A Place of Our Own challenges the assumption that queerness and domesticity are mutually exclusive,

asking what it means to raise a family with both radical visibility + Southern tradition.

THE GREENBERGS
North Charleston, SC | July 2025

Can you be radically queer and also traditionally domestic?

Can you be Southern without the weight of its history defining you?

The Greenbergs live in the space between these questions.

Between tradition and rebellion;

between cultural inheritance and chosen family;

between what is softened for safety, and what is protected at all costs.

It is a paradox I recognize in myself. The pull toward home, toward familiarity, toward the language and rituals that shaped me, alongside a resistance to being contained by them. Queer life in the South often requires negotiation. What we reveal, what we keep, what we learn to hold quietly so it cannot be taken.

This work lives inside that tension. I am not interested in defining what queer families look like. I am asking what they could look like, if relief, joy, and self-expression were not treated as risks.

 How much of our joy, our style, our very selves, are we still holding back?

This entry in A Place of Our Own documents the Greenberg family, Nicole, Kris, and their daughter Talia, inside a home that feels less like a house and more like a portal. Part Halloween town, part queer refuge, the space is playful, tender, and intentional. Glitter lives alongside ritual. Spookiness coexists with care. Love appears not as spectacle, but as atmosphere.

Here, domesticity is not a retreat from queerness. It is an extension of it.

What happens when home becomes an act of refusal?

This is a queer family in the South, moving through visibility, passing, and pride with both contrast and courage. The front yard is watched over by a towering skeleton named John, a campy, welcoming figure that greets visitors year-round and sets the tone immediately. The home signals playfulness before you ever step inside.

Inside, the space becomes something deeper. A place of emotional safety and playful experimentation, where gender is understood as a spectrum, where makeup is worn freely, and where brinner, breakfast for dinner, is sacred. It is a home where Talia, eight, can grow into herself without judgment. A home where the message is simple and consistent. You can always come home.

Nicole, Kris, and Talia moved into their North Charleston home in February 2023 after feeling priced out of Park Circle, a fast-gentrifying neighborhood once known for its affordability and eclectic spirit. When Nicole first saw the mid-century ranch with the purple door, she knew. Inside, the house feels unmistakably theirs, shaped slowly through intention rather than trend.

The Greenbergs do not fit a mold. They have built something better, something true to them. Their world is joyful, chaotic, and deeply loving. In a region where queer families often walk a careful line between safety and erasure, their home stands as a glowing example of what it means to live freely and without apology.

This work is not just portraiture. It is testimony. It is an invitation. A reminder that love, when allowed to be expressive and uncontained, becomes its own form of protest. And its own form of celebration.

Every day is Halloween here.

Every trinket, every wall hanging, every furry or scaly creature seems to ring with intention. The space feels soft and specific. Spooky, yes, but also warm. Nothing is accidental. Nothing is hidden. The weirdness is not tucked away; it is celebrated openly. This is exactly the kind of home I hoped to find when I began this series.

The pets are part of the family’s story, too. Pretzel the snake. Gretchen Wieners, the sorta-wiener dog. Macaroni, lovingly referred to as a piss demon and a master of destroying curated vintage furniture. Elder cats Rumors and Misty, outdoor queens by tenure alone. Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers, the lizards, perpetually unimpressed and deeply horny.

Together, they form a living ecosystem. Messy, funny, affectionate, and deeply alive. This is not a house staged for visibility. It is a home built for comfort, curiosity, and play.

Inside, the house reveals itself slowly. Dim, layered, and gentle, it feels like stepping into a space stitched together from hand-me-downs, memory, and care. The front room holds their love of art, creatures, and all things spooky. A curated collection of books and trinkets lives alongside a soft-lit altar, a full Monster High shrine, and castle-shaped coffins tucked in quietly.

Much of their favorite time together comes from shared ritual. Crafting, building, storytelling, and long movie nights. Art projects, baking experiments, thrift store treasure hunts, and stretches of being delightfully goofy around the house. There are monthly date nights, bedtime book readings, and a standing house rule that anyone is always allowed to sing or dance.

