Audra Sergel is a queer woman in her late 40s who's an active member of the community through her role as the artistic director of the Quorus, an LGBTQ+ choir.
She spoke about the importance of love, support and music in hard times.
Alphabet Soup shares LGBTQ+ Missourians’ stories through portraiture and personal narratives.
Audra Sergel: The queer scene in Columbia happened at the ball fields, it happened at the bars, it happened in resource centers on campus, and then it happened in people's homes.
It's one of the reasons I started the Quorus, in particular, is to have queer community outside of the bar — so, it's visible and it's emotionally and physically healthy.
So, the Pulse nightclub shooting happened, and we went to a vigil, and I remember thinking, “Where was our choir?”
Because at a vigil, we sing. Singing is holding space. It's everyone coming together. When we sing, physiologically, our hearts start to be in unison, and I can't think of anything more beautiful than that when I think about grief.
And so, at the vigil — there was great music there. That wasn't the issue at all — it was just, "Where's us?"
So, I called a couple friends, and I said, “I'm really thinking about starting an LGBTQ choir — what do you think?” and between the three of those folks, we came up with a plan of starting with a community meeting.
So, that was 2016 in November, and our first concert was in 2017.
What I am proud of is that I've never thought that this is something I did alone — there would not be anything to do if 40 people didn't show up every week. So, they create that environment, and I just happened to be trusted to lead them.
When we really came together the first time at rehearsal — I didn't know I needed it. I thought that it was kind of like I'm going to do this because I think that, at large, it would be cool for all of us to be singing together and making music.
The community that's been built is beyond my wildest expectations. We're a family, and so, making sure that when we're there, that it's meaningful, that it's connective.
Because, I think, joy is different than happy. Joy feels like the wise old crone compared to happy. Happy feels a little bit like popsicles and lollipops sometimes, and joy feels like that massive river of just love and acceptance.
And so, queer joy looks like a fresh new dye job on one of your trans members of your choir and everyone in the room going “Yes!” the second you walk in, and just that overall sense of, "You do you. You show up as you. I love it."
This space right here — in those moments that you forget, in those moments that someone makes you feel something or that you feel like is no longer worth holding on for — you might remember that moment of being together and being seen and held and known.
You can be whoever you are here and we got you.
![David Hall sits on his couch on Monday, April 7, 2025, at his home in Columbia. “Even in Missouri there's certain areas that you still don't see that many queens of color. And especially in the bigger cities, how many of them do you see on cast in bigger bars that have, like, either a rotating cast or a main cast throughout weekends? I will give kudos to Kansas City because they've worked really hard on having that diversity within all of their cast, but still. Like, Columbia, one joke was like, ‘Kaycee can't work all the time.’ … ‘Kaycee can't perform in every show, so you can't really ding us on diversity.’ But I'm like, I still want to bring that representation,” Hall said. “Since [Nclusion Plus], one of the places I perform with, we go to smaller areas and perform. And I'm like, just to have one person look at me and say, ‘Oh yeah, I look like them. I can do that,’ makes me really happy. And it's like, ‘OK, what I'm doing, I'm on the right track for that.’”](https://npr.brightspotcdn.com/dims4/default/e0b602f/2147483647/strip/true/crop/1750x1158+0+0/resize/260x172!/format/webp/quality/90/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fnpr-brightspot.s3.amazonaws.com%2F7d%2F9e%2Fe25c27e04e9a9b2be4ca9cb307d6%2F20250407-bas-queer-joy-david-hall-0291.jpg)
