Protests
Protests can take many forms. Sometimes they're physical - you show up somewhere to march or show solidarity. Other times it's a boycott of a company or the cancelling of a subscription. Sometimes it's letter-writing or signing petitions. Other times it's jamming the Capitol phone lines trying to call your Senators and Representatives. Sometimes it's standing up when everyone else is sitting. Sometimes it's talking a knee when everyone else is standing. Sometimes it's confronting someone. Sometimes it's protecting someone. Sometimes it's just not backing down. Entering my 74th year, I've probably done all of them at one time or another.
The first time I was teargassed was 1968. I was 16.
I was at San Francisco State College mulling around the student strike. It was a five-month long strike - the longest in academic history. While the strikers had quite a few complaints - everything from the Viet Nam War, ROTC on campus, and providing students' academic standing to the Selective Service - the main issues were systemic admission practices that excluded students of color and classes that were irrelevant to minorities.
San Francisco - in all their infinite wisdom - set the SFPD Tactical Unit in on many occasions - baton-wielding, tear-gas shooting "authority" to quell what were peaceful protests until they showed up. Eventually, it was the National Guard. Not surprisingly, they only made matters worse. That was the second time I was teargassed.
It was my first series of demonstrations - certainly not my last.
There was political calm for me in the '70s. After getting back from Viet Nam, I ended up settling at Lake Tahoe. It was peaceful back in the day...
Then I moved to Boston.
My first demonstration there was against the KKK. It was a few years after the Boston Busing situation that had angered Bostonians - particularly in the South Boston area. Racial tensions had been high but had been cooling off. The KKK decided to show up and stir the pot. They demanded - and received - police protection during their assembly at City Hall Plaza. The protesters greatly outnumbered the KKK and they cut their little display short. While it was their Constitutional Right to assemble, a few of us thought it was our Constitutional Right to throw rocks at them. We made our point, no one was injured, and we faded into the crowd.
We marched in and attended Gay Pride Parades - back in the early days they were really fuck-you-in-your-face events - before corporate sponsorships watered down the messages.
We went to see Armistead Maupin and the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus at Davies Symphony Hall in SF and had to walk a gauntlet of Fred Phelps supporters with their signs and cameras videotaping everyone walking in - trying to intimidate people. Victor and I stood directly in front of the cameras and gave each other a lip-lock-tonsil-tickle that totally curled my toes. We then smiled, flipped them off, and walked arm-in-arm into the hall - to the cheers of the spectators around us.
We were always letter-writers and have had scores of letters published around the country.
We supported the Occupy Wall Street Movement and spent time at the Philly encampment back in 2009...
And then to Washington, DC for the National Equality March in October, 2009.
That was a fun one!
The people were amazing - the signs intelligent and clever...
After the speeches and all, we headed back through The Mall to Constitution Avenue where we found another Fred Phelps-style protestor...
We figured it was time for a bit of Street theatre, so we headed into the middle of Constitution Avenue right in front of the jerk, stopped traffic, and proceeded with another lip-lock-tonsil-tickle to the roar of the crowd! At this point we were in our late 50s showing the whippersnappers a bit of in-your-face-activism. Sometimes just showing up is enough. Other times ya need to do a bit more.
We were back again in 2017.
And while we fight for Equality we have to continue to fight the systemic racism in our country. The current fascist fuckwads in power are doing everything they can to destroy the minuscule steps anyone who is not a cis gendered white christian male has achieved in the 250 years of our country. Very simply, all lives cannot matter until Black Lives Matter.
We were unable to attend any protests in person but continue to support Black Lives Matter financially.
We're both approaching three quarters of a century in age. I'm really getting tired of all of this shit.
But... as long as that fuckwad is in the Oval Office, we don't have a lot of choice.
One foot in front of the other - keep moving forward.
46th Avenue
I grew up on a reasonably typical Sunset District street in San Francisco. (We were the brown house - it was usually painted white with either black or blue trim and a bright red front door.)
