On this day, however, there was something new. It mostly took the form of a second look, after the initial glance of recognition. It was as if a new dimension had suddenly been added to my identity as queer, as if they had overnight found out it also meant I could fly, or was immortal. They looked at me in such a speculative way, I wanted to say to every one of them, “Yeah, I was there. Next time we might come for YOU.” I could smell the fear on them, and I liked it. It was as close to respect as I had ever gotten from the straight world.
One of the women at the Haight Store told me some of the members of People’s Bakery had been at the riot and had been badly hurt. After I was done with work, I stopped by the collective on the pretext of buying some onion rolls. The quiet butch who brought me fresh rolls from the back had a black eye and a bandage on the side of her face. She didn’t much want to talk about it. She said the cops had cornered her and another coworker in an alley off Mission, after they had left the Civic Center area. They left before things got really rough. The cop who beat her up had taken off his badge, so she didn’t get his number. When I asked her if she was going to file a complaint, she smiled bitterly and shook her head.
We later found out that of the 60-something people injured by the cops that night, a huge majority of them were women and/or people of color. The cops, as usual, targeted those who were not male or not white, especially if they were single or just two people trying to get home safely. Several of the people attacked by the cops, away from the riot itself, had been rammed against walls by the cops' three-wheel motorbikes.
We of LAPV had an emergency meeting that night. We knew public outrage was going to demand appeasement, and we knew we were the best target. We had been visibly agitating against the police for several months, one time holding a demonstration in front of Police Headquarters on 6th. A man in a cheap green suit had ostentatiously taken photos of every one of us at that demonstration. We were not advocating citizen review boards, more queer presence on the police force, or sensitivity training for police recruits. Our position was that the police force itself was an institution born out of racism and whose primary purpose was to maintain the status quo of the privileged by means of violence. We relentlessly argued that Dan White’s actions were the natural byproduct of his training as a cop. We said lesbians, gays, progressives, working people and people of color would always be targets of police repression as long as police existed; therefore, we advocated abolition of any legalized armed force in our society. We knew the cops would be thrilled to blame the riot on us.
Furthermore, there was a lot of circumstantial evidence pointing to us as instigators. We certainly had helped to identify the police and the politicians who controlled them as our enemies (although the main reason for this identification must, of course, fall on those who behaved as our enemies). We had called the rally at Castro Street that evening because we knew the jury’s verdict about Dan White would be in, and, guessing that justice would not be fully served, we wanted to capitalize on people’s anger for our own purposes. My roommate Sharon and I had made the signs announcing the rally and put them around the Mission and Castro Street.
We heard about the verdict, Dan White being convicted only of manslaughter, late in the afternoon. By the time we got to 18th and Castro at 6:00 p.m., there was a crowd already waiting on us. We were disappointed at how few women had turned out, but not terribly surprised. Harvey Milk had never been a key figure in the political lesbian community. I had seen him speak a few times and not been overly impressed; he was far too mainstream for us. He was one of the white boys. I sometimes felt more represented by George Moscone than Harvey Milk. I realize it is heresy to admit this, now that Harvey has achieved the mythical status awarded all our assassinated dead, but it is the truth, and I know most of the women who were my friends felt the same way at that point in time.
We worked our way to the fence over the stairs going down to BART, stood up on the edge or on other elevations, and tried to get the attention of the crowd. I say “we”--I don’t think I did any speaking, not yet. I remember my roommate Sharon Sapphora had brought her bullhorn from home. I think she did some shouting into it. She was pretty good at off-the-cuff speechmaking, adept in street vernacular and ironic anger. But she wasn’t making much of an impression that night. Later she walked around shouting "Out of the bars and into the streets!"
I noticed a gay man, Howard Wallace, at the front of the crowd. He was a f*ggot who always struck me as looking less like a f*ggot than any man I knew. He was a die-hard leftie, unusual among the gay men in San Francisco at that time, and a clear, interesting speaker. I don’t remember who began yelling for us to march somewhere and make our feelings known, but I want to say it was Howard. We began feeling pressure to respond to the crowd or lose them altogether. I would say this was the first sign of danger that we ignored.
We had a hasty conference about where to go. Our first choice was to go to the police station on 6th. I shudder to think what might have occurred if we had stuck with that decision; certainly some of us would have been killed. Someone argued that City Hall was closer and had more room to spread out. We bunched up and began marching down Market Street.
We immediately got more omens of what was to come. Every time we passed a streetcar in the middle of Market, the bar holding it to the overhead electrical line would be jerked loose by one of the men, and some of them were pounding on the windows, screaming at the terrified passengers inside. At first, I laughed at this, thought it was great the boys were finally showing a little political heat. Every time we passed a men’s bar or cafe (and in those days, it seemed like Market Street was lined with f*ggot hangouts all the way from Castro to Duboce--maybe it still is, I don’t know), all the men inside would pour out and join the march. It was like the gay pride parades I had read about, where people lining the route spontaneously came out. I noticed most of the men had on at least one leather garment. I had never seen these men at any sort of gay event.
