On any given night in the late ‘70s or early ‘80s, if you walked down Pico Boulevard in Los Angeles and passed the modest facade of a club called Catch One, you might have heard the bassline of liberation thumping through the walls. Inside, Black queer folks were dancing, embracing, laughing—a kind of sanctuary in sequins. And at the heart of it all stood a woman with steady eyes and a strong spine: Jewel Thais-Williams.

She didn’t just open a nightclub. She opened a portal—to safety, joy, visibility, and most of all, belonging.

 

Jewel was born in 1939 in Gary, Indiana, one of eight children in a working-class family. After moving to Los Angeles and earning a degree from UCLA, she opened a clothing boutique, but soon found herself called to something deeper: creating space for people who had nowhere to go. In 1973, with little fanfare and a deep sense of purpose, she bought a run-down disco on the edge of town. She renamed it Catch One.

 

For many, that would have been a bold entrepreneurial move. For a Black lesbian woman in 1970s America, it was downright revolutionary.

Catch One became the first Black-owned LGBTQ+ nightclub in the country. But it was more than a party. Jewel poured her life into that space because she knew what it meant to be pushed out, ignored, or unseen. In an era of open racism, homophobia, and the looming terror of AIDS, Jewel’s club was a refuge. Not a performance of inclusivity, but the real thing: drag queens, gay men, lesbians, trans folks, elders, young ones—all of us, in one place, dancing like we belonged.

Because we did. She made sure of it.

 

When AIDS began to ravage our communities—particularly Black and Brown ones—Jewel didn’t shrink back. She co-founded the Minority AIDS Project and later Rue’s House, one of the first facilities to house women and children living with HIV. She stepped into the gaps that society refused to fill.

 

As if running a club and building social services wasn’t enough, she later went back to school to become a licensed acupuncturist and healer, founding the Village Health Foundation, which provided holistic care to underserved people. From the dance floor to the clinic, her reach was wide, and her medicine—whether herbal, ancestral, or emotional—was potent.

 

Jewel didn't just witness the intersections of race, gender, sexuality, and health—she lived them. She was a spiritual mother, community architect, and unwavering warrior who stood in the storm and offered the rest of us an umbrella.

 

For those of us doing the work of healing, touch, intimacy, and spiritual integration for Black men and queer folks today, Jewel is an ancestor of practice. She taught us, not always with words, but with example: You don’t need permission to make space. You just need the courage to hold it.

 

So many of us have learned to “get small” to fit into systems that were never built for us. Jewel refused. She got bigger. She took up space with her love. She danced when the world said sit still. She held our grief when there was no more room to carry it alone. Even when the city tried to shut her down, or the system turned its back, she never stopped loving us forward.

 

Jewel passed away earlier this month at the age of 86. But her legacy remains stitched into the soul of Los Angeles—and into all of us who continue her work.

 

There’s a square named after her now at Pico and Norton: Jewel Thais-Williams Square. But the real monument is in every Black queer soul who ever walked into a room and felt safe. That feeling was seeded by her. The truth that we deserve spaces to be fully seen, fully free, fully fabulous—she didn’t just believe it. She built it.

 

Let us remember her not only as a pioneer of nightlife or an activist, but as a keeper of the sacred. A Black queer woman who saw the divine in us before we could see it ourselves.

 

May her name always be spoken with reverence.
May her story remind us to keep the doors open, the music playing, and the light on for those still finding their way home.

1. How long have you been in the Palm Springs area and where did you come from or have you lived previously?
I’ve been a part-time resident of Palm Springs since 2016, but full-time I live and work in Los Angeles. I split my time between both, and I’ve really come to appreciate the rhythm and beauty of the desert. It's become a meaningful part of my life and a prelude to my retirement.

 

2. What kind of work do you do and/or how have you been involved in the community?
I lead the LA office of a real estate development firm that focuses on large urban infill projects. I’m passionate about building and revitalizing communities that are more thoughtful and inclusive in design and in function. Outside of work, I try to stay connected to the communities I’m part of, especially in spaces where I can support and uplift others.

 

3. Why is BOD/Brothers of the Desert important to you?
Community has always been important to me. It gives us a sense of connection, support, and shared identity. What I love about Brothers of the Desert is the opportunity to be in fellowship with other Black gay men and allies who understand the nuances of our experience. It’s a space that feels both grounding and energizing.

