Let’s see now… for me this all started way back in 1955 when I was growing up on Long Island’s north shore in a small city named Glen Cove. It wasn’t that Glen Cove did not have its segregation problems simply by geography of being north of the Mason Dixon line. Its just that the form of that separateness was insidiously more difficult to detect.
True, the various neighborhoods were clearly marked by the delineations of such streets named Cottage Row in and around witch only black people lived and that conversely, streets such as mine named Chestnut Street were exclusively white. Although the public school was integrated long before the south was forced to the differences between the races were clearly marked by where each particular student sat in the classroom.
One late spring evening I finally got up the nerve to invite my first black friend, a classmate named Alexander, home with me. You see, for Alexander and me curiosity had gotten the best of us. On one hand I just had to know if his brown color continued under his clothing and likewise he just had to know if I was drawn like Mickey Mouse; with just the parts that showed in white while the remainder of me was really black.
Looking back at the shear silliness of that poser I must admit that what I really wanted to know was what and how much, in this case, didn’t meet the eye. I found out.
As we had just finished paying some rough sport I can still remember the intoxicating sent of our sweet summer sweat as we continued our trepid exploration.
Later on I was so happy about my new friend and that we shared some of the same interest I could not resist introducing him to some of my other friends.
I will never forget the glances of disgust as they backed away as they repulsed us both.
Confused, I approached my parents and introduced Alexander to them. In hushed tones they exclaimed that he should immediately leave and return to his home. With his head down and his eyes avoiding mine he left.
When he was gone I remember receiving a “lesson” in how inappropriate his presence in my home was. When I objected loudly to them I then received a beating that I would never forget. The only thing I learned that day was that I was determined to never, never let anyone tell me who my friends should be. I had remembered in that moment the one time my family took a long trip. A drive to Florida in 1953, as the system of interstate highways (a project started by President Eisenhower) had yet to be completed it meant the traveling of many a back road through Georgia. I remember at each restaurant we stopped at, signs on the public water fountains indicating just who may and who may not take a drink there. When I asked my mother about this I received the most distorted and convoluted explanation of the reasoning behind “separate but equal” that I have ever heard. I never forgot it.
The rest of this below the fold
I received my discharge from the United States Navy late in 1965, settled in New York and over the next four years acquired some fifteen friends all of whom shared the same amours interest in our fellow man and had all managed to exit the various services to our country with honorable discharges.
Often we would all get together and head out to one of the secret underground bars tucked away in Greenwich Village. There was The Zodiac, a downstairs dive not unlike the one portrayed in the movie “Bell Book and Candle”. Then there was the Moroccan Village on Eighth Street almost across from Jimmy Hendrix’s Electric Lady Studio. Close by to that was the Bonsuar where we all delighted in hearing new talent sing and I particularly remember a young beautiful Jewish girl named Barbara, or something like that, bring wide grins to a thirsty crowd. There was also Julius’s that we fondly referred to as “the wrinkle room” in reference to the advanced age of their patrons.
I was still newly introduced to The Stonewall Inn having been there less than a handful of times and finding it too similar in its lack of excitement as Julius’s I usually preferred other venues.
What I remember of its physical layout is this: just as you entered the door, both immediately to the left and the right were a small nook with hooks provided to hang a coat or whet umbrella on. Then running two thirds down the right of the room was a bar that ended in an L shape that formed a small area at the back of the room for people to congregate. Its only inhabitant was a jukebox and, later, a sole pinball machine.
To the left were several booths that while small could hold seating for four people.
I remember being cautioned as several of my group rushed to the only available one that were I to bring drinks from the bar to the booth that under the blue laws of New York I could be arrested on the spot and charged with the crime of “purchasing alcohol for the purpose of procuring sex”. A bartender had to do that in order for it to be legit.
It should be noted there that in those days undercover cops were common place in that kind of establishment and regardless if you were charged with an individual crime or were simply caught in a raid you were taken to the nearest police station, booked, and required to provide identification. If you did not have a suitable document you were required to have a family member come down and identify you to effect your release.
In ether event both your family and your employer were informed of the incident thereby insuring complete social ruin.
Then, late one night in late June I received a frantic phone call from my friend Pete. I had retired early as I had some business to attend to the next morning. Groggy, as I wiped the sleep from my eyes I told Pete to slow down and explain to me what the fuss was about. I all got was excited exclamations of riot, burning down the bar, police, yelling screaming and so forth. Eventually I determined that all the commotion centered around The Stonewall Inn and that I had better get down there pronto.
Good fortune was with me; as soon as my foot hit the platform a downtown subway entered the station. By the time I arrived the Police, the Fire Department and around two thousand people had gathered in passionate confrontation. Mind you, this was before the time of cell phones and the internet, all this was achieved by individual phone calls alone… one person at a time.
I saw a friend of mine being slammed up against a wall being beaten by a Police officer. Instinctively I picked up a brick or stone, I don’t remember, and hurled it against the back window of a police car. That distracted him and he came for me. I was much younger those days and quite fleet of foot. Managing to escape I joined my friend and he explained the evening’s events so far thus:
It seems that the star employee of the establishment was a tall comely fellow named Tom. With a good humor and kindly nature he would oftentimes lend or give his tip money to those young men that had been repulsed by their family and expelled from their towns only to find themselves penniless on the streets of New York. With much compassion Tom would, as he did this night, give his earnings to these fellows so that they could at least find a place to say for the night. Apparently an undercover cop slyly observed this and quickly pounced over the bar on Tommy, sending his face smashing onto the hard tiled floor. Bleeding, he struggled to right himself but to no avail, as the cop again threw him to the floor. Incensed, all the patrons at once leaped over the bar and pulled the officer away from Tom. In the ensuing mealy other cops arrived and further infuriated by this singular injustice the people in the bar set it afire, overturned tables and chars, and attempted to block the police inside the room.
This was not about gay rights, the word “gay” had only recently been in wide use and, other than an organization called The Daughters of Billitus that was formed some thirty or so years before to protect lesbians there were no organizations at all to befriend the gay man. No, gay rights did not even exist on that night, but what did exist was the good conscience of noble men willing to take a stand against injustice.
So now, I find myself an old man and just a little while back I found myself watching ESPN and a phone call that announced to Michael Sam that he had been drafted into the NFL. I watched as his emotions broke over him on receiving the news. Suddenly, and without warning I saw a lovely young white man throw his arms about the neck of Michel and passionately kiss him on the lips.
Imagine!
With tears of joy poring down my face and my emotions completely out of control I looked upon this and as I did so all the bruises of beatings past faded from my being.
I have never met Michael or Vito as I doubt that I ever will I can only say that I love them both and from my heart wish them a long and happy life, free of tragedy.
RW
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