The big difference on our street was, we were two blocks from the ocean, two blocks from the Zoo and Fleishhacker Pool, and we had a streetcar and a bus line in front of the house. There were about 37 single family homes on the street. There had been 38, but a big ol' house directly across the street from us - probably built in the 1890s - was torn down and a 5-unit apartment house was built in its place. The old house was spooky - the perfect place for a little kids imagination to run wild.
We moved in in 1958 after my dad got caught living outside of the city limits. Back in those days, firemen had to live within the City and County of San Francisco. (They paid $16,250 for the house.)
At any given moment, there were about 40 kids in the one block stretch between Ulloa and Taraval. I was smack dab in the middle of the batch - the youngest of the older kids and oldest of the younger kids. It was an awkward place to be - I always wanted to be with the cool kids but the last thing I was was cool.
When we were youngsters, there were literally no cars parked on the street during the day. It was a wide avenue where we played any number of games. We could hear the streetcars turning at Taraval or see the busses more than a block away, so it was easy to get out of the way for a moment before resuming play. Summer by the ocean in San Francisco means fog. We stayed out as long as we could - but it was with a jacket.
Everything we needed was in the neighborhood. At the SW corner of 46th & Taraval was a rather large bar/lounge called The Sand Dunes. Across the street was Edgewater Delicatessen - Frank & Grace owned it - and Paul's Barbershop. On the NW corner was Seabreeze Pharmacy - a drug store with soda fountain. And Sea Bee Cleaners, Great Highway Market - with full butcher shop - we called it Dick & Harry's after the owners. Paul was the butcher. A shoe repair and liquor store next door. The Oar House - another local tavern - and a TV repair across the street.
Two blocks up Taraval was Amity Market - owned by Bert and Mitzi Quist. Lakeside Hardware was across the street on the SW corner. Everything we needed was within a short walking distance.
As kids, we had free rein of the West of Twin Peaks. We could ride our bikes to Pine Lake and catch crawdads or to Lake Merced to fish for trout. We got there one day when they were stocking the lake and caught so many fish we had a fish fry across the street in front of Sonny & Jr's house.
We'd bike to Golden Gate Park, to Playland and The Fun House, or up to Sutro's. Head down to the beach - through the Taraval Tunnel that went under the Upper Great Highway. We're still friends with a couple of girls who lived down the block - how many friends have you had for 67 years?!? It's pretty amazing...
In the days before CCTV everywhere, mobile tracking on cell phones, and parents who were not neurotic about letting their kids out of their sight, we had a blast.
I realize we can't turn back the clock to those thrilling days of yesteryear... For one, things and places are just too crowded and moving too fast. Back when we were playing in the streets, cars were big and made of steel with huge chrome bumpers. There weren't as many of them and they weren't driving down the streets at 60mph while talking on a cell phone. Even though there were a hellava lot more kids outside - people actually paid attention most of the time.
And, it was the generation... My grandparents were born in the 1890s. The oldest relative that I knew and remember was born in 1875. Our parents were mostly born in the 1920s and lived through the Depression. They were all pretty no-nonsense when it came to discipline and they laid out expectations. Granted, we got around them quite often, but you need to know and understand the rules to be able to break them and not get caught - because there were always consequences when you were.
The Zoo was free - we could go there with no money and entertain ourselves - usually causing a lot of mischief, but... we weren't doing anything to get us arrested. Today, it costs money and you can't enter on your own under 14. And it's the same with just about any other place - minors must be accompanied by an adult. Kids aren’t allowed unmonitored time to just be kids. So much for going outside and being gone for a few hours - CPS would be getting calls left and right.
We only had to worry about nuclear bombs being dropped. Today, parents have to worry about their kid getting murdered at school or snatched off the street by a masked, unnamed government agent in an unmarked car.
No... we can't turn back the clock - but we sure were lucky to be kids back then.