 

4. What are your hobbies or non-work activities that bring you pleasure?
I love hiking, walking, and just spending quiet time outdoors. Most mornings you’ll find me on a trail around 6am, enjoying the stillness and watching the sky wake up. Stargazing is another favorite, I find it humbling. In each instance, I get a moment to see the greatness of a higher power than ourselves.

 

5. What is your lifelong dream?
There’s a line in an old gospel song that’s always stayed with me: “If I can help somebody, if I can cheer somebody with a word or song, then my living shall not be in vain.” I’ve always felt called to be of service in some way. One of my long-term goals is to run for public office, where I can hopefully make a deeper impact and be of greater service to others.

Brothers of the Desert is excited to continue our monthly discussion group called Barbershop: A Black Gay Men’s Space for Honest Talk About Wellness, now in our second year!

 

Building upon the tradition of barbershops in Black communities, the discussion group is designed to encourage open and honest conversation. The meetings are welcoming a spectrum of Black men, gay, bisexual, transgender and nonbinary. The wellness topics discussed are diverse, ranging from dating and intimacy, aging considerations, how we get and offer support, and exploring our identities as Black men.

 

The group meets the second Tuesday of each month from 5:30-7:00 PM. There is no charge to attend. We begin with a meet and greet with dinner that begins at 5:30PM and the discussion group starts at 6PM.  The group is facilitated by Stuart Huggins and Will Dean.

 

To register to attend the meetings email:willdean.boardmember@brothersofthedesert.org

For questions email Tim Vincent at president@brothersofthedesert.org

 

Brothers of the Desert members meet monthly to discuss recent and upcoming events, share updates on the organization, celebrate our accomplishments, and have an opportunity to connect with new and existing members.

 

Join us for our Monthly Members & Allies Lunch!

El Taco Asado | (760) 323-7545

RSVP | Davidmaurice.jones@gmail.com before August 8, 2025

Name:   ESTEEM, an acronym for Establishing Skills To Elevate Employment & Motivation

 

Mission Statement: ESTEEM’s services are designed to enhance confidence, self-esteem, effective communication skills and support the positive energy of spiritual and social developments of our communities.

 

What do you provide?  We are an educational training and motivational center, developing curricula for schools, businesses and community agencies. We also offer a variety of state certified education classes, including IV Therapy & Blood withdrawal certification, Pharmacology, Wound Care, and our premier RCFE & ARF Administrator Certification course, which is linked with our full-service real estate brokerage.

 

Palm Springs longevity:  We have been in Palm Springs since 2014, while concurrently based in Michigan and Oklahoma.

 

Community involvement: In addition to being an LVN, BSN and Masters Nursing instructor, His community interests have led him to be a volunteer with the Palm Springs Police Department since 2018, an Executive board member with Volunteers in Medicine, the ONLY free healthcare provider in the Coachella Valley, an American Heart Association CPR instructor, a soloist at many community events and places of worship and a proud member of Brothers of the Desert.

 

What led to the start? After caring for his mother in 2019 with terminal lung cancer, Dr. Scoggins opened Paradise on Pico, an RCFE, Residential Care Facility for the Elderly, solely as a tribute to his mother to duplicate the care and love that she received and to create a home for others. After several years of service, he closed his facility to become a vendor for the State of California, where he is now an approved educational vendor for the RCFE – Residential Care Facility for the Elderly for residents 60 years old and above, and also an approved vendor for an ARF – Adult Residential Facility for residents 18 to 59 years old.

                

Additionally, for the last 40 years, Stephan has taken great pride in being a real estate professional and is VERY pleased to be the Broker/Owner of Esteem Team Properties, a full-service real estate company currently in three states: California, Michigan, and Oklahoma, which pairs perfectly in finding properties for the RCFE and ARF graduates.

 

Perfect referral: For those who have considered opening a board and care/assisted living facility and for those looking to buy or sell a residential property, our days are filled with trying to maximize our productivity to minimize the amount of your responsibility.

 

Life long dream for your business? I would like to facilitate the Brothers of the Desert in opening a Residential Care Facility for the Elderly, for its members and allies in the Coachella Valley.  I have all of the ingredients to make that happen; the compassion for the community, the real estate brokerage experience, an author of a book on the licensure and credentialling process of opening a facility, titled, ABCs of RCFE, available on Amazon, and the hands-on operational implementation and staff management expertise.

 

Websites:  www.EsteemDoctor.com and www.EsteemTeamProperties.com

 

James Baldwin was born 102 years ago on August 2, and his words saved my life.

