I knew I had to make it to New York, not just for the Pride
parade but for the historic ruling on gay marriage that happened in the same
week. Again it was a tiny margin within the Supreme Court that forced the change.
Even smaller than the one that broke the back of Proposition 8, the clause that
prohibited Gay marriage in California.
We also knew the ruling was significant and could only
have been achieved under the term of office of a Black president (A Queer
president is some way off yet and will require an even craftier hand with the
religious right). This legislation will take years to destroy and since, unlike
the UK where a tory can slip a white paper under a disaster or act of
terrorism, in the US everyone is in on the debate. You may have heard of it. It
used to be called democracy.
So, on the day of the Supreme Court ruling I made my way
down to the Stonewall Inn. There would be celebrations around the country but
the centre of any Gay struggle has to be this tiny bar in a side street of Greenwich
village. The sleazy cavern that was given official Landmark Status the same
month – a protection that prevented it being demolished for more badly needed,
multi-million dollar homes.
Being at Stonewall was significant. Thank god that the
interior is also being preserved. Nothing special inside except that it doesn’t
represent the gay bars that we know today. No glitz or glitter just what looks
like the seedy, old school pick up joint so many of us came of age with. Which,
of course, are a huge part of our culture and should be preserved. Stonewall
has stonewalled every opposition before and after the riots that spread from
its loins and into queer consciousness. It’s name has countered every seed of religious
bigotry, act of congress and bag of human waste posted through its virtual
letterbox. It surroundings became the waiting room for the nearby Saint
Vincent’s Hospital, the vanguard of the east coast Gay cancer epidemic and
later the centre of the surge of something called AIDS. (Saint Vincent’s having
recently lost its own cancerous battle with the land developers).
‘Stonewall’ was a safe place where everyone inside could
truly understand what the Queer condition was before the outbreak of AIDS and
so dealt with it accordingly through the verbatim stories that preceded
the mass contraction of the virus.
And it was a place to house the twice marginalized - the Black,
Latino and Trans communities - before there was even an acronym.
A bar where a New York police officer would
collect protection money for The Mob each week and the very same squad would raid
every month on behalf of The Law. Stashes of booze were hidden locally so
that Larry Boxx, the manager, could reopen within an hour of a raid that everyone knew was coming. And these raids just became a way of life. Until one night something
snapped.
As always it was the lowest of the low on Police
Inspector Donut’s crib sheet that caused the commotion - the Dykes and the Drag
Queens.
A Drag Queen's photo ID never resembled the dreamy vision
lined up before the cops. And women had to have 3 pieces of ‘feminine clothing’
so as not to be arrested. Both parties failed admirably, so these were the ones
thrown into the back of the Mariah.
Ooooooh - bad move, officer Krupke.
Ooooooh - bad move, officer Krupke.
A Lesbian who was too tightly cuffed was lead by the hair
to the van where a crowd had gathered. She screamed out to a Drag Queen,
asking if they were going to do anything about it or just stand there. And
here-in lies point of fissure. When one solitary Drag Queen threw that first
size 13 high heel at an arresting officer. Around 600 Queers from every
surrounding club and bar then chased the police around the block and back into the
Stonewall, where they barricaded themselves in. Like all major disasters in
downtown New York every available police officer was drafted in until the Queers
were dispersed. But by then a different bar had been set.
The following night Queers from every borough came to The
Stonewall and refused to move. Many not even knowing why they were
there, other than they had to now stand up and be counted. Again, the same
explosion resulted and the police were outnumbered all over again. And this is
the day that became ‘Gay Pride’. The day
we commemorate a size 13 woman’s shoe thrown in the face of authority. A
single article of clothing that represents, in some way, everyone inside and across
the globe when it comes to this struggle. And then through time to something
called LGBT or whatever it is - the
acronym that carries no Q because whatever the legislation in our names and for
our cause, it will always be ‘Queer’. Just as we are always
‘Stonewall’ - a place where everyone is outside, always ready to charge.
And so, whether the ‘Stonewall’ tag becomes professional global
agencies - Queer community support mechanisms like housing associations or
advocacy centers around the world - it retains its once and always Queer origin.
It represents only one movement. Just a call to action from a single Dyke to a Drag
queen. And a protective response that forced every Queer out of the closet and
onto every street - a response that would eventually be repaid from within a later plague.
Carrying us onwards to every place where we now stand.
Carrying us onwards to every place where we now stand.
So, happy Stonewall everybody. Happy Pride.