Written by Nico Lueba Jones, a second year at Sarah Lawrence College.
Marsha P. Johnson was born on August 4, 1945 in Elizabeth, NJ. She self-identified as a street queen and “transvestite” at a time when the word transgender did not yet exist, but she always called herself a woman and used “she” pronouns. The P stands for “Pay It No Mind,” and that was her attitude much of the time, with her friends saying she had an exuberant personality and a penchant for optimism. She dressed in brightly colored outfits and cared deeply for the people in her community, often praying for them. She was so generous, some of her friends even called her “Saint Marsha.” She has gotten a lot of attention lately as one of the trans women of color that Pride has forgotten, and many credit her with being an instigator at the Stonewall riots in 1969. The truth is much fuzzier than that, with Johnson herself saying she didn’t arrive until the riot was already underway, and her close friend and partner in activism Silvia Rivera saying she was there when the riot started but did not instigate it. She is remembered as a prominent figure nonetheless. Regardless of her involvement in the Stonewall riots, what I think makes Marsha so amazing is all the activist work she did after the riot.
After the Stonewall riots, Marsha P. Johnson continued to advocate for LGBT rights, participating in and organizing protests. It was following one of these protests, a sit-in at New York University in 1970, that Johnson and Rivera decided to found Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries, or STAR. At the protest, many groups had come together to protest for gay rights, but Johnson and Rivera noted that there were no groups protecting the interests and livelihoods of street youth, particularly transgender youth. Silvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson were themselves homeless and working the streets to make money, and they knew how dangerous it could be. Rivera even credits Johnson with saving her life, after meeting her in 1963 and offering her some comfort and constancy in her life. STAR was the first documented LGBT youth shelter in North America, and by the next year they had opened their first house for street youth in a trailer parked in a parking lot in Greenwich Village. When that shelter fell through, they got a building. Together, Silvia and Marsha provided a safe living space, a gathering space, and a space for LGBT youth to learn. STAR expanded to multiple cities before having to close in the mid 1970’s.
Johnson’s activism did not end, though. In the 80’s she worked with the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT UP) as an organizer and marshall. Johnson herself was HIV positive, and participated in direct action demonstrations with ACT UP for much of the 80’s, and cared for many of her HIV+ friends. Johnson dedicated her life to activism, to protecting LGBT youth, homeless LGBT folks, and making her community better and safer for herself and everyone. She was an active member of the Gay Liberation Front (GLF), marching every year on the anniversary of the Stonewall riots, and her direct action both personally and through STAR helped feed and house many trans and gay homeless youths. She was also an activist against police brutality, regularly engaging with police who harassed her and addressing their harassment in court when she was arrested. Marsha P. Johnson’s activism extends far beyond Stonewall. As a trans person myself, I am happy to have Marsha as a radical trans icon, to remind me to always look out for my community, and when it comes to those who don’t like us, to pay them no mind.
Korbin Painter (he/him/his) is an M.A. candidate in the History Department at the University of Iowa. He was born and raised in Kansas and he is an alumnus of the University of Kansas. His research interests include LGBT history of the United States and Germany, focused on LGBT politics, social movements, and the history of emotions. Korbin can be contacted by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.
In Kansas, before the election of Governor Laura Kelly, there were no laws on the books at the state-level to protect lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people from discrimination in employment, housing, and adoption. However, individual cities such as Lawrence, Topeka, and Kansas City have enacted such laws. In 2007, during her service as Governor of Kansas, Kathleen Sebelius issued an executive order protecting state employees from discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity. Yet, in 2015, former Governor Sam Brownback revoked this order. In fact, during Brownback’s tenure, there had been many attempts by the Kansas state legislature to restrict the civil rights and protections of LGBT people in both the public and private sectors. Former interim Governor Jeff Colyer signed a law in May of 2018, which allowed adoption agencies in Kansas to refuse to place a child with LGBT couples on “religious or moral objection” (Polaski).
