American History Tellers - Stonewall | Pride | 4

Episode Date: July 8, 2020

After a late-night police raid on the Stonewall Inn in June 1969, the LGBTQ community fought back in the streets of Greenwich Village. Suddenly, the LGBTQ rights movement found itself catapulted onto the national stage.  But questions of how radical an approach to take would pit young activists against the pioneers of the 1950s and 1960s. Even with the formation of new organizations like the Gay Liberation Front and the Gay Activists Alliance, questions emerged. Would it be better to take part in the political process? Or to stage confrontational “zaps?”These new groups would soon be engulfed by in-fighting over goals, strategy, membership, and how the LGTBQ rights movement fit into the larger landscape of radical activism. Meanwhile, Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson would form their own group – one that would speak directly to issues facing unhoused people, and the trans community in New York city.Listen ad-free on Wondery+ hereSupport 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. A listener note, this episode contains references to sexual violence and may not be suitable for all listeners. Imagine it's June 28th, 1969, a Saturday morning in Greenwich Village. You're climbing the stairs to your apartment, coming back from a run to the bodega for more bandages. You find your boyfriend, Julio, sitting at a small table by the window. Hey, what's it like? Cops everywhere? What are you doing? You're not supposed to be up. I couldn't lay in bed anymore. It's giving me a headache. Julio's old bandage has slipped off his head, exposing a large purple bruise swollen around his eye. You have a headache

because you got hit in the head. Last night, the two of you were at the Stonewall Inn when the police raided it. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the adrenaline, but you both did something you can barely believe. You joined others to fight back against the New York City police. At first, you weren't planning to get physical, but when Julio was hit with a nightstick, everything came into sharp focus. Here, sit still. I've got some fresh bandages for you. You lean forward, start wrapping Julio's injured head. Julio looks down. Oh, it looks like I've thawed all your peas. I'm sorry. It's okay.

They'll freeze again. They're just vegetables. I'm more worried about your melon. Was there anything in the papers? No, not that I saw. I had this dream that the whole city was covered in cops, and you were out there jumping over barricades and fighting your way through the streets. Well, no jumping or fighting. Everything's normal outside.

Straight people barely have any idea something happened at all. They're even fixing up the front of the stone wall. What? Really? You don't think they're going to open tonight? I thought for sure it would have been burned down. Nope, it's still there. The guy who works the door sometimes, he was outside hammering away. All right, there you go. Good as new. Try and keep this one on, all right? My hero. But you know, we've got to go back. To the stone wall? No, you're not going anywhere. The side of

your face is the color of an eggplant. That's just a battle scar. I'll wear it proudly. This is the side of Julio you've never seen before. Suddenly, he wants to take on the entire world and the NYPD. But what's funny is that you feel the same way. He gives you a determined look. If I promise to lay down and rest until tonight, will you go back with me? We can just walk by, but I have to see it. You realize he's going to stagger down there with or without you. I'm not letting you go down there alone. Julio's face breaks with a tiny smile. We'll keep a safe distance, but this is important.

You feel it. You can feel it, too. Something happened last night in front of the stone wall. You saw it with your own eyes. When you get back there tonight, despite all the risks and the worry, you know one thing. You and Julio won't be alone.

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the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. After a late-night police raid on the Stonewall Inn in June of 1969, the LGBTQ community fought back in the streets of Greenwich Village. Following several nights of protests, the LGBTQ rights movement found itself suddenly catapulted onto the national stage. More exposure brought a new generation of activists

whose radical ideas would clash with the pioneers of the 1950s and 60s. But in the struggle against widespread repression, it was still unclear what strategy would be most effective in this new decade. Would joining in the political process be enough? Or would new activists need to take a more confrontational approach? As activists wrestled with these questions, they founded new organizations to tackle civil rights issues head-on. But these groups would soon be splintered by infighting over goals, strategy, membership, and how the LGBTQ rights movement fit into the larger landscape of radical activism. These divisions would drive a new era of activism. But through it all, there would be a struggle to find a way to speak for the entirety of LGBTQ

