| BEYOND NORMAL: The Birth of Gay Pride By Gale Chester Whittington ===Copyright 2004-2009=== (this book needs a publisher) an excerpt follows this Short Synopsis |
My fully-fledged 91,710-word, memoir, BEYOND NORMAL:
The Birth of Gay Pride is currently searching for a publisher.
The book traces the true evolvement of homosexual
militancy to San Francisco, before the New York Stonewall
riots, of 1969. Much has been written about the ’60’s gay
liberation movement, but most accounts focus on East Coast
activities and are either incomplete, omissive, or simply
inaccurate with respect to northern California. My comrades
in the world’s first militant gay organization, the Committee
for Homosexual Freedom, which I co-founded, christened me
the “Rosa Parks of Gay Liberation,” and later “Gale the
Liberator.” My book fills a gap not previously detailed in print
and it does so in an entertaining, novel-like style.
The Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. bestowed four awards
on me April 30, 2005, including one for this memoir. The ultra-
conservative judge (Oklahoma is in the heart of the Bible
Belt), who confided he finds “the subject matter abhorrent”
called the manuscript “raw, honest, vivid, talented . . . and
publishable if the rest of the book is as frank and brutal as
these first pages.”
Terence Kissack, Executive Director of the GLBT History
Museum in San Francisco, read my manuscript and
commented via email: "By far the most valuable aspect of the
book and the one that drew me in as a reader was the
personal account . . . You had the good luck of living through
interesting times and your perspective as a participant
observer makes for a fun and fascinating read . . . Lots of
material!"
The story begins in May 1969, when I’m fired from my job at
States Steamship Company in San Francisco after my photo
is plastered on page three of the “underground” newspaper,
The Berkeley Barb (then sold on every street corner in
California), with the headline, “HOMOS DON’T HIDE IT!”
KGO-ABC radio announcer LEO LAWRENCE and I co-found
the Committee for Homosexual Freedom (CHF), to protest
and demand civil rights for gays everywhere. The night
before the first demonstration, I reminisce about my life,
beginning with Denver in 1967, when I attempt suicide
because of a broken heart and confusion about being gay.
I flee to the “City of Love,” where I become radicalized
because of the Vietnam War, racism, and the political
assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy.
My work with the gay magazine Vector leads to my
aforementioned outing and firing.
The Birth of Gay Pride is currently searching for a publisher.
The book traces the true evolvement of homosexual
militancy to San Francisco, before the New York Stonewall
riots, of 1969. Much has been written about the ’60’s gay
liberation movement, but most accounts focus on East Coast
activities and are either incomplete, omissive, or simply
inaccurate with respect to northern California. My comrades
in the world’s first militant gay organization, the Committee
for Homosexual Freedom, which I co-founded, christened me
the “Rosa Parks of Gay Liberation,” and later “Gale the
Liberator.” My book fills a gap not previously detailed in print
and it does so in an entertaining, novel-like style.
The Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. bestowed four awards
on me April 30, 2005, including one for this memoir. The ultra-
conservative judge (Oklahoma is in the heart of the Bible
Belt), who confided he finds “the subject matter abhorrent”
called the manuscript “raw, honest, vivid, talented . . . and
publishable if the rest of the book is as frank and brutal as
these first pages.”
Terence Kissack, Executive Director of the GLBT History
Museum in San Francisco, read my manuscript and
commented via email: "By far the most valuable aspect of the
book and the one that drew me in as a reader was the
personal account . . . You had the good luck of living through
interesting times and your perspective as a participant
observer makes for a fun and fascinating read . . . Lots of
material!"
The story begins in May 1969, when I’m fired from my job at
States Steamship Company in San Francisco after my photo
is plastered on page three of the “underground” newspaper,
The Berkeley Barb (then sold on every street corner in
California), with the headline, “HOMOS DON’T HIDE IT!”
KGO-ABC radio announcer LEO LAWRENCE and I co-found
the Committee for Homosexual Freedom (CHF), to protest
and demand civil rights for gays everywhere. The night
before the first demonstration, I reminisce about my life,
beginning with Denver in 1967, when I attempt suicide
because of a broken heart and confusion about being gay.
I flee to the “City of Love,” where I become radicalized
because of the Vietnam War, racism, and the political
assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy.
My work with the gay magazine Vector leads to my
aforementioned outing and firing.
The idea of aggressive homosexuals is such a radical concept (oxymoron) that the
San Francisco Chronicle calls our rally, “A Different Kind of Protest.” We form a
speakers bureau, initiate a guerrilla theatre group, and circulate a petition for an end to
discrimination against gays in city government and housing—written with the help of
a young, handsome attorneys, TERENCE HALLINAN and DAVID CLAYTON and
signed by then City Supervisor DIANE FEINSTEIN.
We form coalitions with the “straight” radical movement. Our picketing at Tower
Records gets a gay man rehired.
Many colorful characters join CHF: a charming young Italian claiming to be from the
Gay Mafia; a loud-mouthed priest who turns out to be an FBI informant; a chubby man
who pays me to help organize office workers for the Teamsters; a gay folksinger; a
feature writer for LA Advocate who follows us around, promoting a plan for the gay
community to take over tiny Alpine County—to name a few. My style of writing about
all this is matter-of-fact and unapologetic, laced with self-deprecating humor.
I welcome feedback from anyone who was there. I've done a lot of research to jog my
memory, but don't claim to be perfect. If you have any information or suggestions,
please e-mail me.
Chapter One They Boot Homos, Don’t They?
“Sorry to bother you at the radio station, Leo, but I’m freakin’ out.” Dragging the
telephone cord with me through the mansion I’ve been renting with two friends, I grab
a beer from the kitchen fridge. “The boss saw my picture in the Barb and canned me.”
“No!” Leo’s exclamation sounds more like a question. “You’re playing with me.
Right?”
“I wish! This is the real world, Leo . . . be it San Francisco or not.” I hoist the bottle of
Miller to my mouth and take a big gulp. “Bigots don’t take kindly to an employee’s
photo being posted in a sex rag with the word homo pasted next to his mug, even if it
is 1969. What the hell am I gonna do?”
“Oh, man . . . KGO knows I’m gay and as uptight as they are here, nobody comes
down on me. I—”
“How could you do this to me, Leo?”
“Now, wait a minute, Gale! I didn’t do it. I . . . uh . . . Max, the publisher of the Berkeley
Barb . . . he’s a friend—The photographer I hired for our shoot works for him—the guy
must’ve given copies to Max . . . Believe me, I had no idea they were going to put one
of those pictures next to my Gay Revolution commentary.”
“Surely you told the photographer those pictures were for my fashion article in Vector
magazine . . . a much classier publication . . . and one that has a limited distribution, I
might add!” Catching my breath, I pull the telephone receiver away from my face and
glare at it for a second, hoping to calm down. “I don’t get it, Leo—if Max is such a good
friend, like you say, how could you not know he was going to publish that photo in his
so-called underground newspaper?”
“I . . . uh . . . I guess—”
“The Barb’s infamous . . . Damned thing’s on the street corners of every university
town in America, which means I’m notorious . . . or soon will be! Whatever happened
to asking permission?”
“He should’ve—”
“My income’s dropped to a flat zero!” I click my teeth and sigh. “Nobody’s gonna hire
me now. What am I gonna do?”
