A march, not a parade
Tom Newman writes about his experiences in the acclaimed Gay Elder column
It was Gay Pride Day in Minneapolis around 2005. It was just a gorgeous day and hundreds of thousands of people had turned out. What they call a “parade” now was going down Hennepin Avenue. Just for fun for myself and a couple of older friends, I said “Let’s do some of the chants we did in the olds days.”
“3-5-7-9 lesbians are mighty fine! 2-4-6-8 gay is great!”
And then kaboom! This younger gay man turns around and says “Will you shut up? This is a parade, not a march.”
I almost fell over and I thought, “You little snot, if you only knew what we’ve done to get you to how comfortable you are now that even gay activism is upsetting, we’ve done our job.”
In this column, I’ll discuss my memories of being gay in midcentury America, moving from a white Minnesota suburb to the big city, and becoming an activist for social justice.
Let’s begin: Well, I was born! Fast forward to 13 years old, and I had just the sweetest summer romance with my cute little Irish neighbor, Dennis. We were like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. Best pals, fishing buddies … and trying out the water! Miss him — totally innocent, and very special.
Then came junior high. I was the voice for the choir! The choir was probably the best thing that happened to me in junior high. The professor, Mr. Johnson, took me to so many very unique concerts. It was an incredible eye-opener for me about culture. There was no internet. This was hands-on. I met people I would have never met, talked to people I would have never talked to.
A huge relief for me was to get out of the house three or four times a week and go to practice for my garage band. Great equipment, and a pretty neat following. I played rhythm guitar.
All the time, knowing what I was, and very afraid. On dates with girls, I was a perfect gentleman. Moving on to high school — by this time, I absolutely knew what was going on, but was so afraid to even put a toe in the water for fear of the consequences. Going through major depression and many thoughts of ending my life. No support in those days! The love that dares not mention its name.
Pushing forward! I left home in 1968, and lived in many different cities. Actually I lived in a cave on the Mississippi River for two weeks. What a trip that was. Tried to be a hippie/yippie, and learned about politics. I started to be an activist for civil rights. There were no black people in my suburb, and as I learned more and more about how hard it was from them out in the world, and Vietnam heated up, I became involved in civil rights activism.
My dad bought me a baby blue Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. I announced that I was going to go to beautician school. He got over it, and finally we had the Big Talk.
“Are you gay?”
“Yup!”
“Would you like therapy? If so, I’ll pay for it.”
I rolled my eyes and politely declined.
He said, “Just don’t bring your friends home yet.”
“Ok, Pops. Soooooo — meet this wonderful transsexual named Stevie (to be Margo), and all the crew!”
I wasn’t quite 21 yet, and they called me their “Little Butch.” They were all city people in Minneapolis, some drag queens, trans and in-progress. I had a brown leather bomber jacket that made me look so masculine. Hello to the 19 Bar, where all the underground people went. It was a dumpy little bar, but it was a catalyst for all of the radical people. Can we talk Lou Reed? That’s where I got radicalized.
So, here comes 1972. My boyfriend Rob and I were at Sutton’s dancing and having a great time. I walked with the really hardcore gay activists, handing out flyers for the Gay Rights March Picnic at Loring Park, the center of the ‘Gay Ghetto,’ afterwards. Yup, Rob and I would be there!
As far as I can remember, Mike McConnell, Jack Baker, Thom Higgins, and Bruce Gardner were the organizers of the event, and I got on board. It was going to be the first gay march in Minneapolis. I thought there would be thousands of gay people. Wrong. About 200 marched up and down Nicollet Avenue. Our big department store, like Macy’s in New York, was called Dayton’s. We all stopped and chanted —
“Out of Dayton’s and into the streets!”
Stay tuned to find out what happens next in the Oct. 14 installment of Gay Elder…
Barnard Street Tattler 