(March to City Hall in progress along Market Street, San Francisco, 21 May 1979, on our way to White Night Riot; in far background, middle right, is Mount Sutro tower, so this is between 18th Street and South Van Ness. Most of front line of marchers shown here are dykes from Lesbians Against Police Violence. I'm somewhere in the middle of the front row.)
By the time we got to Church Street, we were having to run to keep ahead of the crowd. We had been trying to lead chants up to that point, strung out in a single line across the several lanes of Market. We had also been laughing with each other, excited by the success of our rally. But the effort of our rapid push and the increasing tension of the people on our heels sobered us, and I don’t remember much of anything the last few blocks except trying to keep up.
When we got to City Hall, we in LAPV regrouped on the steps out front and began trying to lead chants again. We couldn’t understand why this wasn’t working. The crowd was huge, and clearly wanted something from us, but they wouldn’t chant. After a few dismal efforts, Sharon began talking into her bullhorn again, saying something about the connection between Dan White getting off and how the police are allowed to run rampant in minority communities. We were the only ones listening to her. Men were shouting from everywhere, saying we should storm City Hall, go out and exact revenge for Harvey Milk, and other things which sounded absolutely crazy to us. It is at this point that I remember starting to be afraid.
We were close enough to the front doors of City Hall to see through the ornate grillwork covering the glass. There were dozens of cops in full stormtrooper gear massed there. I knew what would happen if we tried to force our way in. We linked arms across the stairs and began chanting something like “Violence is not the answer.” A few voices here and there in the crowd joined in with us. It was getting dark fast. I couldn’t figure out what to do, except to keep bloodshed from happening.
I know a few people were shouting out lines and speeches. I don’t remember any of them except Amber Hollibaugh. I have heard that Cleve Jones was one of the men who spoke, and I have heard opposite versions of what he said--that he tried to calm people down, and that he urged them to riot. Maybe he did both, I don’t know. But I remember Amber.
I remember being relieved to see a woman climb up on the wide railing beside the stairs and face the crowd. I had seen her around here and there, and while she had bleach-blonde hair, clearly removing her from the ranks of what I knew of political dykes, she looked to be working class and clear-headed. She kept motioning for Sharon to give her the bullhorn, and Sharon did because she shared my impression of Amber. We thought she might take charge.
Well, she did. She gave one hell of a speech. I remember standing below her, trying to see her expression in the dark. The gist of it was that our anger was beautiful and justified, and it was about time we showed those in power how stupid it was to push us around. The men loved her, and by the time she was done, there was no hope of calming anyone down. It hit us all at about the same time that we were standing between a mob and a battalion of cops. We grabbed each other and snaked our way off the steps.
We went to the corner of Grove and Polk, and stood on the sidewalk in front of the Health Department. We felt safe enough to stop there. and we could talk without shouting. We separated into groups of four to six, and promised to stay with our little group all the way home, no matter what. This was a tactic some women in the group had learned from peace movement days, and it was a brilliant move on our part. Folks who left the riot alone or in pairs were targeted by cops, especially if they were women or non-white: Of the 60+ people seeking medical attention that night, most of them were attacked by the cops on their way home.
One of the women at the Haight Store told me some of the members of People’s Bakery had been at the riot and had been badly hurt. After I was done with work, I stopped by the collective on the pretext of buying some onion rolls. The quiet butch who brought me fresh rolls from the back had a black eye and a bandage on the side of her face. She didn’t much want to talk about it. She said the cops had cornered her and another coworker in an alley off Mission, after they had left the Civic Center area. They left before things got really rough. The cop who beat her up had taken off his badge, so she didn’t get his number. When I asked her if she was going to file a complaint, she smiled bitterly and shook her head.
We later found out that of the 60-something people injured by the cops that night, a huge majority of them were women and/or people of color. The cops, as usual, targeted those who were not male or not white, especially if they were single or just two people trying to get home safely. Several of the people attacked by the cops, away from the riot itself, had been rammed against walls by the cops' three-wheel motorbikes.
We of LAPV had an emergency meeting that night. We knew public outrage was going to demand appeasement, and we knew we were the best target. We had been visibly agitating against the police for several months, one time holding a demonstration in front of Police Headquarters on 6th. A man in a cheap green suit had ostentatiously taken photos of every one of us at that demonstration. We were not advocating citizen review boards, more queer presence on the police force, or sensitivity training for police recruits. Our position was that the police force itself was an institution born out of racism and whose primary purpose was to maintain the status quo of the privileged by means of violence. We relentlessly argued that Dan White’s actions were the natural byproduct of his training as a cop. We said lesbians, gays, progressives, working people and people of color would always be targets of police repression as long as police existed; therefore, we advocated abolition of any legalized armed force in our society. We knew the cops would be thrilled to blame the riot on us.
We heard about the verdict, Dan White being convicted only of manslaughter, late in the afternoon. By the time we got to 18th and Castro at 6:00 p.m., there was a crowd already waiting on us. We were disappointed at how few women had turned out, but not terribly surprised. Harvey Milk had never been a key figure in the political lesbian community. I had seen him speak a few times and not been overly impressed; he was far too mainstream for us. He was one of the white boys. I sometimes felt more represented by George Moscone than Harvey Milk. I realize it is heresy to admit this, now that Harvey has achieved the mythical status awarded all our assassinated dead, but it is the truth, and I know most of the women who were my friends felt the same way at that point in time.