“I don’t know . . . let me think . . . tell you what. After I get off the clock, you and I could
go straight to Berkeley and pay Max a visit . . . ask him what we should do. How about
that?
You game?”
Right to the source of the problem. Perfect! “Sounds like a good idea, Leo.” I finish my
drink, untangle the phone’s long cord, and meander back to the kitchen. “Gotta do
something.” Clamping the receiver between my ear and shoulder, I open the icebox
and pull out another beer. “Tell you the truth, man, I’m scared to death. Got this bone-
scrapin’ feeling I’m gonna starve to death.”
“What’d they say to you at the steamship company, anyway? What reason did they
give?”
“None whatsoever. Mr. Froche, the treasurer, did the dirty dead. Just said my services
were no longer needed. When I asked why, he said I was being let go ‘without
prejudice.’” I open the beer and take two swigs. “You believe the nerve?”
“Wow . . . That’s like kicking somebody in the teeth and calling it an accident! Damned
fascists! I’m sorry, Gale. Don’t worry, though, we’ll figure something out . . . Listen, I
need to get some work done. I’ll come by a little after five-thirty and we’ll truck our
asses across the Bay.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Lying on my bed, I try to take a nap, without any luck. About four-thirty, I hear the front
door open. A few seconds later, the familiar tapping of Brutini loafers on marble hits
my ears.
Patrick’s home!
He pokes his drop-dead gorgeous, androgynous face and perfectly frosted blond hair
into my room. “Hey, Gale! Saw your door open. Home early, huh?”
“Got fired today.”
“Really? Why? What happened?”
I reach for the Barb and hold up the offending page.
Patrick moves closer and takes the paper. “Oh, man!” He laughs halfheartedly.
“‘HOMO REVOLT! DON’T HIDE IT!’ Wow! How on earth did you manage to get your
photo into this fish wrapper?”
“It’s a long story, but the Vector photographer apparently gave it to the paper, at least
that’s what I’m told. Guess the Barb’s owner thought it was a good fit for Leo Laurence’
s article calling for a gay revolution.”
“Gay revolution?” He holds the paper closer, scanning each line with a well-
manicured finger. “Hmm, he says gay militants are growing in number. I didn’t know
they were any to start with!”
“Well . . . what he’s trying to say is . . . a lot of us are active in the antiwar movement
and maybe it’s time they . . . we began to work for our own civil rights.” I take a deep
breath, looking at Patrick sideways. “He’s got a point.”
“Oh, man, what about your future?” Putting his arms around me, my roommate pats
my back. “You’ll be labeled a pervert and banned from every decent job for the rest of
your life!”
“I know, I know, believe me, I know. Like I said, it wasn’t my idea.”
Patrick’s eyes home in on my picture again, then bounce back to me. “It’s really not
that bad.”
“You don’t have to be nice, Patrick, I know it’s awful.” I clinch my teeth. “Not only does
it look like I’m being fondled, it’s probably the ugliest picture ever taken of me. Look at
my ears, the way they poke through the hair! I’m hideous!”
“Oh, come on, Gale! You positive you got fired?”
“They handed me a check with two weeks severance pay.”
“Man, what a bummer!” Patrick sits on the bed and looks around the room. “After we
just moved into this fantastic place, too. Damn! How you going to pay the rent?”
“No idea. Leo and I are going to confront Max Scheer, the Barb’s publisher, tonight.”
Slipping on my suede Hush Puppies, I slug down more beer. “Blaaa! Too warm!” I
stick out my tongue and shake my head. “Yucko! Anyway, it’s Max’s fault for printing
the photo—without permission from Leo or me. Can’t wait to see what he says.”
“Hey, I just thought of something. Maybe you can collect unemployment!”
"Oh, yeah! Unemployment! Forgot about that. Prob’ly won’t be enough to pay the rent
and buy food, though. Wish it were. I love this place.”
During the drive across the Bay Bridge, Leo and I say little.
The tiny, hole-in-the-wall Berkeley Barb office is a mother’s nightmare incarnate: like
the bedroom of my depressed youth, with manuscripts, leaflets, and photos strewn on
desks, chairs, walls, every inch of the tiny room, save the ceiling. A huge paisley shirt
topped off by an enormous head of wiry black hair sits in the middle of the clutter. His
arms reach out and shuffle the papers so fast I feel like I’m watching an octopus
gorging itself on everything in reach.
He looks like a poor man’s Burl Ives. Better watch out; there surely must be river rats
hiding out in this office. All newspaper people are a bit eccentric, I guess.
Leo points to me. “Max, I’d like you to meet Gale, the beautiful young man I told you
about.”
I blush.
“Hey!” Mr. Scheer reaches out and shakes my hand. “You’re the guy from the photo.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” I give him a convoluted smile.
“He got canned, Max.” Leo sticks out his lower lip. “By States Steamship Company in
the heart of San Francisco’s financial district.”
“Really? I’ll be damned! Hmpft! They shouldn’t be able to do that. In any case, it’s not
right.” Max scratches the back of his head, causing clusters of his curly hair to
bounce.
“Ya got a union?”
My lungs suck in the odd-smelling printers ink air, sweet and sour at the same time.
“No.”
“I think ya oughta fight it, anyway.” As Max leans back, a stack of antiwar pamphlets
falls over, smothering a pile of black and white pictures of half-nude female hippies.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.” Leo glances at me. “Max and I already discussed the
need for a Gay Revolution. This is proof of how urgently we need to get it going.”
“Yep.” Max straightens the stack of fallen brochures and stares at me. “First issue of
Vector hittin’ the streets same time as the Barb was no accident, you know. For some
time now, Leo and I’ve been planning to publish articles urging homosexuals to come
out!”
“We need to use this shit to our advantage!” Leo begins to pace. “Seize the moment!”
Max nods. “Now you’re talkin’! Hold a press conference! Set up a damned picket line!
Take it to the streets! Accuse ’em of the injustice of it all—out and out discrimination!
Capitalists hate negative publicity.” He smiles like a thief planning a big caper. “Prob’
ly hire ya back just to stop all the turmoil. Sometimes ya gotta stir up some shit to get
small minds to grow. Sometimes it’s the only road to justice.”
“You’re right, Max!” Leo’s eyes divert to me. “We need to take it to the streets!”
“I’m not sure, Leo.” I raise my eyebrows, head cocked. “Not much support out there
for homosexual rights, I don’t think. Anyway, the point is you had no right to print my
picture like you did.” One of my eyes squints involuntarily.
Max guffaws. “Well, tell me, what was so wrong about that photo?”
I blink, temporarily mute. “I . . . I guess nothing, really. But I’ll bet if a heterosexual had
a picture in your paper, he . . . or she . . . would be fired too.”
“And would that be right? How does having your photo in an underground
newspaper harm the company?”
“Well, you and I know it doesn’t. But the corporate mind . . . it thinks differently—”
“’Xactly! And tell me this. If the San Francisco Chronicle said you were a homosexual,
do you think for one minute you’d still have a job?”
Leo shakes his head. “Course not. Let’s face it, Gale. The steamship company is
embarrassed ’cause you’re honest about who you are.”
“That’s right!” Max eyes open wide and lock on mine. “And it’s a perfect opportunity to
spark change. What you do in your personal life is none of their damned business.
