American History Tellers - Stonewall | Evolutionary, Not Revolutionary | 1

Episode Date: June 17, 2020

In the summer of 1969, a police raid on the Stonewall Inn sparked a riot on the streets of Greenwich Village. The protest marked a turning point in the gay rights movement. But the famed resistance in New York capped a movement that had been building for nearly two decades in America, as LGBTQ people mobilized to fight widespread and pervasive discrimination.In the years following World War II, members of the LGBTQ community faced broad discrimination — from strict laws that oppressed them, churches that declared their very existence sinful, and a government that demonized them. They would push back against the American Psychological Association, the FBI and finally, the courts. Slowly, LGBTQ activism would emerge from out of the closet and onto the American scene.This series follows strands of the gay rights movement in America from 1950 until 1970. But it’s just the beginning of a story about a fight for social and political equality — a battle that’s still being fought today.Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's June 28th, 1969, a hot, humid Friday night in New York City. It's your birthday, and you're waiting to meet a friend at the Stonewall Bar in Greenwich Village. You're turning 20, and tonight you're celebrating. You head to the bar and manage to get the attention of the bartender. What can I get for you? We're out of vodka.

More's on the way. Tequila soda, double, please. You scan the faces in the crowd looking for your friend. The bar is darkly lit and pretty rough around the way. Tequila soda, double please. You scan the faces in the crowd looking for your friend. The bar is darkly lit and pretty rough around the edges. Drinks are overpriced and watered down. The windows in the front are all blacked out, the stools rickety, and the bathrooms always flooded. But tonight the place is jam-packed, as it always is. It's a Friday night, and Stonewall is the only gay bar around where dancing is legal. Your friend Maxine finally arrives, sees you, and pushes her way through the crowd. Well, look who thinks he's special.

I am special. It's my birthday. She envelops you in a hug. Your birthday, right now? Or yesterday? It's one in the morning. These distinctions matter. Yesterday, actually.

Yesterday. Maxine is wearing makeup, along with a miniskirt, a peasant blouse and high heels. She looks terrific. You admire Maxine's bravery. You know she's been beat up more than once. Dressing like she does is illegal in New York. She's risking arrest, and frankly, so are you. Just by being here in this bar, police keep tabs on all the gay bars in the village.

You think the cops will make an appearance tonight? They wouldn't dare. Besides, I wouldn't let them. Not on your birthday. Still, you're suddenly hit by a wave of sadness. All these people around you, laughing, dancing, just being themselves,

trying to live their lives. When the rest of America would rather just have them arrested and thrown in jail. Oh, don't spiral on me now. I know that look you get when you're thinking too much. Maxine, you know what your problem is? You're too perceptive. Ah, you got me. Now tell me what's on your mind. It's just the cops, the people. I don't know. It's just like no one wants us anywhere. Don't let it get you down. Nobody gives a damn whether we live or die. Most people feel our

very existence is the problem. Maxine has a funny way of trying to cheer you up, but she has a point. There's the outside world, the straight world, and then there's this world happening right alongside it. It's here that you feel most comfortable, and Stonewall is an important part of this world. But suddenly, there's a lot of commotion by the front door. The bar's house lights go up, leaving you blinking in the stark brightness. All right, everyone, this is a raid. I want ID cards out. Everyone stand up against the wall.

Maxine only looks annoyed, like she's seen all this before. They just raided this place Tuesday night. Don't give them your ID. Don't give them anything. That's easy for her to say. You're starting to panic. No one except the people in this room knows the real you. If they print your name in the paper tomorrow,

you could lose your job at the hardware store. Your parents would probably kick you out of the house. This isn't right. The constant harassment, the danger, the fear, all for just being you. It's enough to make you want to do something. It's enough to make you want to do something. It's enough to make you want to fight back. From the team behind American History Tellers comes a new book, The Hidden History

of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, intimate moments, and shocking scandals that shaped our nation. From the War of 1812 to Watergate. Available now wherever you get your books. and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid, early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. On our show, we'll take you to the events, the times, and the people that shaped America and Americans, our values, our struggles, and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday citizens as history was being made. And we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now.

