The Place Where I Belong

This weekend the Portland Lesbian Choir (PLC) presents The Place Where We Belong. While this is just my 4th concert with the choir, it will be a celebration of 40 years of PLC, in what happens to be my 40th year as well. But a different milestone in my life just passed, and it has me reflecting on where I came from, where I have been, and where I belong.

I will always love where I grew up, exploring the forests, fields, waterfalls, and gorges in the Finger Lakes region of New York. It will never stop feeling like home when I visit. But if I had stayed beyond college, I might not have ever found out who I really am. 

Since leaving New York in 2008 I have moved several times: first to rural Warm Springs, GA, then Seattle, followed by Los Angeles, then San Francisco, and finally Portland. Until recently, LA had been the city where I spent the most time in my adult life, despite knowing that it was not the place for me long term. Having grown up surrounded by green trees and water, I didn’t belong in the desert. San Francisco was an improvement with its natural beauty and nearby redwood groves, but the culture of the Bay Area had already become dominated by the tech industry, and I wanted nothing to do with it. The closest I had felt to belonging was when I lived in Seattle, so I sought out jobs in the Pacific Northwest. 


When I moved to Portland in 2019 I immediately felt at home. The vibe is very similar to Ithaca, but with more people, more good food, and maybe even more trees and waterfalls to admire. I’m not going to go into all the ways that Portland is unique, or what being here in 2020 meant to me, or how I found community (and chosen family) even in the midst of a pandemic. I want to focus on the fact that here, I finally accepted something I had been suppressing for decades: I am not straight, and heteronormative culture is not my culture. I finally understood that my attraction to people of all genders is not only okay, it is a gift. The gift of belonging to the queer community, where our commonality has nothing to do with where or who we are from - it comes from self-knowledge, and the courage to live in the open as we are at our core.

Photo by Miranda Robinson

I accepted myself for who I am, and then found the throughlines that connect my new understanding of my identity with who I have always been. I joined a soccer team, to run and play outside, rain or shine, like I did as a kid. I joined the ranks of die-hard Thorns fans at Providence Park, cheering on the queer women I had idolized long before I knew how much we had in common. And finally, I joined the Portland Lesbian Choir. If there is any single fact that all of my friends and family know about me, it is that I am a singer, and have always been a singer. Having an outlet to express my true self in song, in harmony with my community - that is really what makes Portland the Place Where I Belong. 


As of this month I have officially lived in Portland longer than I’ve lived anywhere else outside of my hometown, and it feels like one more piece in the puzzle of my life has been set in place. Every time that I moved, I had to leave loved ones behind, and the silver lining is that I now know I am capable of finding love wherever I go. But that sense of belonging, of community, of knowing that you are exactly where you are meant to be - that is rare. I cannot fathom leaving that feeling behind. And I don’t expect I ever will.


- Allison Fritts-Penniman

Voices of Resilience: Reflections from a PLC Trailblazer

Over the years, the Portland Lesbian Choir has provided a supportive community for self-expression and activism. In part of archiving PLC’s rich history, we asked CJ Rachko, a founding member of the choir—or as she puts it, “one of the first women to respond to a flyer posted at the women's book store inviting lesbian singers to a meeting”—to share insights into her journey. Below is a glimpse into the challenges, triumphs, and sense of belonging she’s experienced over the last 40 years.

Early Challenges: Building a Safe Space

One of the growing pains in the choir’s early years involved deciding which songs would truly represent the group’s identity. Logistical obstacles included securing funding for choir directors, finding rehearsal spaces, and affording venues. Many members were young lesbian women with limited financial means. The members were young, optimistic and powerful. They did not feel overwhelmed by misogyny and homophobia, which were norms of the day—it was just life—but they knew they wanted to create a safe space to build community and solidarity.

Advice for the Next Generation

When asked what wisdom she would share with younger queer people today, CJ responded that there is much to be learned from the new generation. She emphasized the importance of remembering those who paved the way, honoring past struggles and achievements. Her advice: don’t let fear hold you back. Seek out community (whether through choirs or other spaces), ask for support, and find moments of happiness wherever possible, even as you encourage yourself along the way.

“I think as we older lesbians and gay men have gained more rights and protections through the years, we have to have more awareness and give protection to those most targeted now, the trans community and people of color. We shouldn’t forget that we are all just one or two broken steps from the bottom, especially in these current times.”

Admired Activist Artist: Holly Near

Asked about an early artist that she appreciated, CJ named Holly Near, a renowned activist and musician whose songs have inspired countless people over the decades. Her lifelong commitment to social justice and her powerful voice make her one of many influential musicians at that time.

Finding Energy in Song

Throughout every rehearsal and performance, music remains at the core of PLC’s spirit. Certain songs always manage to energize and uplift, serving as both a source of strength and a reminder of the joy found in singing together. CJ’s experience in PLC, like many other members, demonstrates that solidarity and creativity flourish in the face of adversity. For 40 years, the journey has been about more than music—it’s been about forging connections, celebrating identity, and building resilience that echoes through every note.

Standing Together in this Moment

To our PLC family and community:

These are deeply unsettling times, and it’s natural to feel shaken and concerned for our safety and rights, and those of our neighbors.