Seize the opportunity and bring this kind of naked discrimination to light.”
“I guess I . . .” Clicking my teeth, I take a deep breath. “ . . . understand what you guys
are sayin’, but you’re crazy if you think gays have the public’s sympathy.”
Max stares at me, tilting his head. “But don’t ya think it’s ’bout time they did? As long
as you guys stay in the closet and play the hidin’ game, ain’t nothin’ gonna change. If
ya stand up and refuse to go to the back of the bus, you could be the Rosa Parks of a
homosexual revolution. Ya gotta make people aware. Educatin’ the masses is the first
step to social reform. That’s from Lenin. And I don’t mean a bug-eyed Beatle named
John.” His horselaugh rocks the office.
Leo’s reciprocal hee-haw nearly equals Max’s. Although my own chuckle grows into
the same kind of boisterous laugh, I remain unsure of which is making me bellow—the
contagious uproar or the irony of Max Scheer’s words spinning the situation around
so he’s no longer the bad guy.
* * * *
Leo opens the door to his flat and smiles. I always expect to see him doing something
he never will—wearing a stove-pipe hat to complete his Abraham Lincoln look, what
with his similar bone structure, pale white skin, and dark beard. “Welcome to my
place, Gale. No mansion, but it’s comfortable.”
My eyes sweep the living room, focus on an ornate antique desk in the corner, and
land back on Leo. “It’s cool. Lots of character.”
“Thanks. Come on in.”
I follow Leo to his rust-colored corduroy davenport. “You sounded urgent on the
phone. What’s happening?”
“Just wanted to bring you up to snuff. Get you a beer?”
“God, no!” I shake my head rapidly. “Thanks, but I had way too many rum and cokes
last night. Got any pop?”
“Pepsi. Might be a 7-Up in the fridge.”
“7-Up sounds good.” I lean back into the fat cushions of his couch. “So, Leo, tell me
what’s new.”
He brings the drink and sits on a red leather recliner opposite the sofa. “Called Mike at
the War Resister’s League.” Leo scans a notebook. “They’re giving us full use of their
copy machine. Even said they’d donate a ream of paper.”
“Right on.” I swig some soda.
Leo nods and hands me a typed document, which starts out, “FOR IMMEDIATE
ATTENTION.” He smiles. “And, being in the news business, I know how to write a
press release, so that’s what I’ve been working on.”
I scan what he's written. "Looks good. I was thinkin’, Leo. How’re we gonna put up a
picket line, with just you and me? Two people won’t influence anyone. It’d be a big
joke.”
“Got it covered.” Leo points to a scribbling on his pad. “In this Friday’s Barb, Max’s
posting a story about the firing and the planned protest, along with a call for help. Told
him to use my home phone number. We’ll start picketing on Monday. Hopefully, by
then, we’ll have a bona-fide group put together.”
“What about your job?”
“We’ll do it during the lunch hour. That’s the only time people are on the streets in the
financial district, anyway.” His voice drops into low volume as he looks into my eyes.
“Been there long enough that I can take a long lunch if I need to. I’ll just tell them I had
to help out a good friend.”
I quickly look away and take a sip of my drink. “That’s cool . . . Hmm, why don’t we
meet at my house ’til we find a permanent place? Plenty of room, in case a lot of
people show up . . . So what’re we gonna call our group, assuming we get one? We
need a name—a catchy one that says it all . . . states our purpose.”
“Yeah, I’ve been up half the night thinking about the whole thing.” Leo flips a page.
“You know how all the other gay organizations in San Francisco—the Mattachine
Society, Daughters of Bilitis, Society for Individual Rights—ever notice how
innocuous those names are? I think ours should incorporate the word ‘homosexual’
outright, make it perfectly clear what we stand for.” He looks up from his notes. “We
ought to literally throw it in the public’s face, instead of pussyfooting around. It’ll also
make it clear we aren’t the least bit ashamed.”
“You’re thinking just like me. Don’t know much about those organizations, but I
agree—they sound way too bland, too safe.” Curling my upper lip, I shake my head.
“But I think there is one group in San Francisco that already has homosexual in the
name—”
“You’re right! And, of all the organizations, they are the most influential.” Leo studies
his pad again. “The Council on Religion and the Homosexual, working under the
protected theological umbrella of Glide Memorial Methodist Church. Their pastor is a
most amazing man—Reverend Cecil Williams. Heard of him?
“No, but I don’t pay attention to anything religious. Too many people use the Bible as
an excuse to trash us.”
“Well, that church and that man are totally different! He’ a black civil rights veteran . . .
Even though he’s straight, he’s the most compassionate preacher in this city.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” I light an Alpine cigarette. “What does this Council do?”
“For one thing, they sued the San Francisco Police Department for the right to
assemble after a big bust at a drag ball in California Hall, and that was way back in
1965. They had a young minister named Ted McIlvenna who organized the Council.
He brought heterosexual clergymen and gay leaders together to form the group,
mainly as a way to help inner city youth.”
“Really?” I blow smoke into the air and watch it swirl in and out of the narrow rays of
sunlight shining through Leo’s bay window. “Like the hustlers and drag queens in the
Tenderloin?”
“Exactly! The ball was a fundraiser . . . the hook being that it was attended by several
of San Francisco’s most prominent citizens.” Leo closes his notebook. “The ACLU
offered to take the case, but the judge ruled against the police before it even went to
trial. Probably the first time in history we had a judge rule in favor of homosexual
rights! It was historical. The court finally recognized our constitutional right of
assembly.”
“Wow! The police constantly harassed us in Denver.” I frown, rolling my eyes. “They’d
come into the bars and check everyone’s ID, young or old, and arrest any guy wearing
more than one piece of what they considered women’s clothing.”
“Yeah, they used to do that shit here, too. Blatant violation of civil liberties. Winning
the right to assemble was a great victory, but the thing is, the Council had straights in
the front line. Probably necessary back then. But I think gays should spearhead their
own struggle. Don’t you?”
“Definitely!” I swallow the last of my 7-Up and stifle a burp. “I’ve been listening to
Martin Luther King’s speeches and almost everything he said can . . . should . . . does
apply to the rights of gays as much as any other minority. I think it is time we stood up
and demanded respect. Not gonna be easy, but I’ve decided you and Max have the
right idea. I just hope we can convince others. So, any ideas on a name for our
group?”
“Oh, yeah. Like I said, I’ve been up half the night—sitting in that little café at the corner
of Market and Church, drinking coffee, and thinking about what we should do. First, I
thought of Homosexual Freedom Committee, but that had the same initials as
Household Finance Corporation. Finally, I turned it around and came up with the
Committee for Homosexual Freedom. What d’you think?”
“No doubt what that means. Goes right to the heart of the matter. Committee for
Homosexual Freedom. Yes, I like how direct it is!”
“Man, Gale! This whole thing . . . you have any idea what we’re about to get ourselves
into?”
I laugh. “Deep and dangerous shit . . . I know that!”
“You’ve got that right! This is revolutionary stuff! Militant homosexuals? Up to now,
that term would be considered an oxymoron! Don’t know about you, but I’m scared
shitless!”
“Well, yeah. Me, too. But we’ve gotta do it, gotta show America we’re everywhere.” I
stand and begin pacing. “That we’re decent human beings—not child molesting
monsters.”