The police raid at New York's Stonewall Inn on a busy Friday night in 1969 unleashed a series of riots and demonstrations that lasted six days. It proved a turning point in the budding gay rights movement, and it inspired people across the country to join a larger fight for social and political equality, a battle that's still being fought today. But Stonewall was also controversial, even within what would come to be called the LGBTQ community. By 1969, the gay rights movement had already been building for decades. Some activists who advocated a more gradual, incremental approach to equality worried that this spontaneous uprising threatened to undo decades of careful work. Only in hindsight would it become clear that Stonewall wasn't a setback, but an important step forward. But in the years following World War II, members of the LGBTQ community were still largely invisible in mainstream society.

They also faced broad discrimination. They were harassed by police, oppressed by the government, and dismissed by the courts and medical profession. But slowly, incrementally, small groups of people started to come together and seek a way forward. A note to listeners. As our understanding of sexuality and identity has deepened and evolved, So has our language. The terms used throughout history, both by LGBTQ people to refer to themselves and by others, have changed over time. In this series, we'll generally use LGBTQ, but at times we may use older terminology in order to accurately capture the attitudes and ideas of the past. And lastly, the gay rights movement in the United States was an effort as diverse and complex as the LGBTQ community today. Though we've tried to capture that breadth in this four-part series, the stories we're presenting here are not comprehensive.

They follow strands of the gay rights movement in America from 1950 until 1970. But they were just the beginning of a history that asks difficult questions about gender, race, and identity, and demonstrates how some groups push for change in the face of daunting obstacles. This is Episode 1, Evolutionary, Not Revolutionary. In 1950, America was roaring. Back from the war against Germany and its allies, the economy grew at a rapid pace, and the country emerged as a global leader in politics and culture. But for Harry Hay, a 38-year-old actor and music teacher living in Los Angeles, the grew at a rapid pace, and the country emerged as a global leader in politics and culture.

But for Harry Hay, a 38-year-old actor and music teacher living in Los Angeles, the brilliant sheen of all that success only served to hide something underneath. Hay was a gay man. He'd known this most of his life. It was neither an attitude nor a choice. He'd simply been born that way. Hay had been raised by a wealthy family, and growing up, his sexuality was mostly ignored. But when he came out as gay in college at Stanford, many of his friends shunned him. Hay was shocked and hurt by their reaction, and began to realize he'd been living in an insulated reality. As Hay saw this painful experience play out for other gay friends, he began to take note of the dangers people like himself faced. Nationwide, states were passing

new laws that targeted LGBTQ people, using new categories to criminalize behavior that would otherwise be passed over. In California, the name of anyone caught loitering in a public toilet would be registered with the state. In New York, any person wearing less than three pieces of clothing that corresponded to their legal sex could be arrested and imprisoned. So-called sodomy laws imposed dire penalties, including a declaration of status as a sex offender. And in Pennsylvania and California, anyone classified as a sex offender could be locked up in a mental institution permanently.

In seven states, they could even be castrated. In short, while never outlawing homosexuality itself, an entire body of laws and policies made just being gay a de facto crime, with far-reaching consequences. But despite the fear and danger, gay people still managed to find each other. On the streets or in bars that that cater to gay clientele. Whether for love, sex, or companionship, couples and small groups joined together while nearly always having to disguise their activities. Jim Kepner, a contemporary of Hayes, recalled meeting other men through ads and magazines.

Through what were known as penpal groups, he would court these men long distance using what he described as a hinting process. He wrote, Over two or three letters you would say that you were interested in philosophy, poetry, and biographies, but not very interested in sports, except walking or swimming. You didn't start with Oscar Wilde or Walt Whitman,

but you could include some writers who were less specifically identified. Then you brought it up. Of course, gay people were everywhere. They were simply too afraid to speak openly. And they were facing, in America, the land of freedom and democracy that was forcing them to lie, to stay quiet, or to deny their own existence. In 1948, Dr. Alfred Kinsey, a biologist at Indiana University, released a landmark study of human sexuality.