It is clear that many Kansas leaders do not support LGBT Kansans. In at least the last decade, many Republican legislators have not only refused to support or enact legislation that protects LGBT people and their families, but they have also championed discriminatory and harmful legislation that threatens the lives and livelihoods of LGBT Kansans (Mallory and Sears). The elections of democratic Governor Laura Kelly and democratic Representative Sharice Davids signify the resilience and efforts of LGBT Kansans and serve as reminders of Kansas values and spirit. As we move into Pride Month, I am reminded of the radical history of LGBT people in Kansas.
Often, people who live in “blue states” and large coastal cities are quick to dismiss Kansas as merely “fly-over” country, characterizing Kansans as “backward” and deeply conservative. Without dismissing the patterns in Kansas electoral politics, this perception and characterization is unfair, inaccurate, and obscures the lives and history of LGBT Kansans, who have been active in fighting for their civil rights and protections for decades.
One example from LGBT Kansas history takes us not to Lawrence or Kansas City, often characterized as liberal hubs in the “red state”, but to the city of Wichita. Wichita, Kansas is perhaps best known as the home of airplane manufacturing, McConnell Airforce base, and the BTK killer. It may be surprising to some that Wichita holds an important place in LGBT history in the United States. In fact, the designer and creator of the iconic rainbow pride flag, Gilbert Baker, was born and raised in Wichita.
In May of 1978, Washington Post reporter Bill Curry visited Wichita to report on a major political battle over a gay rights ordinance passed in September of 1977, which would protect Wichitans from employment and housing discrimination based on actual or perceived sexual orientation. While Curry was in Wichita, he observed the anti-gay slogan “From Cowtown to Gaytown” littering car bumpers across the city. Wichita is known as “Cowtown” because, in the 1860s and 1870s, the Chisolm Trail, the Southwest Railroad, and the Santa Fe Railway ran through the newly established city of Wichita. Wichita thus became a major center of commerce and trade, as well as a railhead for cattle drives from Texas. The bumper sticker indeed represented some Wichitans’ homophobic fears about an encroaching degenerate sexual minority who “cannot reproduce so they have to recruit” (Curry).
In the 1970s, there were a large number of gay and lesbian people and organizations in Wichita. Gay and lesbian Wichitans lived and worked, attended Church, and frequented bars and other community gatherings around the city. One of the early gay rights groups in Wichita was called the Homophile Association of Sedgwick County (HASC). In 1977, the HASC took a proposal for a city ordinance to the Wichita City Commission and Mayor Connie Peters. Wichita City Ordinance No. 35-242 would prohibit housing and employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation in the city of Wichita. Gay and lesbian leaders Bruce McKinney, Pat Kaslo, and Robert Lewis led the fight. “Kansans are conservative, but they’re not bigots, not all of them,” one woman told Curry, “if they were, we wouldn’t be voting on a referendum” (Curry).
Soon after the ordinance was passed by the Wichita City Commission in a 3-2 vote, Anita Bryant – celebrity, anti-Gay crusader, and spokeswoman of Florida Oranges – mobilized in Wichita. Bryant and her organization, “Save Our Children”, had just won a fight to repeal a similar gay rights ordinance in Miami-Dade County, Florida. Bryant and “Save Our Children” began recruiting many Wichita pastors, like Ron Adrian, and campaigned to put a stop to homosexuality in the heartland. “The whole strategy of homosexuals,” commented Adrian “is to get homosexuality recognized as a normal lifestyle and an accepted lifestyle – and they’re getting a lot of publicity, that’s for sure” (Curry).
A fierce battle played out among Wichitans as the city commission voted to hold a referendum for the gay rights ordinance. In this particular historical moment, Wichita, Kansas became the battleground in the United States over sex, deviance, civil rights, and religious liberty. However, on May 9th of 1978, the ordinance was repealed. Gay Wichitans became the subjects of sensational news coverage across the country. In fact, the night of the repeal, the gay residents of San Francisco’s Castro Street marched on Union Square, chanting, “Wichita means fight back.”