We worked our way to the fence over the stairs going down to BART, stood up on the edge or on other elevations, and tried to get the attention of the crowd. I say “we”--I don’t think I did any speaking, not yet. I remember my roommate Sharon Sapphora had brought her bullhorn from home. I think she did some shouting into it. She was pretty good at off-the-cuff speechmaking, adept in street vernacular and ironic anger. But she wasn’t making much of an impression that night. Later she walked around shouting "Out of the bars and into the streets!"
I noticed a gay man, Howard Wallace, at the front of the crowd. He was a f*ggot who always struck me as looking less like a f*ggot than any man I knew. He was a die-hard leftie, unusual among the gay men in San Francisco at that time, and a clear, interesting speaker. I don’t remember who began yelling for us to march somewhere and make our feelings known, but I want to say it was Howard. We began feeling pressure to respond to the crowd or lose them altogether. I would say this was the first sign of danger that we ignored.
We had a hasty conference about where to go. Our first choice was to go to the police station on 6th. I shudder to think what might have occurred if we had stuck with that decision; certainly some of us would have been killed. Someone argued that City Hall was closer and had more room to spread out. We bunched up and began marching down Market Street.
We immediately got more omens of what was to come. Every time we passed a streetcar in the middle of Market, the bar holding it to the overhead electrical line would be jerked loose by one of the men, and some of them were pounding on the windows, screaming at the terrified passengers inside. At first, I laughed at this, thought it was great the boys were finally showing a little political heat. Every time we passed a men’s bar or cafe (and in those days, it seemed like Market Street was lined with f*ggot hangouts all the way from Castro to Duboce--maybe it still is, I don’t know), all the men inside would pour out and join the march. It was like the gay pride parades I had read about, where people lining the route spontaneously came out. I noticed most of the men had on at least one leather garment. I had never seen these men at any sort of gay event.
(March to City Hall in progress along Market Street, San Francisco, 21 May 1979, on our way to White Night Riot; in far background, middle right, is Mount Sutro tower, so this is between 18th Street and South Van Ness. Most of front line of marchers shown here are dykes from Lesbians Against Police Violence. I'm somewhere in the middle of the front row.)
By the time we got to Church Street, we were having to run to keep ahead of the crowd. We had been trying to lead chants up to that point, strung out in a single line across the several lanes of Market. We had also been laughing with each other, excited by the success of our rally. But the effort of our rapid push and the increasing tension of the people on our heels sobered us, and I don’t remember much of anything the last few blocks except trying to keep up.
When we got to City Hall, we in LAPV regrouped on the steps out front and began trying to lead chants again. We couldn’t understand why this wasn’t working. The crowd was huge, and clearly wanted something from us, but they wouldn’t chant. After a few dismal efforts, Sharon began talking into her bullhorn again, saying something about the connection between Dan White getting off and how the police are allowed to run rampant in minority communities. We were the only ones listening to her. Men were shouting from everywhere, saying we should storm City Hall, go out and exact revenge for Harvey Milk, and other things which sounded absolutely crazy to us. It is at this point that I remember starting to be afraid.
We were close enough to the front doors of City Hall to see through the ornate grillwork covering the glass. There were dozens of cops in full stormtrooper gear massed there. I knew what would happen if we tried to force our way in. We linked arms across the stairs and began chanting something like “Violence is not the answer.” A few voices here and there in the crowd joined in with us. It was getting dark fast. I couldn’t figure out what to do, except to keep bloodshed from happening.
I know a few people were shouting out lines and speeches. I don’t remember any of them except Amber Hollibaugh. I have heard that Cleve Jones was one of the men who spoke, and I have heard opposite versions of what he said--that he tried to calm people down, and that he urged them to riot. Maybe he did both, I don’t know. But I remember Amber.
I remember being relieved to see a woman climb up on the wide railing beside the stairs and face the crowd. I had seen her around here and there, and while she had bleach-blonde hair, clearly removing her from the ranks of what I knew of political dykes, she looked to be working class and clear-headed. She kept motioning for Sharon to give her the bullhorn, and Sharon did because she shared my impression of Amber. We thought she might take charge.
Well, she did. She gave one hell of a speech. I remember standing below her, trying to see her expression in the dark. The gist of it was that our anger was beautiful and justified, and it was about time we showed those in power how stupid it was to push us around. The men loved her, and by the time she was done, there was no hope of calming anyone down. It hit us all at about the same time that we were standing between a mob and a battalion of cops. We grabbed each other and snaked our way off the steps.
We went to the corner of Grove and Polk, and stood on the sidewalk in front of the Health Department. We felt safe enough to stop there. and we could talk without shouting. We separated into groups of four to six, and promised to stay with our little group all the way home, no matter what. This was a tactic some women in the group had learned from peace movement days, and it was a brilliant move on our part. Folks who left the riot alone or in pairs were targeted by cops, especially if they were women or non-white: Of the 60+ people seeking medical attention that night, most of them were attacked by the cops on their way home.
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
1
1
1
