open and alive for years. They were innovative, they were avant garde, so don’t treat these queer pioneers as disposable.”

And that ability to cultivate may be what defines their demon baklava influence.

“To be humble and lower yourself to learn from someone, to ask a question you don’t know the answer to,” says Maxi, “that is deep, that is beautiful.”

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CAMI THOMAS THE

STORYTELLER

Cami Thomas wields her influence in gentle but powerful ways. She’s a journalist, with bylines in HuffPost Black Voices and this very magazine, and a documentary filmmaker lending her unique perspective to issues in a post-Michael Brown world.

“I grew up in Florissant, the tippity-top of north county,” says Thomas, 25. “I went to middle school and high school in Ladue: MICDS. Very stark contrast.”

She and her sister were forced to examine their own preconceived notions, both about their north county friends and their Ladue schoolmates. Every day, she had to act as an ambassador between the two worlds, correcting both groups when they had wrong ideas about the other.

“I had a full decade of having these conversations on a daily basis,” she says. “Fusing that with visual content, it feels very natural.”

Her web series “Smoke City” provides a dreamy and impressionistic look at the city’s neighborhoods, interviewing residents who act as guides to the area’s particular points of pain and beauty. But don’t be fooled by the poetic footage and sometimes jumpy narratives. The episodes do the hard work of bridging gaps between St. Louis’ disparate racial, sexual, economic and geographic groups.

“I became [a documentarian] by accident and out of necessity, and a need to heal from the racial trauma that St. Louis has and sometimes continues to have,” she says. “I needed some type of creative outlet besides burning with angst.”

Telling stories, she finds, is a critical piece of healing and growth — especially the parts people are reluctant to work on. Common feelings, rather than common experiences, can bring people with disparate viewpoints and lived experiences together.

“All people experience sadness, all people experience feeling other,” she says. “The way to connect people is finding common

ground, being more a listener than a talker.”

But people can be defensive when they find their dearly held biases or viewpoints being challenged. Activists on the ground, she explains, don’t always have time to coddle people and get them to the point where real conversations can happen.

“I want to be the one to help people shed back those layers of defensiveness so they can have those conversations,” she says.

There are some raw moments in the show. In the U City episode, Luke Babich describes his wonderfully diverse high school experience before leaving for Stanford, and then finding out during his first Thanksgiving break that a friend had been murdered. On camera, he weeps and reckons with the privilege that he, a white male, has always been enveloped in.

It’s emotional labor, and it’s arresting. Thomas, a deft and thoughtful interviewer, cuts the camera for a while.

“It’s taxing in those moments,” she says.

As a black queer woman from St. Louis, Thomas is often expected to provide folks with an education on the trauma she experiences from all three of those identities.

“You can’t just ask any person to recount racial trauma,” she says.

“Not everyone’s in the pace to lift that emotional weight.”

Thomas herself is willing to do it — up to a point. “I think I partially do that so other people don’t have to, so that my friends and members of my community don’t have to. I have a really great support system and know when to sit back.”

The first two seasons of Smoke City are available on Thomas’ For the Culture TV website, www.ftctvofficial.com, with the third and final season shooting now. But fear not — she’s got plenty more to say.

“St. Louis definitely hasn’t seen the last of me and my content,” she says.

MELISSA MEINZER

BRYON PIERSON THER E ’ S FO R

AN

A P P

T H AT

Bryon Dawayne Pierson Jr. is driven in the way someone is driven to escape a burning house. At just fifteen, the Alton native ran away from his dysfunctional family, determined not to succumb to their lifestyle of guns, drugs and sex addiction.

Despite bouncing through six foster homes, Pierson excelled in O’Fallon (Illinois) High’s wrestling program. With no financial backing, he put himself through college, first attending Lincoln College, where he continued wrestling. He completed his studies at Southern Illinois University- Edwardsville, where he became an LGBTQ activist as the president of the Gay-Straight Alliance before

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graduating with a major in political science and a minor in psychology.

Now, at just 24, Pierson is the CEO of a technology company he founded, Serenity Strategy Network, which uses the Campus Pride database to rank colleges for LGBTQ students. He’s also director of economic development for Black Pride.

“I think for me the next step in life is getting the Serenity Network to win an Arch Grant to increase the number of underrepresented students in secondary education,” Pierson says.