The report, called Sexual Behavior in the Human Male, was covered broadly in the press. And for the first time, Americans began to talk publicly about their own sexuality. But in Los Angeles, Harry Hay noticed something in the fine print. The study found that homosexuality was far more widespread than Hay had ever guessed. Nearly 40% of men had experienced what the report characterized as homosexual relations. Not only that, but it reported that gay men were proven capable of being happy, healthy individuals, not sick or abnormal. The Kinsey Report galvanized Hay's thinking, but he took it a step forward. 37% of the population seemed like a sizable minority that could be organized. Hay felt it was high time to form a pro-gay organization of his own.

Hay was not the first to come up with the idea for a gay group. An accountant named Merton Bird had started a small group called the Knights of the Clock in Los Angeles in the late 40s. Hay knew of this group and knew it had disbanded, but he also knew an opportunity when he saw one. To Hay's thinking, gay people were a minority in America. Not an ethnic minority, certainly, but a minority just the same. And Hay believed that gay people should have the same organizational rights that other minority groups had. So with a close-knit circle of friends, Hay formed the Mattachine Society and began holding meetings in living rooms and apartments across the Silver Lake neighborhood of Los Angeles. The name Mattachine came from a medieval secret society of masked men who used their anonymity

to criticize the monarchy of the time. Because Hay and the other members still feared being publicly outed as gay, they stayed anonymous at Mattachine gatherings. No one knew whose house they were at, and except for a chosen few, no members even knew who was in charge. Society meetings were a cross between a fraternal order and a support group. Discussions focused on members coming to terms with their own sexuality and about how to best spread awareness through the straight community. Early goals included job placement and legal help, retirement homes for elderly gay people,

and centers for gay street kids. At one early meeting, 150 people showed up. Usually, though, gatherings numbered a couple dozen. Most of the members were white males in their mid-thirties or younger. No one underage was allowed, and the meetings stayed anonymous and secretive. The secrecy was integral to Hay's approach. With the Cold War just gearing up, conservative politicians had begun the systemic purging of real and imagined communist sympathizers from every level of government. But they didn't stop with communists. Prominent senators and congressmen also targeted gay government workers by spreading the fear that they were highly susceptible to Russian blackmail. A subcommittee chaired by North Carolina Senator Clyde Hoey came to the conclusion that one homosexual can pollute an entire office. Quickly, the cause of eradicating gay people from the workforce was taken up by private

companies and eventually became standard for all businesses across the country. Anyone even suspected of being gay could lose their job instantly. Nevertheless, word spread throughout Los Angeles about a secretive new group for gay people, and Mattachine Group. Hay even took to combing the known gay beaches in Malibu and the Palisades, carefully sizing up sunbathers and using a petition as a way to spread the word. But despite the group's caution, their secrecy was threatened in 1952 when a Manichean founder, Dale Jennings, was arrested on charges of soliciting a police officer for sex. That the officer himself had pretended to be gay to make the arrest, a method called entrapment,

didn't matter in the eyes of the law. A fundraising drive was held for attorney fees after a lawyer named George Shibley agreed to take the case. Jennings' trial, by the standards of the time, should have been open and shut. But something surprising happened. Shibley caught the arresting officer in a lie on the witness stand, and after deliberating for 40 hours, 11 members of the jury voted to acquit. Only one juror claimed that he would vote guilty until hell froze over. Having reached a deadlock, the trial was dismissed. Jennings could walk free. The dismissal was momentous, but no newspapers covered the story. For most Americans, Mattachine's first victory in the courts might as well have never happened. Still, a growing number of Mattachine members felt it was urgent to get more exposure for their cause.

For Jennings, he had already been outed in public by his trial, so what more did he have to lose? By 1953, Jennings and another member, Hal Call, had grown tired of the theatrics and the subterfuge of Mattachine meetings. They wanted a real organization with a constitution and a voting body instead of anonymous decisions passed down from on high as hate had structured it. They felt that a broader, less exclusive approach would attract more people to the cause. On the eve of Mattachine's first convention, the members, jostling for power, came up with a plan. They would put the matter of leadership to a vote.