Leo nods. “Speaking of kids, they’re the whole reason I’m doing this.”
“Wha—?”
“I’m trying to say that . . . even if John Q. Public doesn’t get it, I want gay teenagers to
grow up without thinking they’re sick.” Leo holds up a copy of the Barb. “If we come
out en masse, gays everywhere will learn they’re not alone—”
“Yeah! Instead of having their insides eaten away by self-loathing hatred . . . like I did.”
“Sounds like your childhood was like mine—miserable!” Leo clears his throat.
“Maybe, once and for all, we can kill the pervert label . . . stop hiding like social lepers.”
I nod. “And quit marrying poor, unsuspecting females to appear ‘normal.’”
“Oh, man!” Leo puffs out his cheeks. “I had this gay friend who married her high
school sweetheart because she couldn’t bear people thinking of her as an old maid,
so it also works the other way—straight guys get hurt, too. Thousands of marriages
are based on fraud—”
"Tell me about it! It’s just not fair to anybody involved.” I grit my teeth and shake my
head. “And don’t forget all the gay suicides . . . plus all the attempted ones. Hell, I’ve
lived that nightmare myself.”
“Sad stuff, no question. By the way, I talked to Larry Littlejohn, president of SIR—the
Society for Individual Rights . . . SIR! Get it?”
“I know who they are, Leo. That’s where we met . . . I came into the Center to join the
staff of Vector, right after you took over—”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, Littlejohn’s the one who asked me to be their editor, so I
figured he was progressive, like us, but—this morning, I asked him if he could send a
support group from SIR to our picket line Monday. He hum-hawed around, mumbled
something about a board meeting, and said he didn’t know anyone who wouldn’t lose
his job for going public. So I said, ‘How about a statement of solidarity?’ Know what
his answer was?”
“Gotta check with the lawyers?” I laugh and frown at the same time.
“No, but I’m surprised he didn’t use that one. He said, ‘We shouldn’t be rocking the
boat. That gays need to continue working quietly from the inside or the government’ll
come down hard on us if we’re not careful.’ You believe it, Gale? I told him, ‘Yeah, and
in another thousand years, maybe they’ll stop stoning us in the Middle East . . . and
beating the shit out of us in America’s high schools.’”
“But didn’t SIR start out more aggressive? Seems like I read that dissidents founded
the group during a revolt against something, but I forget what. You familiar with their
history?”
“A little.” Leo goes to the fridge and gets me another 7-Up. “Actually, it’s ironic. A few
guys—Bill Beardemphl, Jim Foster, Bill Plath among them—were rebelling against the
authoritarianism of an earlier organization. Believe it was called the League for Civil
Education. These guys split and formed SIR out of defiance —this was in 1964, I
think—and gave it a democratic platform.”
“Cool.”
“Even with such a great start, they ended up being more of a social organization than
anything else . . . sponsoring parties so guys could dance together, hosting drag
shows, organizing bowling leagues, things like that. Those activities might be
important, but they don’t effect political change. The 6th Street SIR Center represented
a true milestone when it opened in 1966, as it was the nation’s first gay community
center. And you’ve gotta give them credit; they have over a thousand members now."
“Wow! Bummer they won’t help us.” Puckering my lips, I rub my index finger over the
condensation of my pop can. “What about the Mattachine Society? Weren’t they the
first to go public? Who’s running that organization?”
“An older guy named Hal Call. Doubt he’ll help, though.” Leo shrugs. “Right now, all
he seems interested in is getting laws against porno rescinded in the courts. Anyway,
they went through a major reorganization recently—to purge communists and
socialists from the group.”
"Oh, my God!” Chuckling, I light another cigarette. “Communists and socialists?
Wonder where they went?”
“So do I! We could use them! Anyway, it’s highly unlikely Hal would help a radical
group like ours . . . especially since it’s well-known we plan to emulate the Black
Panthers.” Leo chuckles. “You hear about the Panther Minister of Education passing
out Mao’s Little Red Book to students at Berkeley and San Francisco State?” “The
Panthers were just trying to draw attention to their cause by freaking people out! Did
the trick, too! Anyway, Mattachine did a lot for the gay cause when they started, but
they’ve mellowed beyond reason for my taste.”
“Too bad!” I get up and stare out the window. “How about the bar organization? What’
s it called?”
“Tavern Guild. Naw. Last thing gay bars want is to piss off the authorities. They’re
focused on regulation issues and little else. And forget about Guy Strait, with his gay
Citizen’s News, groundbreaking as it might be.” Holding up one of the papers, Leo
waves it in the air. “Mostly tavern news and bathhouse ads. Guy told me he wants to
steer clear of controversial—code word for ‘radical’—politics. A real shame. His paper
is distributed in nearly all Bay Area gay businesses and would’ve been a fantastic
organizing tool.”
“Shit! What are these people so afraid of?” I take the Citizen’s News from Leo and look
through its six pages. “Obviously, it’s going to take a lot of noise to wake up the
people in this town . . . and this country. In my mind, it’s all the same—the mindset that
created the Vietnam War is the same mindset that oppresses homosexuals. Man, this
is so frustrating! Can you think of anyone else who might help us?”
“I tried to get hold of the city’s most famous drag queen Jose Sarria, the so-called
Widow Norton, also known as the Nightingale of Montgomery Street.”
“Jose Sarria?” Lighting another cigarette, I shake my head. “I’m not familiar—”
“Been around forever. Actually ran for a seat on the San Francisco Board of
Supervisors, back in ’61. Lost, but got nearly 6,000 votes! Cool, huh?”
“Yeah!” I flick my ashes into a plaid beanbag ashtray. “Maybe he’ll help!”
Leo rocks his head sideways, cheeks puffed out. “I thought so, too, but he told me he’
s got his hands full, organizing the Imperial Court, a charity-raising female
impersonator organization or some such thing.”
* * * *
Sunday night’s meeting at my house yields seven diamonds in the rough. The first is
Pat Brown, a self-proclaimed Trotskyite hippie, who reminds me of a skinny
vegetarian Leo the Lion. After stating, “So this is how the unemployed proletariat
lives!” he offers to be the Committee’s official grass supplier.
Charles Thorpe, a short, smiley young man with a brown pageboy haircut, shows up
with pen and pad in tow, volunteering to be secretary pro-tem until official elections
can be held.
Stephen Matthews, a tall, afro-haired white guy, rings the doorbell third, offering bed
and board in case I’m destitute “because we all have to do what we can, even if our
lovers object.”
Morgan Pinney, big-boned and straight-laced-looking but for his bushy orange hair,
says he’a teacher from San Francisco State College. He’s joining because “sometimes
you just have to stand up for what you know is right, regardless of the fall-out.”
Hibiscus, a devout believer in the insightful power of LSD, floats through the door,
looking more like a Jesus disciple of yore than the hippie he tells us he is. His higher
consciousness demanded he come.
Sheeza Mann, clearly the progeny of a drag queen crossed with a court jester, enters
the house, in a multi-colored patchwork quilt somehow formed into a body suit. “I’m
here because I’ve suffered more discrimination than one person should experience in
ten lifetimes.”
A mustached Chicano youth named Darwin Dias, arrives last, wearing a purple satin
shirt, which he proudly introduces as his object d’affection, his fetish. “Since I’m on
welfare ’cause of a so-call mental dis’bilty, got nothin’ to lose, so I’m here to help.”
