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Honestly, the founders of the largest LGBTQA+ non-profit in the United States bicker more like siblings than business partners.
“I admitted it to JJ," (a college nickname for his better halves that stuck,) he continues as if he wasn’t interrupted, “and Justin whipped out the iPad and facetimed his sister, who was in the process of taking control of their family business (The Williams Brokerage Fund) and by the end of the night, A Place of A Different Color was born.”
It wasn’t as simple as all that, of course. Times are changing in America, but the process is slow and often painful. Interracial marriage is still frowned upon by the bigots of our country. Queerness even more so. Add in a black man with both a white wife and husband and the three lovers were committing social suicide. Or, at least, professional suicide. Julia lost her job as a fundraiser at the New York Art Museum. Justin is now a librarian instead of the literature professor he always thought he'd be.
Remi, though, took the biggest blow.
Word of how he outed himself at a board meeting and walked out, throwing his credit cards in his father's face on the way, mind you, had spread like wildfire. No one wanted to take a chance on the newly disgraced former scion.
Interviews with former business associates and close friends tell a similar story.
In truth, their affair was a poorly kept secret among those that knew them best. Most were surprised it hadn’t been going on longer. In the younger generation of New York’s elite, the newly engaged triad (three people in a committed, monogamous relationship) were welcomed with open arms. Their friends stood behind them when everybody else fled. Justin’s parents threw them a party.
In the business world, however, where one scandal can ruin a company, Remi was persona non grata.
The newly outed lovers had an uphill climb to reach the peace and happiness they enjoy today. APADC was almost entirely self-funded by Remi, Justin, and Julia with help from Justin’s family for the first two years of its existence. It wasn’t until Daniel Smith, Former VP and current CEO of Lancaster United, gave a public interview about the abuse Remi the younger suffered at the hands of his father and made a personal donation of five million dollars that the little business that could really took off.
Now, besides the main office in New York city, a block from the home Remi has shared with his spouses since the beginning of their relationship, they have offices in Atlanta, LA, Seattle, Dallas, and Omaha.
They don’t give out loans. They give grants to ailing and burgeoning businesses with no expectation of repayment. That’s not to say repayment doesn’t take place. Everyone who utilizes APADC’s services are encouraged to give back to their communities. It’s a tight-knit group, with owners who got their start through APADC’s grants program often offering grants themselves or taking new businesses under their wing.
“It’s not just that,” Deb adds. “It can be as simple as a bakery offering a cake to an LGBTQA+ couple that was denied services elsewhere or, as was the case with another of our start-ups, offering free in-home counseling to an autistic child whose insurance wouldn’t cover the additional behavioral therapy. Don’t bankrupt yourself by giving things away, but if they see an opportunity to help, we hope that the people we work with do what they can.”
While there are often protests outside the Dallas office, the Omaha office gives the most grants outside of New York. That surprised me most of all. I figured the location in the smaller area would receive the most backlash. It seems that is not the case. The smaller communities, Deb tells me, have a live and let live ideology. Don’t bother me, and I don’t bother you. That’s not true everywhere, obviously, but it’s more prevalent than I would have expected.
“It was important to us,” Remi says when I ask about such a random location, “that we give equal opportunities to those who need help all over the United States. We hear about the struggles of the LGBTQA+ community and the Black or Hispanic communities in these large cities. Still, there are millions of Americans in rural areas that are struggling to make a life for themselves and their families. Homosexuality isn’t related to metropolitan markets.”
So true.
Deb takes over, and the passion in her voice is ringing.
“The Omaha location has people coming from all over. Not just Nebraska but most of the neighboring states as well. We aim to have an APADC location in every state within the next ten years.”
The glass door slides open, and the effusive Justin Lancaster-Williams pops onto the patio, then promptly drops himself onto Remi’s lap. Justin is beside himself with laughter when Remi pushes him onto the floor with a roll of his eyes and a too-amused smile.
“It was worth it,” Remi says after Justin pulls a chair around the table and sits beside his husband.
I don’t ask what, specifically, was worth the price they paid. Everything, I would assume.
“What about the name?” I ask. “I’ve always found it interesting.”
“That was me!” Justin says, raising his hand like a kid in school.
Remi and Deb both shake their heads.
“Justin wanted to name us the Rainbow Collective. We thought maybe that was a little too on the nose.”
A little head pops out through the glass.
She’s beautiful. Brown curly hair tumbles down her back. She has blue eyes and skin a golden bronze. The oldest of the Lancaster-Williams children.
“Dad.”
“What,” both men say as one.
“Mom says get your butt back inside and let dad do his interview in peace.”
Justin throws his head back and laughs, and with a quick kiss to his husband, he moves back inside.