Imagine it's May 1953, just after lunch in Southern California. You're one of the founding members of the Mattachine Society. While the rest of the city goes back to work after their lunch break, you've managed to convince Harry Hay to drive you out to the beach just south of Malibu. So what do you think, Harry? I thought it'd be nice to be back out here on the sand. Back to where it all started. Two years, just flown by. I remember tromping up and down all day with my clipboard and pen. You're both still in your street clothes,

but the sand feels good on your bare feet, and the sky is clear and calm. I remember being nervous. Nervous of what? What if one of those people we approached turned us in? For what? Asking people to sign a petition? Turned us in for being queer? Well, I wasn't worried. The beach spots we picked were safe enough. It was pretty easy to tell. Just go up to a blanket of young men reading books. I was right much more often than I wasn't. You both have made it down to the

beach, to the edge of the water. I'm going to tell you something, Harry, and I don't want you to get upset. Okay, tell me then, but I'll decide whether or not to get upset. At the convention this weekend, Hal Call and some others are going to advocate that you step down as the head of Mattachine. But I'm not the head. Mattachine is an organization with no leader. That's what's so great about it. Yeah, maybe you think that, but it's plain as day to everyone else that you're running things. And with the accusations about you being a communist in the paper and all... So what's the problem? That I have a leadership-style personality or that I'm a communist? The Senate is investigating nonprofits on the East Coast right now.

They're due to come West, and you're too high-profile. Harry, you're an easy target. And what if I don't step down? They're going to call for an up or down vote. The feeling is that you'd lose. And if I make a fuss about it, I could endanger Mattachine moving forward. Is that what you're implying? Yes. Yeah, in so many words. You know, people hate us. They call us aberrations. Child-molesting monsters. Don't you want to try and change that? I do.

And that's why Mattachine should be out in the open, not hiding behind masks and pseudonyms and secret meetings. Ah, I see. I get it. They sent you to soften me up. You look down at the sand, at the water being pulled into the ocean, only to come crashing back onto the beach. You wonder if things will be trapped in this suspended loop forever,

or if anything will actually change. You want to be a part of it, and you hope Harry will be there too. Harry speaks softly. This group should do whatever it feels necessary. Although I'm going to give Hal a piece of my mind at the convention. He's more of a sales manager than an organizer. I'm sorry to dump all this on you at once. Well, you're lucky, because I'm big enough to still give you a ride back across town.

As the two of you make your way back to his car, you hope that he'll understand that Mattachine has grown bigger than any one person. But you also hope the new leaders will make the right choices themselves. At the Mattachine convention that weekend, Hay indeed stepped down without a fuss. Into his place rose Hal Call, who would continue to run Mattachine on the West Coast. Members coined a new activist term for themselves, the homophile movement. Taking what was called an evolutionary, not revolutionary approach, the group took their first careful steps towards expanding the organization,

opening chapters in San Francisco and New York. Dale Jennings helped start the magazine One, which would be the first long-running magazine focused solely on issues in gay life. Although One magazine had many female contributors, the homophile movement itself was still overwhelmingly male. So in 1955, a group of lesbians in San Francisco took the cue from Mattachine and formed their own, all-female group. The eight women were a mix of blue and white-collar workers.

They were mostly white, along with one Chicana and one Filipina. Eventually, they settled on a name for themselves, the Daughters Abilitis. The name, like Mattachine's, was deliberately secretive. It was a reference to a fictional woman who'd lived alongside the Greek poet Sappho on the island of Lesbos. As founders Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin later recalled, its obscurity was part of the appeal. We thought the Daughters of Bilitis

would sound like any other women's lodge, like the Daughters of the Nile or the DAR. Bilitis would mean something to us, but not to any outsider. If anyone asked, we could always say we belonged to a poetry club. Martin and Lyon took up the group's leadership after the original Corps disbanded. They started up a magazine of their own called The Ladder, devoted exclusively to issues in the

lesbian community. The DOB, as the shorthand went, slowly began to grow. Despite having trouble attracting new members, in the numbers that Mattachine could, the DOB pressed on, creating a lecture series in San Francisco. There, lesbians, whether out or in the closet, could come and hear from a range of speakers including lawyers, employment counselors, and psychologists. Slowly, the gay movement was beginning to emerge, but there were still huge obstacles to overcome. One of the biggest was the harmful and powerful influence

that the medical establishment wielded. Most doctors and psychologists still considered gay people deviants, capable of criminal behavior if not treated. They issued unfounded diagnoses and promoted damaging conversion therapies. And their theories underpinned restrictive public policy and government laws. If gay people were to have a chance at achieving personal freedom,