Maybe the picket chant should be: Out of the woodwork and into the streets! God, now
I sound prejudiced! These guys are here to openly support me. The suits, except for the
teacher, have left me high and dry. At least, these people have guts! That makes them
all beautiful.
Once everyone is seated at the long mahogany dining room table—lighted by two
huge antique chandeliers that now seem extremely ostentatious—I stand. “Thanks for
coming. I applaud your bravery! Leo and I have talked about this—a lot—and believe
what we’re about to do is historical. And hysterical, according to some people! But
that's okay. It takes strong emotion to fight ignorance. Homosexuals coming out of
their closets into the public light of day—in large numbers, like we hope—is
something that’s never been done before. Leo has convinced me that liberation will
come when total honesty is no longer repressed. Anything less is slavery! You all
need to be aware we are about to scare the devil out of middle America! There may be
repercussions, even violent ones.”
Stephen Matthews raises his hand.
“Hey, Stephen, you got a question? Go ahead.”
“No question. I just wanted to say I think we’re all aware of what we’re up against.
Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. And I’d sure as hell bet my ass we all agree it’s time—
past time—to stand up for our rights, regardless of the cost. I, for one, am sick and
tired of being treated like a second class citizen!”
Responses of, “Right on!” and “Whatever it takes!” make me feel like I’m back in
church; their spirit moves me.
“Okay! Let’s go for it! Leo—you’ve got some things to say?” I take a deep breath and
ease into my chair.
Leo stands. For a moment, I flash on the fact that he’s taking charge as did the man he
resembles so much, Abraham Lincoln. “Sounds like everyone’s ready to work!” he
says. “First thing, we need to form several small committees—one to make signs, one
to distribute leaflets in the bars, another to come up with some chants . . . .”
I lean back, beaming in awe over everyone’s enthusiasm. It’s enough to make a
person thank his lucky stars to be part off this ragged, but proud new breed—militant
homosexuals ready to demand their place in the sun! Right on!
San Francisco Chronicle calls our rally, “A Different Kind of Protest.” We form a
speakers bureau, initiate a guerrilla theatre group, and circulate a petition for an end to
discrimination against gays in city government and housing—written with the help of
a young, handsome attorneys, TERENCE HALLINAN and DAVID CLAYTON and
signed by then City Supervisor DIANE FEINSTEIN.
We form coalitions with the “straight” radical movement. Our picketing at Tower
Records gets a gay man rehired.
Many colorful characters join CHF: a charming young Italian claiming to be from the
Gay Mafia; a loud-mouthed priest who turns out to be an FBI informant; a chubby man
who pays me to help organize office workers for the Teamsters; a gay folksinger; a
feature writer for LA Advocate who follows us around, promoting a plan for the gay
community to take over tiny Alpine County—to name a few. My style of writing about
all this is matter-of-fact and unapologetic, laced with self-deprecating humor.
I welcome feedback from anyone who was there. I've done a lot of research to jog my
memory, but don't claim to be perfect. If you have any information or suggestions,
please e-mail me.
Chapter One They Boot Homos, Don’t They?
“Sorry to bother you at the radio station, Leo, but I’m freakin’ out.” Dragging the
telephone cord with me through the mansion I’ve been renting with two friends, I grab
a beer from the kitchen fridge. “The boss saw my picture in the Barb and canned me.”
“No!” Leo’s exclamation sounds more like a question. “You’re playing with me.
Right?”
“I wish! This is the real world, Leo . . . be it San Francisco or not.” I hoist the bottle of
Miller to my mouth and take a big gulp. “Bigots don’t take kindly to an employee’s
photo being posted in a sex rag with the word homo pasted next to his mug, even if it
is 1969. What the hell am I gonna do?”
“Oh, man . . . KGO knows I’m gay and as uptight as they are here, nobody comes
down on me. I—”
“How could you do this to me, Leo?”
“Now, wait a minute, Gale! I didn’t do it. I . . . uh . . . Max, the publisher of the Berkeley
Barb . . . he’s a friend—The photographer I hired for our shoot works for him—the guy
must’ve given copies to Max . . . Believe me, I had no idea they were going to put one
of those pictures next to my Gay Revolution commentary.”
“Surely you told the photographer those pictures were for my fashion article in Vector
magazine . . . a much classier publication . . . and one that has a limited distribution, I
might add!” Catching my breath, I pull the telephone receiver away from my face and
glare at it for a second, hoping to calm down. “I don’t get it, Leo—if Max is such a good
friend, like you say, how could you not know he was going to publish that photo in his
so-called underground newspaper?”
“I . . . uh . . . I guess—”
“The Barb’s infamous . . . Damned thing’s on the street corners of every university
town in America, which means I’m notorious . . . or soon will be! Whatever happened
to asking permission?”
“He should’ve—”
“My income’s dropped to a flat zero!” I click my teeth and sigh. “Nobody’s gonna hire
me now. What am I gonna do?”
“I don’t know . . . let me think . . . tell you what. After I get off the clock, you and I could
go straight to Berkeley and pay Max a visit . . . ask him what we should do. How about
that?
You game?”
Right to the source of the problem. Perfect! “Sounds like a good idea, Leo.” I finish my
drink, untangle the phone’s long cord, and meander back to the kitchen. “Gotta do
something.” Clamping the receiver between my ear and shoulder, I open the icebox
and pull out another beer. “Tell you the truth, man, I’m scared to death. Got this bone-
scrapin’ feeling I’m gonna starve to death.”
“What’d they say to you at the steamship company, anyway? What reason did they
give?”
“None whatsoever. Mr. Froche, the treasurer, did the dirty dead. Just said my services
were no longer needed. When I asked why, he said I was being let go ‘without
prejudice.’” I open the beer and take two swigs. “You believe the nerve?”
“Wow . . . That’s like kicking somebody in the teeth and calling it an accident! Damned
fascists! I’m sorry, Gale. Don’t worry, though, we’ll figure something out . . . Listen, I
need to get some work done. I’ll come by a little after five-thirty and we’ll truck our
asses across the Bay.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Lying on my bed, I try to take a nap, without any luck. About four-thirty, I hear the front
door open. A few seconds later, the familiar tapping of Brutini loafers on marble hits
my ears.
Patrick’s home!
He pokes his drop-dead gorgeous, androgynous face and perfectly frosted blond hair
into my room. “Hey, Gale! Saw your door open. Home early, huh?”
“Got fired today.”
“Really? Why? What happened?”
I reach for the Barb and hold up the offending page.
Patrick moves closer and takes the paper. “Oh, man!” He laughs halfheartedly.
“‘HOMO REVOLT! DON’T HIDE IT!’ Wow! How on earth did you manage to get your
photo into this fish wrapper?”
“It’s a long story, but the Vector photographer apparently gave it to the paper, at least
that’s what I’m told. Guess the Barb’s owner thought it was a good fit for Leo Laurence’
s article calling for a gay revolution.”
“Gay revolution?” He holds the paper closer, scanning each line with a well-
manicured finger. “Hmm, he says gay militants are growing in number. I didn’t know
they were any to start with!”