They put on fashion shows using whatever is nearby. New thrift finds, old staples, elaborate accessories, and improvised makeup. Music plays loudly. Dancing happens in hallways.

The house responds.

The living room dips slightly below the rest of the home, forming a natural nest for snuggling, game nights, and horror marathons. The dogs usually claim the best seat. The shadows feel intentional, part of the design rather than something to be corrected.

The kitchen is softer, more grounded. Heirloom furniture sits beside practical pieces with history. A converted desk from Nicole’s aunt now serves as a custom bar, holding both function and lineage.

Every corner of the house carries layered meaning. Spiritual grounding lives comfortably beside play, joy, and personal mythology. Their home does not simply reflect their family’s personality. It is their personality.

Talia leads the charge with endless ideas, and her parents are always willing to follow her spark. When I asked what she is into right now, the answer unfolded in layers. Cherry Cola Labubu cats, always cats. Crafting vending machines out of cardboard. Tiny goodie bags. Monster High dolls. Rock Band. Minecraft. Fashion shows. Scary movies, whenever allowed. She is wildly creative and deeply hands-on, already using fashion and décor as tools for self-expression.

Conversations around identity, gender, and queerness have never been framed as singular moments in this home. They are part of the everyday language of care. Talia understands gender as a spectrum and moves through difference with ease, curiosity, and respect. For Nicole and Kris, this is not something they teach through instruction, but through example. It is visible in how they listen, how they respond, and how they make space.

Talia has taught Nicole and Kris as much as they have taught her. Through her eyes, they have rediscovered the value of curiosity, invention, and imagination without limits. She reminds them to slow down, to play more, and to approach the world with softness. When they speak about hope, you feel it immediately.

The hope that she will always know she can come home.

The house holds this philosophy quietly. It is not built around spectacle, but around continuity. Parenting here is an act of presence. It is myth-making in real time. A scrapbook of rituals, Halloween costumes, hallway fashion shows, spontaneous dance breaks, and, of course, brinner. Love shows up everywhere, stitched into the ordinary.

Being a queer family in the South means living with both contrast and courage. Since Kris transitioned before he and Nicole met, their life together has always been open and intentional. From the outside, they are often read as a “standard” straight family. That reading comes with safety, but it also brings a quieter kind of erasure. Visibility becomes conditional. Belonging can feel partial.

They both come from more liberal places, and they carry that perspective into how they move through South Carolina. It shapes their resilience and their bond. It is why their parenting is rooted in emotional safety, creativity, and joy. It is why their home looks and feels the way it does. Their presence, both in their neighborhood and within this project, matters because it resists easy categorization.

“We’re not the nuclear family. Far from it. We explore gender. We support drag and perform fashion shows regularly. Everyone wears makeup in our house. And we’ve worked hard to build the unit we have. It’s not biological, but it’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.”

If this work ever finds its way into Talia’s future photo album, the message they would want it to carry is simple.

Things are not picture-perfect. But they are fun, chaotic, and ours.

The Greenbergs show us the answer is yes.

You can be radically queer and deeply domestic. You can be unmistakably Southern and entirely your own. Home does not have to look a certain way to be real. Family does not need to follow a single script to be valid.

What they offer is not a model, but a permission. A reminder to other queer families in the South, especially those still finding their footing, that there is no one correct way to belong.

“It’s okay if your family doesn’t look loud or political, or if it does. There’s no one way to be a queer family. Whether you’re blending chosen family, raising kids, navigating small towns, or just figuring things out one day at a time…you belong, and you deserve to exist.

Find your moments of magic. Make art. Celebrate weirdness. Be soft when you can, and fierce when you need to be — your love, your joy, and your story are radical acts in themselves.”

This work is about noticing those moments. The small rituals. The softness. The joy that survives. The homes we build when we are allowed to do so honestly.

A Place of Our Own is an ongoing photo series. If this story resonates with you, submissions are open for queer families across the South. You may nominate your own household, or another family you believe should be part of this archive, here.

With care,

Victor Garcia
Photographer + Storyteller