Tracy Miller is a Portland, Oregon–based writer who has worked as a bouncer at dive bars, live music venues and upscale lounges for nearly a decade. Here, Miller explains what it’s really like to work nightlife security—navigating the unwritten rules, practicing de-escalation, managing crises—and how the job has changed alongside national conversations about race and policing.
—Mary Anne Porto, editor, Punch
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There’s a moment every night when the crowd blurs, the bass thickens, and I stop being a person and start being a presence. It’s a shift so subtle that it’s hard to describe, but I feel it. I stop laughing with the bartender. My eyes start scanning for trouble, raised voices, too-heavy footsteps, a flinch that could become a fist. Most people don’t even notice me. But some do. Some look at me and don’t see a protector. They see a threat.
I was a bouncer in the Midwest for almost a decade. I’ve worked sticky-floored dive bars, neon-lit college clubs, cozy music venues and overpriced lounges where the drinks cost more than the minimum wage I used to earn. The rules change slightly depending on the spot, but the unspoken code does not: Keep the peace. Handle it quietly. Never escalate. Always absorb.
And if you’re Black like me? Don’t give anyone a reason to say they were scared of you. When I first started bouncing, I thought the job was simple: Check IDs, stop fights, eject anyone who got out of hand. But I learned quickly that the real job was more complicated. I was there to maintain an illusion—that the night was fun, carefree, safe. And that meant doing my job without making people feel like they were being watched or corrected. I became a kind of background character in other people’s night out. But I couldn’t always disappear. My body wouldn’t let me. I’m 6’3”, broad-shouldered and dark-skinned. To some people, just standing still is enough to feel like a challenge. I’ve had patrons call me “aggressive” for simply asking them to step out of the way of the door. I’ve had cops show up after a bar fight and assume they should approach me first. I’ve had women tell me I made them “uncomfortable” by standing too close when I was breaking up a drunken scuffle behind them.
You learn to read the room differently when you’re a bouncer. You notice the weight behind a glance, the warning in a whisper. But you also learn how race changes what people see when they look at you. A white bouncer might be seen as firm, no-nonsense, even charming. I have to smile more. Talk softer. Even when I’m throwing someone out for calling me the N-word, I can’t let my anger show. Because if I snap, it confirms what some folks already believe.
“Being a bouncer is a balancing act… You’re the line between chaos and calm, but nobody thanks you when the night goes smoothly.”
At a bar I used to work, the owner loved to tell people how “diverse” his staff was. He’d point to me and the Latinx dishwasher and say it like we were trophies. But when it came time to back me up during a night when I was dealing with a racist customer, he vanished. He didn’t want to ruin the “vibe.” That’s what I hear a lot in this industry. It’s code for who they want in the room. Not too many of us, though. Just enough to look inclusive. After 2020, there was a lot of talk about “safety,” “equity,” “rethinking policing.” Some bars even had meetings about how to “de-escalate with empathy.” I remember one where they brought in a consultant who had never bounced a day in his life. He talked about restorative justice and communication strategies, and then left us with a laminated sheet of phrases to use during confrontations: “I hear you.” “Let’s find a solution together.” “Can we take a deep breath?”
When someone’s flinging a bottle across the dance floor or threatening their partner in the bathroom, you don’t have time for group therapy. You have to act. But you also have to act just right. If I move too fast, I’m “violent.” If I don’t move fast enough, I’m ‘useless.’ Being a bouncer is a balancing act. You’re in charge but not respected. You’re visible but not really seen. You’re the line between chaos and calm, but nobody thanks you when the night goes smoothly. You’re just expected to be there—stoic, strong, silent. And it takes a toll. I’ve had panic attacks in my car after shifts. I’ve gone home with bruises and bloodstains. I’ve broken up fights between strangers and friends, had knives pulled on me and once helped a drunk girl throw up in a trash can while her date ran off. I’ve been hugged by strangers and called a hero. I’ve also been screamed at, spit on, shoved and ignored.
I don’t say this for pity. I say it because people think bouncing is just standing at the door looking tough. It’s not. It’s crisis management. It’s emotional labor. It’s split-second judgment calls with legal and physical consequences. And it’s all happening in spaces fueled by alcohol, ego and music so loud you can’t hear yourself think. Still, I stay. There’s something about nightlife that keeps pulling me back. Maybe it’s the way I can read a room like a story. Maybe it’s the satisfaction of seeing a situation dissolve with just the right word or gesture. Or maybe it’s that, even with all the risks, I know how important our job is. Because when shit hits the fan, people don’t call the bartender. They don’t call the manager. They call us. The ones who watch the exits, who know the regulars, who remember the guy from last week who got too handsy. We’re not just muscle; we’re memories.
I wish more people understood that. I wish more bar owners recognized that hiring a Black bouncer isn’t a diversity checkbox, it’s a responsibility. If you’re going to put me on the front line, then stand behind me when it counts. Don’t just hand me a “Black Lives Matter” pin and then look the other way when someone calls me a slur.
These days, I work fewer shifts and I’ve learned to set boundaries. I’ve trained younger bouncers, many of them also Black or Brown, on how to handle things without losing themselves. I tell them what I wish someone had told me: “You’re allowed to protect yourself, too.”