“Well . . . what he’s trying to say is . . . a lot of us are active in the antiwar movement
and maybe it’s time they . . . we began to work for our own civil rights.” I take a deep
breath, looking at Patrick sideways. “He’s got a point.”
“Oh, man, what about your future?” Putting his arms around me, my roommate pats
my back. “You’ll be labeled a pervert and banned from every decent job for the rest of
your life!”
“I know, I know, believe me, I know. Like I said, it wasn’t my idea.”
Patrick’s eyes home in on my picture again, then bounce back to me. “It’s really not
that bad.”
“You don’t have to be nice, Patrick, I know it’s awful.” I clinch my teeth. “Not only does
it look like I’m being fondled, it’s probably the ugliest picture ever taken of me. Look at
my ears, the way they poke through the hair! I’m hideous!”
“Oh, come on, Gale! You positive you got fired?”
“They handed me a check with two weeks severance pay.”
“Man, what a bummer!” Patrick sits on the bed and looks around the room. “After we
just moved into this fantastic place, too. Damn! How you going to pay the rent?”
“No idea. Leo and I are going to confront Max Scheer, the Barb’s publisher, tonight.”
Slipping on my suede Hush Puppies, I slug down more beer. “Blaaa! Too warm!” I
stick out my tongue and shake my head. “Yucko! Anyway, it’s Max’s fault for printing
the photo—without permission from Leo or me. Can’t wait to see what he says.”
“Hey, I just thought of something. Maybe you can collect unemployment!”
"Oh, yeah! Unemployment! Forgot about that. Prob’ly won’t be enough to pay the rent
and buy food, though. Wish it were. I love this place.”
During the drive across the Bay Bridge, Leo and I say little.
The tiny, hole-in-the-wall Berkeley Barb office is a mother’s nightmare incarnate: like
the bedroom of my depressed youth, with manuscripts, leaflets, and photos strewn on
desks, chairs, walls, every inch of the tiny room, save the ceiling. A huge paisley shirt
topped off by an enormous head of wiry black hair sits in the middle of the clutter. His
arms reach out and shuffle the papers so fast I feel like I’m watching an octopus
gorging itself on everything in reach.
He looks like a poor man’s Burl Ives. Better watch out; there surely must be river rats
hiding out in this office. All newspaper people are a bit eccentric, I guess.
Leo points to me. “Max, I’d like you to meet Gale, the beautiful young man I told you
about.”
I blush.
“Hey!” Mr. Scheer reaches out and shakes my hand. “You’re the guy from the photo.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” I give him a convoluted smile.
“He got canned, Max.” Leo sticks out his lower lip. “By States Steamship Company in
the heart of San Francisco’s financial district.”
“Really? I’ll be damned! Hmpft! They shouldn’t be able to do that. In any case, it’s not
right.” Max scratches the back of his head, causing clusters of his curly hair to
bounce.
“Ya got a union?”
My lungs suck in the odd-smelling printers ink air, sweet and sour at the same time.
“No.”
“I think ya oughta fight it, anyway.” As Max leans back, a stack of antiwar pamphlets
falls over, smothering a pile of black and white pictures of half-nude female hippies.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.” Leo glances at me. “Max and I already discussed the
need for a Gay Revolution. This is proof of how urgently we need to get it going.”
“Yep.” Max straightens the stack of fallen brochures and stares at me. “First issue of
Vector hittin’ the streets same time as the Barb was no accident, you know. For some
time now, Leo and I’ve been planning to publish articles urging homosexuals to come
out!”
“We need to use this shit to our advantage!” Leo begins to pace. “Seize the moment!”
Max nods. “Now you’re talkin’! Hold a press conference! Set up a damned picket line!
Take it to the streets! Accuse ’em of the injustice of it all—out and out discrimination!
Capitalists hate negative publicity.” He smiles like a thief planning a big caper. “Prob’
ly hire ya back just to stop all the turmoil. Sometimes ya gotta stir up some shit to get
small minds to grow. Sometimes it’s the only road to justice.”
“You’re right, Max!” Leo’s eyes divert to me. “We need to take it to the streets!”
“I’m not sure, Leo.” I raise my eyebrows, head cocked. “Not much support out there
for homosexual rights, I don’t think. Anyway, the point is you had no right to print my
picture like you did.” One of my eyes squints involuntarily.
Max guffaws. “Well, tell me, what was so wrong about that photo?”
I blink, temporarily mute. “I . . . I guess nothing, really. But I’ll bet if a heterosexual had
a picture in your paper, he . . . or she . . . would be fired too.”
“And would that be right? How does having your photo in an underground
newspaper harm the company?”
“Well, you and I know it doesn’t. But the corporate mind . . . it thinks differently—”
“’Xactly! And tell me this. If the San Francisco Chronicle said you were a homosexual,
do you think for one minute you’d still have a job?”
Leo shakes his head. “Course not. Let’s face it, Gale. The steamship company is
embarrassed ’cause you’re honest about who you are.”
“That’s right!” Max eyes open wide and lock on mine. “And it’s a perfect opportunity to
spark change. What you do in your personal life is none of their damned business.
Seize the opportunity and bring this kind of naked discrimination to light.”
“I guess I . . .” Clicking my teeth, I take a deep breath. “ . . . understand what you guys
are sayin’, but you’re crazy if you think gays have the public’s sympathy.”
Max stares at me, tilting his head. “But don’t ya think it’s ’bout time they did? As long
as you guys stay in the closet and play the hidin’ game, ain’t nothin’ gonna change. If
ya stand up and refuse to go to the back of the bus, you could be the Rosa Parks of a
homosexual revolution. Ya gotta make people aware. Educatin’ the masses is the first
step to social reform. That’s from Lenin. And I don’t mean a bug-eyed Beatle named
John.” His horselaugh rocks the office.
Leo’s reciprocal hee-haw nearly equals Max’s. Although my own chuckle grows into
the same kind of boisterous laugh, I remain unsure of which is making me bellow—the
contagious uproar or the irony of Max Scheer’s words spinning the situation around
so he’s no longer the bad guy.
* * * *
Leo opens the door to his flat and smiles. I always expect to see him doing something
he never will—wearing a stove-pipe hat to complete his Abraham Lincoln look, what
with his similar bone structure, pale white skin, and dark beard. “Welcome to my
place, Gale. No mansion, but it’s comfortable.”
My eyes sweep the living room, focus on an ornate antique desk in the corner, and
land back on Leo. “It’s cool. Lots of character.”
“Thanks. Come on in.”
I follow Leo to his rust-colored corduroy davenport. “You sounded urgent on the
phone. What’s happening?”
“Just wanted to bring you up to snuff. Get you a beer?”
“God, no!” I shake my head rapidly. “Thanks, but I had way too many rum and cokes
last night. Got any pop?”
“Pepsi. Might be a 7-Up in the fridge.”
“7-Up sounds good.” I lean back into the fat cushions of his couch. “So, Leo, tell me
what’s new.”
He brings the drink and sits on a red leather recliner opposite the sofa. “Called Mike at
the War Resister’s League.” Leo scans a notebook. “They’re giving us full use of their
copy machine. Even said they’d donate a ream of paper.”
“Right on.” I swig some soda.
Leo nods and hands me a typed document, which starts out, “FOR IMMEDIATE
ATTENTION.” He smiles. “And, being in the news business, I know how to write a
press release, so that’s what I’ve been working on.”