The Portland Lesbian Choir has always been a place of safety, sanctuary, and song—a community rooted in compassion, justice, and courage. That commitment does not waver when the world feels uncertain. We will continue to sing, speak, and act from a place of love and solidarity. We will continue to act as a voice for change and radical acceptance, and will continue to stand up for marginalized communities as we have for the last forty years.

If you are feeling unsafe, anxious, or need support of any kind, we encourage you to reach out to local organizations offering community safety, legal, and mental health support, including:

Our voices and our music have always been a source of hope and healing. Let’s continue to care for one another, lift each other up, and use our collective voice for love, justice, and belonging.

With care and solidarity,
The Portland Lesbian Choir

Resonate with Outliers and Outlaws 

Photo Credit OMJCHE

On August 21st, PLC’s auditioned sub-group, Resonate, performed a concert at the Oregon Jewish Museum and Center for Holocaust Education as part of their Outliers and Outlaws exhibit. Outliers and Outlaws showcases the vibrant history of Eugene’s lesbian community from the 1960s through the 1990s. This groundbreaking project captures the stories of 83 women who were instrumental in shaping the city’s social and political landscape. The women featured in the exhibition were transformative figures who influenced Oregon’s political landscape, challenged discriminatory policies, and created rich cultural spaces.

PLC was a natural fit for an event to support the Outliers and Outlaws exhibit and showcase music written by lesbians, by Jewish composers, and songs from the 1960s-1990s. The goal was to immerse the audience into the experience of lesbians living in Eugene during that time.  

“It was a fun project to look through PLC’s repertoire and tie the music to the Outliers and Outlaws experience” said PLC’s Artistic Director, Mary McCarty. “We had a lot of music that was a direct fit - Melissa Etheridge, Bob Dylan, The Indigo Girls. We pulled in songs that showcased the leadership and social justice movements like I Need to Wake Up and If You’re Out There, and we included Hine Ma Tov which was arranged for PLC in 2018 by long-time member Kim Horenstein.”

The concert was a great success with an audience full of supporters of the museum and members and supporters of PLC. Resonate is available for customizable community performances like this . To discuss a performance opportunity, contact Hayley Andrews (executivedirector@plchoir.org).

Resonate performs “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor

A Coffee Creek Reflection

By Amanda Matteo (she/her), Choir Coordinator

“What stood out to me is the healing that can come from having a place to go every week where we can show up and laugh, cry, rage, and heal together through music. We get to express the language of the heart through connecting in song.”  - Quill (they/them)

    There is safety in community and healing in song. When the world feels unsafe, unwelcoming, or unmanageable, there is no better place to be than in a choir practice room. On our best and worst days, music is the underlying safe space.

     Nineteen PLC singers had the privilege of rehearsing and then performing with the choir at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility in a joint summer concert, performed for other AICs (adults in custody). We also had the unique opportunity to sit together and discuss what it means to us to be in a choir.

   We shared the joy we feel when the harmony hits just right. We shared the rage and pain of lives and worlds that feel unfair and the peace that overcomes when the song begins. We shared laughter and tears, and the sense of belonging and understanding that only music can express—individuals from countless different walks of life, connected immediately through the music that we sang.

    Most importantly, we shared truths from our lives and held space. We laughed and cried; complimented each other’s glasses; practiced call-and-response; and pranced to PinkPony Club. We supported nervous soloists and built risers and set up (and broke down, and set up again) tables and chairs, and did so with smiles and a shared sense of gratitude.

     To sing with these spectacular humans, to get a glimpse into their lives, to celebrate joy and humanity and community with them—it’s a privilege and honor.

“I was glad to know that by singing with the [choir] we were supporting and encouraging personal creative expression, and reinforcing the resilience of incarcerated people. I loved seeing how music enriches their lives.”  - Rhiver (they/them)

     It was a reminder of the importance of spaces like the Portland Lesbian Choir and the Coffee Creek choir room—spaces that open themselves up for those most in need of a safe place to land, on Wednesday nights and Sunday afternoons and all the small moments in between.

“ I want people on the outside to know I'm proud to go sing with a choir on the inside and we had a great time. I want people to remember the humanity in each other. We need that so much right now.” - Laura (she/her)

     To sing in a choir is to join together as part of something greater than yourself. It doesn’t matter where that choir room is located or the circumstances that brought you there. Come as you are, we see you. Be here, share your gift with us, and find whatever it is you are seeking.

     It’s a space to share in community and beautiful song; to lift one another up; to cry, laugh, rage, and love. To sing together as a queer choir—or, a choir of folks who are marginalized and othered and deeply dependent on community to survive—is the most powerful force in the world.

     It can feel impossible to quantify powerlessness, sadness, and rage. Yet despite (or, perhaps, in spite of) these seemingly insurmountable barriers, music continues to be what heals us all most.

“I see the women in the lunchroom through the two-way mirror and think of swallows flying up and over the barbed wire into the darkening orange sky. There’s no way to cage music. We aren’t allowed to take pictures or write letters, so I remember faces, sing the songs. I set off the metal detector. ‘What do you have in there?’, the guard asks. ‘Love,’ I think to myself. ” - Damian (any/all)