As a gay man, born and raised in the small town of Augusta, Kansas, I was filled with excitement on election night in 2018 as I watched the results come in. Representative Sharice Davids became the first openly lesbian woman to be elected to the House of Representatives (Tammy Baldwin of Wisconsin is openly lesbian but serves in the Senate). Alongside Deb Haaland of New Mexico, Davids was also among the first Native American women to be elected to the House. In the Kansas State Legislature, Representatives Susan Ruiz and Brandon Woodard were elected as the first LGBT state legislators in Kansas history. Laura Kelly’s election to the governorship of Kansas was significant as she expressed support for the LGBT community and has a voting record in favor of LGBT rights. One of Kelly’s first moves in January as Governor was to reinstate former Governor Sibelius’s executive order and restore state-level protections for LGBT state-workers (Shorman). On election night, I felt an immense swell of pride and hope that Kansas leaders may soon recognize the dignity of LGBT Kansans and move to provide us with civil rights and protections.
As we celebrate Pride month on the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, it is critical now, more than ever, that we remember gay and lesbian radical liberation politics in the 1970s. When we do this, we discover that these stories extend far beyond the “Gay Meccas” of New York City and San Francisco. These stories remind us that LGBT people, love, and resistance are everywhere; even in Wichita, Kansas.
Marian is a second year graduate student in
the Women’s and Gender History program at Sarah Lawrence College.
A year ago, when I began my Master’s research on homosexuality during the 1950s in America, I was certain that there was an abundance of research on the topic. I didn’t think there was anything more to discover that John D’Emilio, David Allyn, Estelle Freedman, Allan Bérubé, and Margot Canaday hadn’t already found. They cover such an immense breadth of information that covers the homophile movement, McCarthyism, red-baiting and queer-baiting, riots, Lewd Vagrancy laws, and sexology reports. As I flipped through page after page of archived materials at the Kinsey Institute Library and Special Collections, I noticed that there is an integral piece of the history of the Mattachine Society and the homophile movement that has gone understudied or completely ignored.
For the purposes of this post I am writing today, I will not pose my question onto the audience (you, the reader) until I have finalized the thesis in a year from now. Today, I present to you a few members of the Mattachine Society that assisted in the early beginnings of the gay rights movement and key figures in the thesis I am crafting. Posts that will follow throughout the month of June that I intend to cover include the Daughters of Bilitis, riots (including Stonewall and Cooper Do-nuts), and historical figures of the LGBT+ community.
Foundation (1950-1953), later becoming the Mattachine Society in 1953, formed
in the mind of its founder, Harry Hay, in 1948. While historians debate the
exact year the organization formed, most conclude that it was 1950, but Hay
conceived of the idea two years prior. Henry “Harry” Hay was born to a
well-to-do family on April 17, 1912 in Worthing, Sussex England. As a child,
his family moved to California. Heavily influenced by Marxism and communism,
Hay joined the Community Party USA in his adult years while living in Los
Angeles. When the party discovered that he was gay, they told him to either
resist his urges or to leave the party, so he left.
Determined to find an organization that would welcome him for being both gay and a communist, Hay decided to take matters into his own hands and formed the Mattachine Foundation. The organization welcomed homosexual men and women regardless of race, creed, class, gender, and political affiliation. Despite Hay realizing his dream through the Mattachine, Harold “Hal” Call took over its leadership in 1953. There are mixed accounts on why Hay stepped down as leader; some speculate it was a disagreement the two had, others say that Call was a more conservative member and didn’t believe Hay’s communist beliefs could benefit or assist in the growth of the Mattachine.
Nonetheless, Call took
over in 1953 and changed its name to the Mattachine Society. Born in Grundy
County, Missouri in September 1917, Call enlisted in the military as a private
in 1941, and went on to receive a purple heart for his service. Upon returning
to US in 1945, he moved to California and joined the homophile organization he
would later become leader of. His dreams for the Mattachine were realized when,
in 1955, he co-founded Pan Graphic Press, which would go on to publish The Mattachine Review, The Ladder, and other homophile publications. His goal was to
ensure that the organization would and could grow throughout the nation, while
assisting other homophile groups in their growth. They viewed each other as
brothers and sisters of the gay liberation movement of the 1950s.