I scan what he's written. "Looks good. I was thinkin’, Leo. How’re we gonna put up a
picket line, with just you and me? Two people won’t influence anyone. It’d be a big
joke.”
“Got it covered.” Leo points to a scribbling on his pad. “In this Friday’s Barb, Max’s
posting a story about the firing and the planned protest, along with a call for help. Told
him to use my home phone number. We’ll start picketing on Monday. Hopefully, by
then, we’ll have a bona-fide group put together.”
“What about your job?”
“We’ll do it during the lunch hour. That’s the only time people are on the streets in the
financial district, anyway.” His voice drops into low volume as he looks into my eyes.
“Been there long enough that I can take a long lunch if I need to. I’ll just tell them I had
to help out a good friend.”
I quickly look away and take a sip of my drink. “That’s cool . . . Hmm, why don’t we
meet at my house ’til we find a permanent place? Plenty of room, in case a lot of
people show up . . . So what’re we gonna call our group, assuming we get one? We
need a name—a catchy one that says it all . . . states our purpose.”
“Yeah, I’ve been up half the night thinking about the whole thing.” Leo flips a page.
“You know how all the other gay organizations in San Francisco—the Mattachine
Society, Daughters of Bilitis, Society for Individual Rights—ever notice how
innocuous those names are? I think ours should incorporate the word ‘homosexual’
outright, make it perfectly clear what we stand for.” He looks up from his notes. “We
ought to literally throw it in the public’s face, instead of pussyfooting around. It’ll also
make it clear we aren’t the least bit ashamed.”
“You’re thinking just like me. Don’t know much about those organizations, but I
agree—they sound way too bland, too safe.” Curling my upper lip, I shake my head.
“But I think there is one group in San Francisco that already has homosexual in the
name—”
“You’re right! And, of all the organizations, they are the most influential.” Leo studies
his pad again. “The Council on Religion and the Homosexual, working under the
protected theological umbrella of Glide Memorial Methodist Church. Their pastor is a
most amazing man—Reverend Cecil Williams. Heard of him?
“No, but I don’t pay attention to anything religious. Too many people use the Bible as
an excuse to trash us.”
“Well, that church and that man are totally different! He’ a black civil rights veteran . . .
Even though he’s straight, he’s the most compassionate preacher in this city.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” I light an Alpine cigarette. “What does this Council do?”
“For one thing, they sued the San Francisco Police Department for the right to
assemble after a big bust at a drag ball in California Hall, and that was way back in
1965. They had a young minister named Ted McIlvenna who organized the Council.
He brought heterosexual clergymen and gay leaders together to form the group,
mainly as a way to help inner city youth.”
“Really?” I blow smoke into the air and watch it swirl in and out of the narrow rays of
sunlight shining through Leo’s bay window. “Like the hustlers and drag queens in the
Tenderloin?”
“Exactly! The ball was a fundraiser . . . the hook being that it was attended by several
of San Francisco’s most prominent citizens.” Leo closes his notebook. “The ACLU
offered to take the case, but the judge ruled against the police before it even went to
trial. Probably the first time in history we had a judge rule in favor of homosexual
rights! It was historical. The court finally recognized our constitutional right of
assembly.”
“Wow! The police constantly harassed us in Denver.” I frown, rolling my eyes. “They’d
come into the bars and check everyone’s ID, young or old, and arrest any guy wearing
more than one piece of what they considered women’s clothing.”
“Yeah, they used to do that shit here, too. Blatant violation of civil liberties. Winning
the right to assemble was a great victory, but the thing is, the Council had straights in
the front line. Probably necessary back then. But I think gays should spearhead their
own struggle. Don’t you?”
“Definitely!” I swallow the last of my 7-Up and stifle a burp. “I’ve been listening to
Martin Luther King’s speeches and almost everything he said can . . . should . . . does
apply to the rights of gays as much as any other minority. I think it is time we stood up
and demanded respect. Not gonna be easy, but I’ve decided you and Max have the
right idea. I just hope we can convince others. So, any ideas on a name for our
group?”
“Oh, yeah. Like I said, I’ve been up half the night—sitting in that little café at the corner
of Market and Church, drinking coffee, and thinking about what we should do. First, I
thought of Homosexual Freedom Committee, but that had the same initials as
Household Finance Corporation. Finally, I turned it around and came up with the
Committee for Homosexual Freedom. What d’you think?”
“No doubt what that means. Goes right to the heart of the matter. Committee for
Homosexual Freedom. Yes, I like how direct it is!”
“Man, Gale! This whole thing . . . you have any idea what we’re about to get ourselves
into?”
I laugh. “Deep and dangerous shit . . . I know that!”
“You’ve got that right! This is revolutionary stuff! Militant homosexuals? Up to now,
that term would be considered an oxymoron! Don’t know about you, but I’m scared
shitless!”
“Well, yeah. Me, too. But we’ve gotta do it, gotta show America we’re everywhere.” I
stand and begin pacing. “That we’re decent human beings—not child molesting
monsters.”
Leo nods. “Speaking of kids, they’re the whole reason I’m doing this.”
“Wha—?”
“I’m trying to say that . . . even if John Q. Public doesn’t get it, I want gay teenagers to
grow up without thinking they’re sick.” Leo holds up a copy of the Barb. “If we come
out en masse, gays everywhere will learn they’re not alone—”
“Yeah! Instead of having their insides eaten away by self-loathing hatred . . . like I did.”
“Sounds like your childhood was like mine—miserable!” Leo clears his throat.
“Maybe, once and for all, we can kill the pervert label . . . stop hiding like social lepers.”
I nod. “And quit marrying poor, unsuspecting females to appear ‘normal.’”
“Oh, man!” Leo puffs out his cheeks. “I had this gay friend who married her high
school sweetheart because she couldn’t bear people thinking of her as an old maid,
so it also works the other way—straight guys get hurt, too. Thousands of marriages
are based on fraud—”
"Tell me about it! It’s just not fair to anybody involved.” I grit my teeth and shake my
head. “And don’t forget all the gay suicides . . . plus all the attempted ones. Hell, I’ve
lived that nightmare myself.”
“Sad stuff, no question. By the way, I talked to Larry Littlejohn, president of SIR—the
Society for Individual Rights . . . SIR! Get it?”
“I know who they are, Leo. That’s where we met . . . I came into the Center to join the
staff of Vector, right after you took over—”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, Littlejohn’s the one who asked me to be their editor, so I
figured he was progressive, like us, but—this morning, I asked him if he could send a
support group from SIR to our picket line Monday. He hum-hawed around, mumbled
something about a board meeting, and said he didn’t know anyone who wouldn’t lose
his job for going public. So I said, ‘How about a statement of solidarity?’ Know what
his answer was?”
“Gotta check with the lawyers?” I laugh and frown at the same time.
“No, but I’m surprised he didn’t use that one. He said, ‘We shouldn’t be rocking the
boat. That gays need to continue working quietly from the inside or the government’ll
come down hard on us if we’re not careful.’ You believe it, Gale? I told him, ‘Yeah, and
in another thousand years, maybe they’ll stop stoning us in the Middle East . . . and
beating the shit out of us in America’s high schools.’”
“But didn’t SIR start out more aggressive? Seems like I read that dissidents founded
the group during a revolt against something, but I forget what. You familiar with their
history?”