this would have to change. But the change the movement needed was about to come from a very unlikely place. In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand, lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn, and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reach the age of 10 that would still a virgin. It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones and for almost two years I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls from Pitcairn. When there's nobody watching, nobody going to

report it, people will get away with what they can get away with. In the Pitcairn trials I'll be uncovering a story of abuse and the fight for justice that has brought a unique, lonely Pacific island to the brink of extinction. Listen to the Pitcairn Trials exclusively on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Are you in trouble with the law? Need a lawyer who will fight like hell to keep you out of jail? We defend and we fight just like you'd want your own children defended. Whether you're facing a drug charge, caught up on a murder rap, accused of committing war crimes,

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Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. In the 1950s, doctors and psychologists across the country were treating gay people as if they were diseased, using a barrage of invasive and dangerous techniques to try and change their behavior. In 1952, the American psychological profession called homosexuality a sociopathic personality disturbance and directed its doctors to use aggressive conversion techniques to cure their patients. Doctors used electric shock, emotional manipulation, and in many cases, lobotomies on thousands of patients. Psychologists grouped homosexuality,

along with other mental disorders, in a book called The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or the DSM for short. And with the publication of the 1952 DSM, it became all but impossible to convince anyone that homosexuality was anything but a mental disorder. Before his death in 1939, Sigmund Freud denied that conversion therapy would work, writing to a concerned mother that homosexuality is nothing to be ashamed of, no vice, no degradation. It cannot be classified as an illness. But still, 13 years later,

a cottage industry of conversion therapies had sprung up to treat gay men and women who had been convinced they suffered some form of illness. Methods ranged from coercion to violence and confrontation. Freud's daughter Anna practiced conversion therapy herself and claimed great success. But it was Edmund Bergler, one of the most influential psychoanalysts of the 50s, who touted that his methods of conversion produced the most results. When the Kinsey Report,

which posited that gay people were not diseased, was released, Bergler dismissed it loudly and publicly. The rest of the psychiatric profession agreed. Using a combination of manipulative strategies and openly confrontational therapy, Bergler and his adherents punished their patients physically and psychologically. Bergler told patients that they were worthless, called them liars. He would share details of one patient's case with another.

Other practitioners used electric shock and nausea-inducing drugs while the patient viewed images of gay erotic images, a technique known as aversive conditioning. The practices left many vulnerable patients at risk for depression or suicide. Although conversion therapists claimed success at rates as high as 50%, these claims were never proven. Ultimately, the dubious practice of allegedly curing patients of their homosexuality only served to keep certain psychoanalysts and institutions in steady business throughout the 1950s and 60s. Imagine it's 1954, and you're a 19-year-old woman from Connecticut. The room is lined with books,

and there's an overpowering smell of cologne that makes your nose twitch. Across from you is the doctor, a gray-looking man in a white jacket. His tie has sailboats on it. Please, have a seat. Your mother here has been telling me all about your recent successes at college. You glance over at your mother, sitting in the chair next to you. Her face is impossible to read, like when you two used to play gin. I thought this meeting was about discussing my failures. What failures would that be, my dear? Your mother shifts nervously in her chair. What happened between Rachel and I was a private matter between two adults. If the house monitor hadn't just burst in without knocking, then what

would have happened? Then Rachel and I could have... I don't know, I don't know what you want me to say. You shoot a glance at your mother. But I know my father has donated a not insignificant amount to the school to hush it up, and that this treatment you've both been talking over with me is supposed to help me in some way. The doctor's face hasn't changed a bit, like he hasn't even been listening. The treatment we're proposing will help a bit, like he hasn't even been listening. The treatment we're proposing will help you, dear. Stop calling me that. I've recommended a facility that specializes in pathological conversion therapy.