Marriage Equality
June 26, 2015. We were boarding a plane in Italy for the US when we found out we were finally - legally - married. Feeling totally dumbfounded, I really really wanted to call my mother. She would have been so happy.
I remember the day 50-whatever years ago when I told her I was gay. She cried. Not because I was gay, but because she knew what a rough life I was destined to have – and she feared I would be alone. I lived all over the USofA chasing rainbows of one sort or another but true love always eluded me. I hid the rough spots over the years, but she always hoped I would settle down.
And then I – and she – met Victor. It was love at first sight.
She adored him and knew from Day One that I had finally met my life-mate. She was a proud mama and so happy that her little boy had finally found the happiness she had always hoped and prayed for.
She died way too soon, but she left us knowing we were happy.
I just wanted to call her and say We Did It! Legal everywhere! She would have beamed with pride.
What a difference from that little boy 60 years ago – several lifetimes ago – who at 13 actually thought about killing himself. I knew I was different, I thought something was wrong with me. I knew liked boys but I also knew it was something I had to keep secreted in the deepest depths of my being. The love that dare not speak its name…
It was a very frightening time. I think it’s one of the reasons I’m very publicly out today. I want other 13 year old kids to see a [reasonably] well-adjusted adult gay male out there and just kinda pass on the “it’s okay” message.
When I told my father I was gay, his reply was “I know. I was wondering how long it would be before you finally mentioned it.”
And then I CAME OUT. In a blaze of Rainbow Glory. I was so out my brother finally told me he liked me better when I was in the closet. I got the message and toned things down a bit. It was such a relief, though, not to have to hide. Of course, it opened up a whole new can of worms… I got to experience fear – not of being found out – but of getting my ass kicked for being in the wrong place or coming out of the wrong bar. And then there was the hotel GM who told me I wasn’t going any further up the Corporate Ladder because I didn’t have – emphasis his – a wife.
So many years of open and blatant discrimination. So many years of being called a sodomite and a sinner, that I was going to hell. Laws enacted to deny me my basic human rights.
Hell – I couldn’t even get out of the draft by saying I was gay. In those pre-Don’t Ask Don’t Tell days, I would have been inducted, and then dishonorably discharged. With a probably prison sentence. Really.
When we moved to Pennsylvania from California in 2001, I – naturally – had to quit my job. California denied me unemployment because we weren’t married. I filed an appeal and a judge wrote a scathing opinion denouncing California, stating that we had done everything we legally could to validate our relationship and they couldn’t deny my unemployment based on a legality they refused to give me. It was great.
When California finally enacted Marriage Equality we decided to get married at home in San Francisco in 2008. The wedding was planned for November 23rd. Prop 8 passed on November 8th. So much for our non-wedding. We did have great train ride back to Pennsylvania, though.
We were finally married in October 2010 by a dear friend in New Hampshire. And then parts of DoMA were repealed. In May 2014 – while we were in Sicily – Pennsylvania recognized our New Hampshire marriage.
And on June 26, 2015, the Supreme Court announced we were married. Period. (Or so we thought.)
I don’t think that little boy 60 years ago ever dreamed it would come - or that people would now be trying to take it away.
In 1995, Victor and I marched as honor guards in the San Francisco Gay Pride Parade for Hawai’i defendants Ninia Baehr and Genora Dancel – two of the women who sued Hawai’i for the right to marry and really started the firestorm. I didn’t think we had a snowballs chance in hell of ever seeing marriage equality in our lifetimes, but it didn't mean we were going to roll over and play door mat. It was a raucous crowd - Pride Parades were much more in-your-face-fuck-you-we're-here-we're-queer-deal-with-it spectacles. And marching the length of Market Street put some strain on our poor little feet - but it was so worth it.
Hours later, we got home and opened champagne!
This bottle came back with us from Paris and had been sitting in the ‘fridge waiting the right moment to come out, so to speak. It was the perfect day to drink champagne and celebrate.
And we'll be drinking another when these political fuckwads are gone.
The fight(s) are far from over...