“A little.” Leo goes to the fridge and gets me another 7-Up. “Actually, it’s ironic. A few
guys—Bill Beardemphl, Jim Foster, Bill Plath among them—were rebelling against the
authoritarianism of an earlier organization. Believe it was called the League for Civil
Education. These guys split and formed SIR out of defiance —this was in 1964, I
think—and gave it a democratic platform.”
“Cool.”
“Even with such a great start, they ended up being more of a social organization than
anything else . . . sponsoring parties so guys could dance together, hosting drag
shows, organizing bowling leagues, things like that. Those activities might be
important, but they don’t effect political change. The 6th Street SIR Center represented
a true milestone when it opened in 1966, as it was the nation’s first gay community
center. And you’ve gotta give them credit; they have over a thousand members now."
“Wow! Bummer they won’t help us.” Puckering my lips, I rub my index finger over the
condensation of my pop can. “What about the Mattachine Society? Weren’t they the
first to go public? Who’s running that organization?”
“An older guy named Hal Call. Doubt he’ll help, though.” Leo shrugs. “Right now, all
he seems interested in is getting laws against porno rescinded in the courts. Anyway,
they went through a major reorganization recently—to purge communists and
socialists from the group.”
"Oh, my God!” Chuckling, I light another cigarette. “Communists and socialists?
Wonder where they went?”
“So do I! We could use them! Anyway, it’s highly unlikely Hal would help a radical
group like ours . . . especially since it’s well-known we plan to emulate the Black
Panthers.” Leo chuckles. “You hear about the Panther Minister of Education passing
out Mao’s Little Red Book to students at Berkeley and San Francisco State?” “The
Panthers were just trying to draw attention to their cause by freaking people out! Did
the trick, too! Anyway, Mattachine did a lot for the gay cause when they started, but
they’ve mellowed beyond reason for my taste.”
“Too bad!” I get up and stare out the window. “How about the bar organization? What’
s it called?”
“Tavern Guild. Naw. Last thing gay bars want is to piss off the authorities. They’re
focused on regulation issues and little else. And forget about Guy Strait, with his gay
Citizen’s News, groundbreaking as it might be.” Holding up one of the papers, Leo
waves it in the air. “Mostly tavern news and bathhouse ads. Guy told me he wants to
steer clear of controversial—code word for ‘radical’—politics. A real shame. His paper
is distributed in nearly all Bay Area gay businesses and would’ve been a fantastic
organizing tool.”
“Shit! What are these people so afraid of?” I take the Citizen’s News from Leo and look
through its six pages. “Obviously, it’s going to take a lot of noise to wake up the
people in this town . . . and this country. In my mind, it’s all the same—the mindset that
created the Vietnam War is the same mindset that oppresses homosexuals. Man, this
is so frustrating! Can you think of anyone else who might help us?”
“I tried to get hold of the city’s most famous drag queen Jose Sarria, the so-called
Widow Norton, also known as the Nightingale of Montgomery Street.”
“Jose Sarria?” Lighting another cigarette, I shake my head. “I’m not familiar—”
“Been around forever. Actually ran for a seat on the San Francisco Board of
Supervisors, back in ’61. Lost, but got nearly 6,000 votes! Cool, huh?”
“Yeah!” I flick my ashes into a plaid beanbag ashtray. “Maybe he’ll help!”
Leo rocks his head sideways, cheeks puffed out. “I thought so, too, but he told me he’
s got his hands full, organizing the Imperial Court, a charity-raising female
impersonator organization or some such thing.”
* * * *
Sunday night’s meeting at my house yields seven diamonds in the rough. The first is
Pat Brown, a self-proclaimed Trotskyite hippie, who reminds me of a skinny
vegetarian Leo the Lion. After stating, “So this is how the unemployed proletariat
lives!” he offers to be the Committee’s official grass supplier.
Charles Thorpe, a short, smiley young man with a brown pageboy haircut, shows up
with pen and pad in tow, volunteering to be secretary pro-tem until official elections
can be held.
Stephen Matthews, a tall, afro-haired white guy, rings the doorbell third, offering bed
and board in case I’m destitute “because we all have to do what we can, even if our
lovers object.”
Morgan Pinney, big-boned and straight-laced-looking but for his bushy orange hair,
says he’a teacher from San Francisco State College. He’s joining because “sometimes
you just have to stand up for what you know is right, regardless of the fall-out.”
Hibiscus, a devout believer in the insightful power of LSD, floats through the door,
looking more like a Jesus disciple of yore than the hippie he tells us he is. His higher
consciousness demanded he come.
Sheeza Mann, clearly the progeny of a drag queen crossed with a court jester, enters
the house, in a multi-colored patchwork quilt somehow formed into a body suit. “I’m
here because I’ve suffered more discrimination than one person should experience in
ten lifetimes.”
A mustached Chicano youth named Darwin Dias, arrives last, wearing a purple satin
shirt, which he proudly introduces as his object d’affection, his fetish. “Since I’m on
welfare ’cause of a so-call mental dis’bilty, got nothin’ to lose, so I’m here to help.”
Maybe the picket chant should be: Out of the woodwork and into the streets! God, now
I sound prejudiced! These guys are here to openly support me. The suits, except for the
teacher, have left me high and dry. At least, these people have guts! That makes them
all beautiful.
Once everyone is seated at the long mahogany dining room table—lighted by two
huge antique chandeliers that now seem extremely ostentatious—I stand. “Thanks for
coming. I applaud your bravery! Leo and I have talked about this—a lot—and believe
what we’re about to do is historical. And hysterical, according to some people! But
that's okay. It takes strong emotion to fight ignorance. Homosexuals coming out of
their closets into the public light of day—in large numbers, like we hope—is
something that’s never been done before. Leo has convinced me that liberation will
come when total honesty is no longer repressed. Anything less is slavery! You all
need to be aware we are about to scare the devil out of middle America! There may be
repercussions, even violent ones.”
Stephen Matthews raises his hand.
“Hey, Stephen, you got a question? Go ahead.”
“No question. I just wanted to say I think we’re all aware of what we’re up against.
Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. And I’d sure as hell bet my ass we all agree it’s time—
past time—to stand up for our rights, regardless of the cost. I, for one, am sick and
tired of being treated like a second class citizen!”
Responses of, “Right on!” and “Whatever it takes!” make me feel like I’m back in
church; their spirit moves me.
“Okay! Let’s go for it! Leo—you’ve got some things to say?” I take a deep breath and
ease into my chair.
Leo stands. For a moment, I flash on the fact that he’s taking charge as did the man he
resembles so much, Abraham Lincoln. “Sounds like everyone’s ready to work!” he
says. “First thing, we need to form several small committees—one to make signs, one
to distribute leaflets in the bars, another to come up with some chants . . . .”
I lean back, beaming in awe over everyone’s enthusiasm. It’s enough to make a
person thank his lucky stars to be part off this ragged, but proud new breed—militant
homosexuals ready to demand their place in the sun! Right on!
Gale Chester Whittington, Gay Author
Free Memoir Excerpt
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"Liberation (for gays) will come when total honesty
is no longer repressed. Anything less is slavery."--Gale Chester Whittington 1969
is no longer repressed. Anything less is slavery."--Gale Chester Whittington 1969
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