It began as a blustery October morning. John and I huddled
over paper cups of rapidly cooling coffee, taking shelter from the wind
against the towering west wall of the Washington Monument. With a
handful of friends, we had arrived very early, eager to discover how
many would be joining us for the first ever National March on Washington
for Gay and Lesbian Rights.
We were worried that the chill might affect the turnout. One
member of our entourage already had retreated. He had arrived in a
summery cotton sundress and parasol, but soon hightailed it home to
change into the kind of drag the rest of us were wearing: flannel shirts
and jeans. It was not going to be a day to ogle shirtless guys; only a
handful of women marchers would be brave enough to bare their tops.
It surprises me how vividly I still remember so many details
from October 14, 1979—and how many moments I recall from October 11,
1987 and April 25, 1993. All three days left indelible impressions
because they proved to be so energizing and life-affirming. I have no
doubt that the same will hold true for April 30, 2000—the date of our
fourth visit to the National Mall in support of our
gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender rights.
By early in the afternoon of the first march 21 years ago,
weather was no longer a concern. The sun was breaking through the
clouds, and more than 100,000 of us were warming one another with
radiant body heat and exhilaration. Never before had so many people like
us come together to speak up for equitable treatment under law. Our line
of marchers completely surrounded the White House grounds, and we packed
the Ellipse and Monument grounds all the way to the amphitheater. Macho
men and drags, dykes on bikes and lipstick lesbians, we all howled to
the poetry of Allen Ginsberg and listened attentively to the
encouragement of feminist pioneer Kate Millett. We swayed arm in arm to
the rousing anthems of Holly Near, the Tom Robinson Band (England’s
first “out loud” rock group) and cabaret favorites Gotham.
When we returned to the National Mall eight autumns later,
our numbers were larger by at least five fold. The weather was warmer,
but the mood was more sober. The AIDS epidemic and the Reagan
administration’s failure to respond responsibly had angered us, made
many of us more militant. A morning of civil disobedience at the Supreme
Court resulted in 600 arrests. A fledgling group of New Yorkers, calling
itself ACT UP, created a lasting impression with guerilla-theater
in-your-face tactics. Before long, chapters of ACT UP would spring up
all over the country.
For almost everyone, the most profound memory of the 1987
march is the moment we first saw the AIDS Quilt—two football fields in
size with more than 2,000 names. There wasn’t a dry eye among the
half-million of us who stepped gingerly from ornately decorated panel to
panel, trying to absorb every message. Thousands of us clamored for a
chance to climb a small wooden tower, from which we could look down upon
the Mall at the seemingly endless rainbow of fabric.
Six years later, the lobbying of Congress, voter registration
and a “Gay Census” emerged as key strategies for our third march. The
Quilt was much larger, too huge to display in its entirety. But, even
having lost so many people, our turnout was dramatically higher.
It was impossible even for reconnaissance aircraft to come up with
a reliable count. There were at least 700,000 of us, perhaps as many as a
million. Six hours passed and our parade, which wound its way up
Pennsylvania Avenue, around the White House and back to the Capitol,
refused to end. Despite a blazing, dehydrating sun, everyone was
determined to complete the long hike.
From the stage in front of the Capitol steps, dozens of
celebrities took turns inspiring those of us who had already finished
marching. I’ll never forget the eloquence of recently knighted British
actor Ian McKellen, who urged his closeted colleagues in the film industry
to come out. (Being openly gay certainly hasn’t hurt Sir Ian’s career,
particularly with the accolades he received for Gods & Monsters.) Out
and proud Melissa Etheridge, also on the verge of super‑stardom,
belted out her trademark brand of rocking romantic songs—with lyrics
that everyone can appreciate and we particularly understand.
Throughout the day, medics distributed truckload after
truckload of bottled water in an effort to prevent our bodies from boiling
over. But few of us complained about the heat. Never before, even on a
Fourth of July weekend at Rehoboth Beach, had we mingled with so many
handsome shirtless men. And women.
Of course, the issue of shirtless women created a bit of
brouhaha among some folks who fretted about the media attention they might
draw. Political controversies have been a part of all three previous
marches, ranging from silly little issues (how many drag queens are too
many?) to significant concerns (are people of color being adequately
represented?). It should come as no surprise that next month’s
Millennium March is also controversial, including concerns about financial
accountability and fears that a lack of travel coordination and
accommodations planning may result in a smaller crowd than last time.
Political insiders tend to worry too much. No rally is ever
as well organized as it might be, and—as diverse a group as we
are—we’ll never all agree on every matter of policy. Still, there is
no more rewarding experience for any gay man or lesbian than to stand up
with our brothers, our sisters and our “straight but not narrow”
supporters to be counted. We need to create these kind of national days
for ourselves, since greeting-card companies have yet to come up with an
annual tribute to us in the vein of Mother’s Day or even Secretary’s
Day.
It hardly matters if it’s difficult to find a room (almost
everyone parties all night anyway) or if the crowd ultimately is somewhat
smaller than last time. In reality, once you get more than half a million
people in one place, nobody can count them accurately anyway. The National
Park Service always estimates low, organizers high. That’s simply the
way it goes.
While some say they will sit this one out, enough of us will
make our way to Washington that our numbers again will be impressive, as
will our personal and collective enrichment. We will celebrate our
humanity. We will discover new energy and pride—eager to return to our
local communities as volunteers and leaders, ready to lobby hard for
fairer laws and to create new grass‑roots projects. That is the
legacy of all three marches to date, as our movement has grown from
surprised delight (1979) to anger and militant action (1987) to political
organization and determination (1993).
It’s the 21st anniversary year of the original march, and
our lesbian and gay rights movement is entering its adulthood. On the last
Sunday of April in the year 2000, there’s going to be a day of
celebration I am confident you won’t ever forget.
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