Call and Hay are only
two of the countless members of the Mattachine that are key figures in the
early beginnings of gay liberation; both considered fathers of the early
homophile movement. The Mattachine would go on participate in legal proceedings,
hold annual meetings in major cities, and help gay men and women across the
United States. Under Call’s leadership, it appeared that nothing could stop the
steady growth of the organization. Starting in 1955, chapters began in Denver,
Chicago, Detroit, New York, and Washington, D.C. Some were short lived, while
others have continued to thrive to this very day. Come 1961, the national
organization of the Mattachine in San Francisco disbanded; thereafter, the
society became a regional body.
Despite the disbanding of the first chapter of the Mattachine, the homophile movement continued to grow and change as most do. Today, the D.C. chapter seeks to keep the history of the Mattachine alive and well by digitizing the documents they have archived and offering resources to anyone who may need them. You can find them here: https://mattachinesocietywashingtondc.org/ . Now that we are a full week into Pride, I hope that this post finds you all at a moment of joy and celebration among friends, family, and/or loved ones. For more information on the Mattachine Society’s history, I highly recommend the Making Gay History podcast; links for specific episodes are found under the images of Hay and Call.
By Marian Phillips Marian is a first year in the Women’s History Program at Sarah Lawrence College.
Content Warning: Abortion.
Over the past few months, Americans have witnessed bill after bill proposed to restrict abortion access in multiple states. At this current juncture, these states include Georgia, Missouri, Ohio, and Alabama. State senators have taken it upon themselves to decide what every individual that is capable of becoming pregnant can and should do with their body; carry an unwanted, dangerous, and/or traumatic pregnancy to term. They have proposed that a bill, one that we know commonly as the “heartbeat bill,” pass so that an individual cannot receive an abortion at six weeks. As New York Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez pointed out on Twitter, that means missing a period by two weeks. Subsequently, the news that we do not have autonomy over our own bodies has cast an ominous cloud above all of our heads.
In the midst of the terror I felt, and continue to feel, I went to a punk show. Half hoping to scream my lungs out to songs about Plan B and dance until my legs couldn’t hold me up any longer, I found myself in a room full of people feeling just as I felt: angry and frustrated at the world. The first band that played astounded me. The lead singer of Control Top, in all of their unapologetic glory, screamed for abortion access, and the crowd yelled with her in positive affirmations that we all felt the same; unapologetically pro-choice. If you’re anything like me, feelings of isolation tend to permeate when news that feels too deeply personal becomes so outwardly political. It may feel as though you can’t express your dismay to close friends or family that may not share your beliefs. Even if you turn to Twitter to vent, you inevitably run into another dude-bro hiding behind a keyboard that thinks he can tell you how to take care of your reproductive health.
If you’re at all like me, you know how important these little moments of screaming for what you want so badly to have freedom to access are potentially stripped from you and others. I have spent a great deal writing about feminist punk throughout my first year as a Master’s student. While my entire life has been grounded in participating in the subculture, I often forget what drew me to it in the first place; May 17, 2019 reminded me why that was. Once the headliner, Tacocat, arrived on stage, I could feel the air growing vibrant in anticipation. Emily Nokes, the lead singer, is an activist and advocate for abortion rights for everyone. She assisted in the compilation of the recently published text “Shout Your Abortion,” a book about being unapologetically pro-choice.
In the middle of their performance, Nokes stopped to have a short conversation on reproductive rights. “Abortion effects everything, in a good way, it saves lives. It’s fucking cool,” she announced to the crowd, followed by a round of applause and shouting in agreement. The band advocates for their spaces to be all inclusive, accepting, and positive. There has never been a moment, in the multiple times I have had the pleasure of seeing them, that they haven’t withheld their activism as punk musicians and activists.
I have seen many, many punk shows in my life. No other band – with a few exceptions – has been so unapologetically for the well-being of others. The spaces that Nokes and her fellow bandmates create for their audience is almost otherworldly; something you won’t find anywhere else. They provide you with a deep feeling of comfort. You go into the show knowing that if something were to happen to question your safety, they would be there for you. The bands that played that night were so aware of the feelings that the crowd felt, they made sure we all knew that they were here for us, they feel what we are feeling, and will continue to spread their message. Abortion access now, unapologetically and forever.