He’s also planning to pursue his master’s degree at Maryville University.

CHRIS ANDOE FA L L 2 0 1 8

“The younger generation believes there are no boxes.

That is a great concept to have.

We have these wonderful nonbinaries now. Masculinity is in the mind.”

KAMEO DUPREE

KAMEO DUPREE NO

BOXES

Mister Kameo Dupree is that suave, debonair gentleman who opens your doors and brings you flowers. You may have fallen under the classic male illusionist’s spell at the Grey Fox or other venues, sharply suited and slaying tunes by Jessie J, Brad Paisley or Jason Derulo. “I just don’t do that heavy metal,” the musically promiscuous performer explains.

The woman behind the illusion, in addition to being thoroughly dapper, is a thoughtful and introspective member of an evolving scene, watching appreciatively as gender’s binaries and little boxes are smashed.

“Drag has evolved into something that the older generation doesn’t fully understand, and the newer drag communities don’t understand [the older generation],” says Dupree, 35.

When Dupree was coming up, “drag” meant gay men impersonating women. Male illusion was strictly for cisgender women with bound breasts.

At any given drag show these days, you’ll still see the classic visions of queens and kings, but now anything goes. You might see someone rocking a beat face with a full beard, or unbound breasts bouncing around under a three-piece suit. Racially diverse slates are slowly becoming the norm, too.

“The younger generation believes there are no boxes,” says Dupree. “That is a great concept to have. We have these wonderful nonbinaries now. Masculinity is in the mind.”

The child of a police officer mom and DJ dad, Dupree spent time in the military. That background and queer identity made her a born peacemaker.

“My mom didn’t raise us with the wool over our eyes,” Dupree says. “I knew that the world isn’t as black and white as the world wants us to make it. I was made to be that intercessor, to bring everyone together. I believe I started doing that when I started doing drag.”

Growing up, Dupree was always the odd kid out. Every ultrasound until the day of her birth indicated that a boy was coming, she says — surprise!

“I came out and I was a girl,” Dupree says. Yet, she adds, “I am my dad through and through. I walk like my dad, talk like my dad.”

Church, Dupree says, told her that her identity was wrong, so she tried to fit, marrying a man at a young age. After her military service — which she entered into out of a sincere desire to serve — she knew she loved women and her life wasn’t right.

“I considered transitioning before I started drag,” says Dupree. “But then drag came along. I was able to be the man I always thought I was meant to be, without altering the person I created.

I’m content with who I am.”

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flavors

Our House BAY TRAN’S VEGETARIAN RESTAURANT TREE HOUSE IS A WELCOMING SPOT FOR THE LGBTQ COMMUNITY

Y

ears ago, dining out as a vegetarian meant lots of limp pasta topped by wan microwaved mixed vegetables. Questions about ingredients yielded a rolled eye or a too hastily supplied answer.

The bad old days are over, and leading the charge locally is Tree House (3177 South Grand Boulevard, 314-696-2100), the South Grand mainstay that has brought vegetarian and vegan delights to a strip of excellent dining options from around the world. Plant-based food is no afterthought here — it’s the whole show.

And what a show it is.

Evenings, you can go for snacks, small plates or entrees — and all the entrees are vegan. The smoky jambalaya with cornbread is a standout, but it faces hot competition from the fried beets and the Brussels sprouts salad. If you thought you didn’t like Brussels sprouts, well, you’re simply mistaken. The sweet-spicy bowl of gorgeous green will make you a convert.

Weekends, the brunch is well worth getting up for. The “Big

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BY M EL ISSA MEINZER

Breakfast” will last you all day, with two from-scratch vegan “sausage” patties, eggs or tofu, potatoes and a damn-near-transcendent biscuit (you can swap it for a pancake if you really want to gild the lily, but why?). “Desayuno Latino,” our personal go-to, features a black bean masa cake with a complex chimichurri sauce and eggs or tofu, with the option to top things off with dairy or vegan cheese.

There’s a full bar with an ambitious cocktail program, and the fermented tea beverage known as kombucha. It’s a chill spot for hanging out, and the occasional wait times at brunch just make the place feel a little hip and exclusive.