As a young Black gay boy in a religious family in the Deep South, I found a lifeline in Baldwin’s fierce honesty. He wasn’t marching with rainbow flags or advocating for gay rights, but let’s be clear, James Baldwin was unapologetically gay. The cigarette, the cadence, the stare that cut through you.

 

Like many gay boys, I devoured Giovanni’s Room -- his groundbreaking 1956 novel about a sexually confused American man and an irresistible Italian bartender in Paris. His novels and essays cracked open America’s soul, but I was just as obsessed with Baldwin the man. He once shared a small room in Greenwich Village with Marlon Brando, found erotic freedom in Paris and Istanbul, was always the center of any party, and was cared for in his final days by Lucien Happersberger, the great love of his life.

 

It was an unforgettable moment when I met Baldwin at an African writer’s conference in Gainesville Florida in 1980. At that point I had read everything he had written.  He took the stage with Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe and for two hours I was transfixed by the elegance of this little man with big inquisitive eyes, who could go from a disarming smile to a fierce rebuke in an instant.

 

Baldwin's work tackled race and sexuality with fearless beauty, and they are still relevant today as they are being rediscovered by a new generation. Civil Rights leaders didn’t always know what to do with his queerness, but that never stopped him. His amazing life example as a smart, articulate, successful, out gay man helped many of us to see ourselves and our potential, to stand tall and demand our space in the community and the nation

 

Let’s remember James Baldwin, not just as a literary genius, but as a brave, brilliant gay man who made room for all of us to breathe a little freer and walk a little taller.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about grief. Not just the kind that knocks us off our feet when someone passes, but the quieter kinds too. The grief we carry when someone leaves a space they once lit up. The ache of watching a community elder fade from view. The mourning of dreams we had to tuck away just to survive.

 

When Jewel Thais-Williams passed this month, something in me stirred. I'd met her a couple of times, and I didn’t know her personally, but I felt her legacy move through my body like a drumbeat. I felt both deep sadness and immense gratitude. That paradox lives in me often, and maybe it does in you too.

 

Being Black and queer means holding grief and joy in the same hand. It’s an art form, really. We’ve had to master it. For generations, we’ve been grieving the world’s inability to love us fully while still showing up in fabulous color, with wide-open hearts and contagious laughter. That’s sacred.

 

I’ve come to see grief not as the opposite of joy, but as the soil it grows in. My tears have taught me things my joy never could. And as much as I resist it, grief keeps returning to remind me how deeply I’ve loved, how much I’ve hoped, how fiercely I’ve cared.

 

In our community, we’ve lost so many. To HIV, to silence, to systems that failed us. And yet here we are. Still breathing. Still creating. Still loving in defiance of the statistics. That’s powerful. That’s holy.

 

I don’t think we talk enough about how resilient our spirits are. Not in the performative “strong Black man” way. I’m talking about the resilience of softness. The strength it takes to cry, to ask for help, to say “I miss you” out loud. To gather in circle and speak our truths, even when our voices shake.

 

When I light a candle for someone I’ve lost, I try to do something they would’ve loved. Cook their favorite meal. Dance to the music they used to blast. Tell a story that makes someone laugh so hard they snort. That’s how I keep them close. That’s how I say thank you.

 

Gratitude, to me, is the bridge between loss and legacy. It’s how we turn pain into purpose. How we keep our ancestors not just remembered, but active in our lives. They walk with us. Whisper through our art. Breathe with us during that first deep inhale in the morning. And I don’t know about you, but I feel them most when I’m surrounded by chosen family. That moment when someone’s hand is on my back and the room is quiet and I know I’m safe. 

 

That’s ancestral medicine right there.

 

This is the work I see us doing. Healing in real time. Not rushing it. Not numbing it. But honoring it. That’s the Black queer spirit. A spirit that knows how to hold sorrow and joy, protest and prayer, rage and tenderness — all at once.

 

So if you’re grieving right now, I see you. If you’re grateful, I see you too. And if you’re somewhere in between, welcome. You’re not alone.

 

Let’s keep holding each other up. Let’s keep dancing with our ghosts and building altars with our joy. Let’s keep loving like we’re already somebody’s ancestor — because we are.

 

And maybe tonight, before bed, we can whisper a quiet thank you to those who came before us. The ones who made it possible for us to be here. Laughing. Loving. Living out loud.