Forty Years Ago Today...

After the announcement that the 2010 Census would be collecting data from gay couples, Andy and I were talking about, well, the gays. How many are there, really? Not just committed, self-identifying couples, but all of us; single, coupled, out, not out. Estimates vary wildly, and one should always consider the source of such claims, so no one really knows. The Census can’t tell us. It won’t poll single gay people, and closeted gays probably won’t identify themselves to a census taker, anyway.

Besides hard numbers, it would be interesting to see a true demographic breakdown of the gay population, across age, race, income levels, etc. The media tends to rely on stock images of us, and perceptions skew white, young and male. Well, unless the topic is marriage, in which case two middle-aged lesbians represent us. Or two middle-aged men. In Hawaiian shirts, usually.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being middle-aged; I turned 40 this year, and the gay rights movement is celebrating its fortieth birthday today. Exactly forty years ago, a bunch of drag queens, dykes and sissies fought back against a world that wouldn’t allow them to live openly. The Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village was raided by the police in the early morning hours of June 28, 1969. It was an era when someone could be locked up just for looking gay, let alone actually acting on it; sodomy laws were still on the books, and the American Psychiatric Association considered homosexuality a mental illness.

Bars like the Stonewall were virtual speakeasies; Mafia-run, often lacking liquor licenses, or even basic amenities (the Stonewall had no running water behind the bar; glasses were sloshed around in a tub of water before being reused). Patrons needed a password to enter. Raids were frequent, even if the owners had paid their bribes to the right officials that month. Bartenders would often get a tip-off, and signal when a police raid was imminent, shutting off the trippy black lights around the dance floor. The house lights would come on, allowing couples dancing close to separate. “Transvestites,” as drag queens, transsexuals, and anyone else who didn’t conform to gender norms were known then, might have a minute to ditch their wig or otherwise “straighten up” their appearance. Along with butch lesbians, effeminate men would usually be the prime targets of police harassment, and could be jailed for cross-dressing. Under-aged drinkers were also usually present; homeless gay teenagers often slept in nearby Sheridan Square.

That night, things went differently than usual. Many bar-goers refused to cooperate, and police wagons were called in. A crowd gathered outside. People resisted arrest; as the crowd grew larger, those being arrested urged them on. First pennies, then bottles, then bricks were thrown; the police were outnumbered, and barricaded in the Stonewall. A riot was underway, which soon gave birth to a movement.

What a different world we live in. I was born at a time when just being gay was enough to get you thrown in jail. People like us couldn’t even enter a gay bar without fear of harassment, blackmail, or arrest. The way one dressed, or danced, or had sex in the privacy of their own home with another consenting adult; all were matters governed by the state, judged by the authorities, and subject to harsh punishment. Although bigots persist, and there are many areas of society that don’t allow us to live openly, and we have a long way to go until we achieve full equality, we’ve come a long way, baby. We’re grateful for everyone who paved the way for us; the activists and the organizers, and the dykes and drag queens, too. At a time when we're prone to being defined by stock images of cheerful domesticity, it's important to remember it was a bunch of radical queers in a bar who set things in motion. We think it’s only fitting, to mark this anniversary, to raise a glass in salute! Happy fortieth birthday, gay rights movement!