I've read about those treatments. They're unproven and they're barbaric. I wouldn't call them barbaric. I'd say that they are the very forefront of our medical knowledge and certainly recommended in cases such as this. In cases such as this. It's my body. I won't allow it. Your mother tells me this isn't the first time you've experienced these compulsions. Your face flushes. Your mother must have told him everything. Hal Rachel wasn't the first woman you've been attracted to. You knew you

needed to be careful, but you thought college was a place of higher learning, a place where people could freely expand their horizons. You thought it was a place where you'd be safe. Your mother's face has fallen. Her eyes are red and watery. This really is the best solution for you, for your parents, for everyone. You start to panic. Perhaps politeness will get you out of this. Well, thank you, doctor. If you could just give me some time to think about this. You begin to stand. Now sit down. Your father has already talked to the dean of the school. The paperwork has already been filed. You'll miss the spring semester, of course, but return in the fall with a fresh new outlook. The doctor flashes you a smile. No, no, no, no, no one talked to me

about this. You begin to realize that you don't have a choice. Maybe you never did. Beside you, your mother is smiling, but she's also crying. Everything's already been planned for. Your mother reaches for your hand, but you ignore it. You're already looking past her, at the sailboats on the doctor's tie, all the while feeling like you're sinking. Under these conditions, it was unclear who, if anyone, would be able to question the authority of the psychological establishment. Until, in the late 1940s, a young psychologist named Evelyn Hooker was teaching night classes at the UCLA Extension Division when she struck up a friendship with one of her students. This student, named Sammy, was the brightest of her pupils.

When classes had finished for the summer, Sammy called her and asked if Dr. Hooker would like to come over for dinner. So one night, Sammy and a man he introduced as his cousin, George, sat down with Evelyn and her husband for a meal. Hooker gradually realized that her new friends were harboring a secret and in fact were not cousins. She later remembered, Sammy and George were afraid to let me

know. Gradually, the fog came down, and they became very good friends of ours. I liked them. They were very interesting people. I don't remember a time when they said, we're gay. They just gradually let down their hair. A friendship quickly blossomed between the two couples. George was only pretending to be Sammy's cousin, since it was the safest way the two men could live together. Dr. Hooker and her husband kept the secret. But after about a year, Sammy came to Dr. Hooker with a proposition. He wanted her to do a scientific study of people like us, he said.

Over the next several years, Hooker considered the idea. She became more familiar with the gay community. She was even invited to speak at early Mattachine meetings in Los Angeles. To her surprise, she found that gay men and women had never been studied in the context of normal life, only as patients brought into clinics by family members who believed them to be disturbed. She began to interview gay men and soon realized she had plenty of candidates with different personalities, backgrounds, talents, and ranges of mental health. She had enough for a perfect cross-section of men from which to do a study. In 1953, Hooker received a grant from the newly formed National Institute of Mental Health and formed a test group of 30

gay and 30 straight men. Using interviews and projective personality tests like the Rorschach inkblots, Hooker was able to produce a set of results that profiled each of the 60 candidates. Hooker then presented her results to a blind board of three psychological experts. They would rate each of the 60 profiles on a scale of social maladjustment. Her findings were explosive. These experts, who assumed that they would be able to deduce easily which of the profiles were gay or straight could not tell any difference whatsoever. Hooker had proven that gay men could be as well-adjusted as straight men

and that some were even better adjusted than straight men. She presented her paper titled The Adjustment of the Male Overt Homosexual at a meeting of the American Psychological Association in 1956. She concluded, Homosexuality as a clinical entity does not exist. Its forms are as varied as are those of heterosexuality. The role of sexual desire and expression in personality structure may be less important than has been frequently assumed. Dr. Hooker's findings directly contradicted the

prevailing wisdom of the day with the radical notion that gay people were just as psychologically normal as heterosexuals. It was the first time any such paper had been presented, and even though it drew criticism from the psychological establishment, the paper would go on to become a groundbreaking study in line with the Kinsey Report. Hooker was given a further grant by the National Institute of Mental Health to continue her studies through the 60s. Her paper went a long way to legitimize the study of homosexuality as a field unto its own. Later, when asked why she hadn't done her study on lesbians, Hooker, herself a straight woman, explained, Suppose I had gone to seek funding in 1953 and said,

I want to do a study on lesbians. The first thing that would have happened is that they would have been thinking, perhaps she herself is a lesbian. I knew that if I was going into this field, I had to be above reproach. But Dr. Hooker's findings did not change much in the short term. Mainstream psychoanalysts like Edward Bergler and Dr. Irving Beaver continued their conversion therapy treatments well into the 70s. Still, Hooker's study provided more progressive psychiatrists with the evidence they needed to deny electroshock treatments to patients in institutional hospitals. Both the Mattachine Society and the Daughters of Bilitis welcomed Hooker's findings.

