KardynylSynysTyr
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Today, and tonight, mark the 30th anniversary of the official, world-
wide "coming out" of anyone, and everyone, who proudly marches to the
beat of an alternative drum.
I've made an imploring plea before – but tonight, I state for the
record and a little more emphatically, the very real need for anyone
who has ever marched with their gay brothers and Sapphic sisters in a
display of arm-in-arm pride, or anyone who has ever attended a parade
or even a simple fetish event at your local, accommodating
neighbourhood bar, to please utter a near-silent prayer of thanks ...
… In the memory of Harvey Milk.
Thirty years ago today, I was a homophobic lad of a mere fourteen
years when I came home from school to find my (late) guardian and
governess and beloved Lady, the eminent Grand Mistress Papillon,
inconsolable, distraught and in a great deal of emotional distress.
"Someone killed Harvey and the Mayor," she screamed. Over and over
again she wailed the word, "Why?" as if she expected one of her
beloved boys to provide a magic answer and/or explanation.
I'd never met Harvey – but I sure knew about him. The Mayor of Castro
Street … Owner of a popular photographic supply outlet called Castro
Camera (which is still there) … The first openly gay elected public
official in the United States (or anywhere else in the world, for
that matter). Harvey was a tireless agitator and warrior for equality
for all people who professed to live an "alternative lifestyle". He
never demanded any kind of "special considerations" for gay and
lesbian people living in San Francisco at that time. He never openly
called for leather folk to collectively march down Folsom or Ashbury
in gloved-fist waving show of defiance. No, Harvey's "revolution" was
something far, far less reactionary.
He just wanted everyone – gay, straight, bisexual, kinky, whatever –
to enjoy the exact same and equal rights and freedoms, across the
board. Sadly, as those who follow the same-sex marriage debate will
undoubtedly tell you, not all of Harvey's battles have yet to be won.
My Mistress knew Harvey, and Mayor George Moscone (who was also
felled by a bullet fired from the gun of a disturbed former colleague
named Dan White) and worked very closely with both of them to create
understanding and acceptance for San Francisco's large SM community
in the 1970's. In some regards, this was a much, much higher mountain
to climb – but Harvey wasn't daunted. I remember Papillon telling me
that Harvey told her during a meeting at City Hall one
afternoon, "You leather people are freaks – just like the rest of
us!" It was his way of saying "we're all in this together", and he
wanted her to know when he spoke at his "Hope Rallies" and in front
of the television cameras, his voice rang out for all of us.
Papillion was one of the very, very few people who openly accepted
the transgendered into her home in those days. Harvey encouraged her
to continue to try and counsel "those people" and give them as much
love and respect as he gave to her. "I don't hold the fact that you
have ovaries over your head," he once told her. "Don't hold the fact
that they still have testicles over theirs." It was because of
Harvey's urgings and encouragement that Papillon became who she was:
an iconographic figure and a known voice herself in the large
SM "underworld" at a time when "small computers" were the size of
bathrooms and the "internet" was a piece of commercial fishing
equipment.
Papillon's tears were uninterruptable that cold November 27th
evening, thirty years ago. She still grabbed a candle, though, and
asked me and my "brothers" to join her when we started noticing
Castro Street filling with people and starting to march towards,
first, Castro Park and then City Hall later that night. In that
instant, any hint of homophobia within me died a deserved death – and
my brothers and I each grabbed a candle, and we joined over a million
other people on the march.
That march changed my life. I am ashamed to say it took Harvey Milk
to die in order to get me – and obviously so many others – to realize
that being born "different" isn't a choice for most of us: it's
genetics and there isn't a damn thing we can do, or could have done,
about it. My opinions about the gay and lesbian community – watching
them all gather and march together, arm in arm and weeping in a
collective outpouring of sheer grief and anger – were forever altered
that night.
I'm not gay – however, I am certainly very comfortable defending the
right of anyone `alternative minded' to their freedom of expression.
I am quite sure I am not alone in this.
It was thirty years ago. My. There is a commemorative plaque in
Castro Street Park dedicated to Harvey Milk now. In May this past
year, a bust in his honour was unveiled at City Hall in San
Francisco. And, of course, there is a film out about his one-man
struggle to bring acceptance for an entire generation of "different
folks" – which includes me, and includes you. I doubt even Harvey
would believe just how far we've all come in the past thirty years.
There is still, however, work that needs to be done …
Say a silent prayer of thanks, and peace, for Harvey Milk tonight. I
am quite sure there will be an anniversary march down Castro late
this evening … and I really wish I was there.
Rest in Peace, Harvey. You're remembered tonight. I doubt you'll ever
be forgotten.
Kardynyl SynysTyr
"... If a bullet should enter my brain ... Let that bullet destroy
every closet door ..." ~ Harvey Milk
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Remembering Harvey: The Thirty Year March to Equality - 
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