At Tree House, classic dishes For vegetarians and such as jambalaya and cornbread vegans, it’s a revelation to are rendered vegan. have options that aren’t J E N N I F E R S I LV E R B E RG slapped-together appeasements. For omnivores trying to reduce their environmental impact, dining at Tree House is a delicious way to do so.

And for stone carnivores humoring their plant-focused friends, it’s a game changer. It’s just good food, not the conspicuously grainy, beany, virtuous (tasteless) health food of yore.

Tree House is Bay Tran’s baby. She opened it six years ago this June, and remains extremely hands-on, developing the menu, sourcing ingredients and handling parties, wedding and other special events.

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“Because we’re sort of hitting our stride, the weeks and seasons just fly by,” she says. “It’s been a long road, but we’ve found our groove.”

For her, the restaurant seemed like a natural project.

“I felt that there was a huge lack in the vegetarian niche in St. Louis,” says Tran, who describes herself as a vegetarian striving to become a vegan. “I’d go out; there wouldn’t be many options. You’d always have to wonder, ‘Is there fish sauce in this?’”

Tower Grove South and the restaurant business go hand in hand for her.

“I’ve been living in this neighborhood for probably 25 years,” says Tran. “I’m a neighbor and a property owner as well. I come from a third-generation restaurant family.”

Fittingly in light of her environmental values, she walks her 500-foot commute.

Tran opened the restaurant when she was 40, after a career in real estate. She had actually acquired the building seven

years prior to opening the restaurant.

“We did a full historic rehab on the property,” she says.

It shows. The interior and exterior are graceful and airy spaces that fit beautifully into the red-brick aesthetic of the neighborhood. Inside, intimate seating areas are punctuated by plants and flowers, and the bar is draped in living greenery, a lovely effect that highlights and recalls the plant-based cuisine being served.

When it’s nice out, the patio is one of the city’s finest.

The seating area is bordered by planters that just might be the source of the herbs dotting your dish.

Tree House has evolved in its half-dozen years of life, and true to form, it has done so organically.

“It’s almost developed into more of a vegan restaurant than a vegetarian restaurant because of demand,” Tran says.

The city’s vegans were arriving en masse, and the kitchen attempted to make vegan and vegetarian versions of the same dish. Then Tran had an epiphany: “Let’s make as many

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vegan as possible; we’d be able to accomplish both goals.”

Tran has even more ambitious ideas for Tree House, whether that’s a potential second location, more interesting menu items, or obtaining a small city garden plot to experiment with microgreens and other crops.

“We do a lot of special events, multi-course prix fixe meals two or three times a year,” Tran says. (Confidential to my Owner Bay Tran says boo-thang: Maybe next year signature items like the fried we can finally go for the beets keep diners coming Valentine’s dinner??) “Those back for more. have been really fun for me.

J E N N I F E R S I LV E R B E RG They push me. We’re trying to create the best experience, especially for you, and it’s built around that, not ‘Let’s see what vegetarian dish we can come up with.’ Because of that, I think people expect a little more from us.”

The menu rotates seasonally, and sometimes some favorites have simply done their time on the menu. But don’t mess with success.

“We would have a lot of angry guests if we took certain things off the menu,” Tran says. “The fried beets, the Brussels sprouts and the ravioli have become signature items.”

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Despite the idealism inherent in committing to a vegetarian or vegan lifestyle, the restaurant isn’t an overtly politicized space, though there’s certainly a welcoming vibe that fits well with the neighborhood. Your server might be a beautiful young queer (or not), but don’t expect wacky LGBTQ puns on the menu.

“We try to keep our politics under the radar, because I feel that it is something that’s more of a personal and private nature,” Tran says. “We’ll definitely hang the rainbow flag during Pride and things like that. I want as many people as possible to feel comfortable.”

For Tran, it’s important that the restaurant supports as much diversity as possible. Guests and staff alike feel comfortable being themselves and expressing what matters to them.

“That’s something that’s important for me, as a minority person, as a queer person, as a female,” she says. “I feel I have that voice to speak up for other folks. We’ll always stand up for what’s right.”

Tree House is open for dinner Monday through Thursday from 5:30 to 9:30 p.m., Friday and Saturday from 5:30 to 10 p.m. and Sunday from 5 to 9:30 p.m. Brunch Saturday and Sunday is from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. See www.treehousestl.com for more information.

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