They were small but immensely important steps in the right direction. Nevertheless, in the 1950s, gay women and men still faced a long road towards social acceptance. Press continued to ignore studies like Dr. Hooker's, helping to make homosexuality a threat looming large over mainstream American society. Gay rights activists may have made inroads on the medical establishment, but their next challenge would come from a far more imposing enemy, the United States government and the FBI. How did Birkenstocks go from a German cobbler's passion project 250 years ago to the Barbie movie today?

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Even as early gay activist groups made strides in their fight for recognition, gay men and women continued to face severe discrimination from nearly every level of American society. This discrimination was supported and encouraged by the government, and it had been for decades. In 1937, the kidnapping and brutal murder of a 10-year-old boy in Tacoma, Washington horrified a nation still reeling from the effects of the Great Depression. As police desperately searched for clues in the case of the boy, they began to focus their search on men who they termed sex perverts. While it wasn't plainly stated, it was understood that authorities were suggesting a gay man had murdered the young boy. The Federal Bureau of Investigation and its chief, J. Edgar Hoover,

took up this theory with relish. After interviewing several medical professionals of the time, the Bureau broadened its search to include mental asylums and homeless encampments in Washington state, but they uncovered nothing. Charles Mattson's murder was never solved, but the case prompted the FBI to create an extensive database about gay men and women. The agency considered them nothing less than an existential threat to the American way of life, and so they would be keeping tabs. During World War II, the Defense Department began excluding gay servicemen and women, giving them what were known as blue discharges.

These veterans were stripped of any benefits that they had been promised under the GI Bill of Rights. In 1950, a Senate investigation targeted gay men and women in government jobs. When a D.C. Vice Squad Lieutenant testified there were 5,000 gay people working in the government, a frenzy erupted. The FBI created a full-fledged task force to root them out. But the D.C. lieutenant had invented this staggering number out of thin air. It was a baseless accusation, but the panic was already unleashed. It was in this charged environment that the first openly gay publication, One Magazine, was created by the Mattachine Society in Los Angeles in 1953.

Founded by Dale Jennings, Chuck Rowland, and other members of the society, the magazine offered thoughtful editorials and articles pertaining to the lives of the gay community. Copies sold for 25 cents and were mailed out to a small list of subscribers. The editorial group was comprised of men and women, and the cover story of its first issue centered around gay marriage, a topic decades ahead of its time. But the magazine had another audience the staff did not know about. The FBI had been monitoring the activities of the Mattachine Society since its formation. The agency infiltrated the group,

coercing members to report back on the topics of meetings and who was present. And even with the veil of secrecy that covered much of the society's early years, Hoover and the FBI were still able to get lists of names, along with recruiting a roster of informants, including Dale Jennings' brother-in-law. In many cases, these informants were well-intentioned. They naively thought that, by talking to a government agency, their information would lend legitimacy to Manichin and One Magazine. But the FBI was only looking to undercut the group and magazine. Agents had noticed something in the magazine spreads that raised eyebrows in Washington, something that reached up the very ranks of the Bureau itself. Imagine it's spring, 1956. You're a young writer,

working in the cramped Los Angeles offices of one magazine. You're so busy putting the finishing touches on an edit that you don't notice the man in the gray suit standing in the doorway until he wraps his fist on the wall. Excuse me. Good afternoon. Oh, hi. Yeah, can I help you? The man moves into the room and stops a few feet from your desk. His black shoes are polished to a shine, and his hair is cut high and tight.

It's clear he's not here to buy an issue of the magazine. I'm Agent Dawson with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few questions. You push your chair back from your desk, instinctively, almost as if you're trying to put more distance between the two of you. There's nothing more terrifying than cops, except the FBI. You try to stay cool. Try not to show fear. Well, sure.

I'll do my best to answer them. Are you the publisher? No, sir, I am not. How long have you worked for the magazine? I'm a volunteer. Most of us are volunteers. Our subscriber base at 25 cents an issue doesn't really generate a ton of cash, you know. But the agent doesn't look like he's listening.

He's moved over to the shelves and is perusing the spines of the magazine's back issues. Are you aware that your magazine has claimed there are homosexuals currently working in the offices of the FBI? Yes, I am. Are you aware that your magazine suggested that homosexuals were employed by the FBI? Yes, I'm aware of it. I didn't write it, though. Well, who did? I don't think I have to answer that question. Besides, the byline's right there.

You freeze. You've probably already said too much. Are you putting your colleagues in danger? Your magazine is trafficking in false statements and unprovable claims. But suddenly you don't care. If he was going to arrest you, he would have already. An anger wells up inside you that almost makes you shake. Who does this guy think he is? Sir, I'd like to hear you define what's provable. The agent doesn't bat an eyelash. Libel is illegal in this country. So is search and seizure without a warrant. The article didn't name names. All you want is for this guy to go away

and leave you alone. Suddenly, an idea pops in your head. Agent Dawson? Dawson, right? I hope you don't have any objection to this conversation being taped, do you? The agent frowns. I do not. Good. You lean back in your chair, watching the agent's eyes dart around the room. You don't have a recording machine in here, but he doesn't know that. These guys feed off paranoia, and perhaps this will scare him off.

Finally, he looks at you and frowns again. Well, thank you for your time. We'll be in touch. You sag back into your chair, letting out a breath that you didn't realize you'd been holding. You knew working for an openly gay publication was risky, but you had no idea just how dangerous it might be. The FBI did not return to the magazine's offices,

but the FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover, still kept the members of Mattachine squarely in his sights. He wrote to his deputy director that the investigation should continue, vowing, We've got to get these bastards. Hoover took personal offense to the notion that gay men would be employed by the FBI. But before he could formulate a plan, the U.S. Post Office stepped in and seized two issues of one magazine on the grounds that obscene material could not be sent

through the mail. Another branch of the U.S. government had beaten Hoover to the punch. In an equally ironic turn, one of the seized magazines featured a story specifically about censorship titled, You Can't Print It. The magazine editors fought the seizure in court, saying they had been subjected to discriminatory treatment because of gay prejudice. When a district judge rejected their lawsuit, Mattachine filed an appeal. Meanwhile, members of one magazine, to get around the postal ban, were hand-delivering copies of the magazine and mailing out issues in brown paper envelopes from various post offices throughout the city. In early 1957, their appeal of the case to the Ninth Circuit Court was denied.

Desperate, they appealed by petition to the Supreme Court. Fortunately, the court had already handed down a decision on another free speech case only a month before, finding that the subject of sex itself was no longer synonymous with obscenity. The justices examined their copies of One Magazine and in a quiet, one-line ruling reversed the Ninth Circuit Court's decision. They were not in favor of censorship practiced by the post office. To celebrate the victory, One Magazine announced the news in their next issue. For the first time in American publishing history,

a decision binding on every court now stands, affirming in effect that it is in no way proper to describe a love affair between homosexuals as constituting obscenity. But once again, the court's decision made no national headlines. It did, however, allow more gay-oriented magazines to begin shipping out their own copies. Later that same year, poet Allen Ginsberg's book Howl also defeated obscenity charges in court. The tumbling of obscenity laws would also pave the way for popular novels featuring gay characters, like James Baldwin's In Another Country and John Retchie's City of Night. By the end of the 1950s, progress, however incremental, had been made.

But with the new decade would come new challenges, both from outside the activist movement and within. Gay rights were about to step out of the shadows and into the streets. From Wondery, this is episode one of Stonewall from American History Tellers. On the next episode, through protests and sit-ins across the nation, LGBTQ activists start agitating for greater rights. But as white gay activists push for acceptance by America's white middle-class majority, transgender activists and people of color face even greater challenges. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free

on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Sound design by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by George Ducker, edited by Dorian Marina. Special thanks to Sylveon Consulting for serving as an advisor on this series. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marshall Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery. Now streaming. Created by Hernan Lopez for Wondery. So the entrepreneurs get 90 seconds to pitch to an audience of potential customers. This is match point, baby. If the audience like the product,

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