people in all their diversity and vibrant energy. A quick reminder to our listeners, this episode contains some outdated historical terminology. This is Episode 4, Pride. Craig Rodwell returned to Christopher Street on Saturday evening, just as the Stonewall Inn was opening its doors. It was June 28, 1969, and Rodwell, an early activist on the New York scene, ran the Oscar Wilde bookshop down at the end of the block. Rodwell hadn't expected that the Stonewall would even be open, but there it was. They'd install new sheets of plywood over the windows that were smashed less than 12 hours

before. Even damage from the fires appeared to have been painted over. The Stonewall's mafia owners had shrugged off the monumental chaos of the previous night. Unbelievably, they opened the doors to the bar and invited people inside, giving away juice drinks for free in lieu of serving alcohol. As evening came on, crowds of LGBTQ people and straight onlookers gravitated towards Greenwich Village. New York police set up roadblocks to deter people from gathering, but the numbers were too great. News of the insurrection the night before had spread by word of mouth. Many sensed that the protests would continue, and they wanted to be part of it. Confrontations began all over again. Like the night before, the tactical police unit of the NYPD was called in and began assaulting protesters. And once again, the crowds pushed back

against the police, resisting arrest. Protesters again formed Rockette-style kicklines, mocking the police as they marched in formation. But where Friday night's uprising had been spontaneous, on Saturday evening, the LGBTQ community, along with plenty of straight supporters and hangers-on, had come ready to protest. Around 2,000 people would flood Christopher Street and the West Village into the very early hours of the morning. Rodwell later remembered, that Saturday night was the first time in history there was a general assertion of anger by gay people, a public assertion of real anger that was just electric. Miss Major Griffin Gracie, a black transgender woman who was knocked out by police and arrested on Friday night remembered the subsequent nights as absolute terror. It didn't just happen that one day, because people were fed

up. The country was in an uproar over the war, over the treatment of blacks, over the treatment of women. Everybody wanted their piece of whatever the American dream was at that time. And our community and the gays and lesbians were no different. And so it was just a feeling of, well, god damn it, tonight we're going to do something. But alongside the anger, there was something else. Pride. Voices shouted, Christopher Street belongs to the Queens. And in a sense, it did. At least Saturday evening. Crowds continued to return to Christopher Street for the next four days, demonstrating nearly each night in front of the Stonewall Inn. But once the dust had settled, it was clear that one era of gay rights activism was ending and another just beginning. Craig Rodwell quickly began circulating flyers stating that the Friday and Saturday night riots would go down in history as a turning point.

Rodwell also called for young people to take up the cause. Now was the time. They had momentum. But Rodwell's forward-looking rallying cry fell on deaf ears amongst older, more conservative segments of the gay community. The Stonewall demonstrations drove a generational wedge between the spirit of the youthful activists on Christopher Street and the cautious, assimilationist approach of groups like Mattachine and its overwhelmingly white leadership. Some Mattachine members had been out of town the weekend of the Stonewall demonstrations. They returned shocked and appalled. They scorned Stonewall, calling it a riot,

a regrettable action brought on by, in their own dismissive phrasing, a group of stoned, tacky queens. A Mattachine sign even appeared on the boarded-up façade of the Stonewall, pleading for peaceful and quiet conduct on the streets of the village. But Mattachine's appeal was too little too late. The wheels had already begun to turn. Young LGBTQ activists were energized by Stonewall, and they were impatient to directly confront oppressive traditions, even those of their own leaders.

And just one week later, at the National Gay Rights Demonstration in Philadelphia, movement leaders would witness the changing of the guard firsthand. Imagine it's the 4th of July, 1969. You're a young nurse from New York who's traveled down to Philadelphia with your girlfriend. The two of you don't make a big deal about your relationship. And up until today, you've never demonstrated before for anything. But now, in the sweltering heat, you've joined her and 50 other activists. The picket sign you're holding reads one word, opportunity. Your girlfriend Susan leans over and whispers to you,

So, does it feel weird, being out here? A little, but less weird than I thought it would be. I guess right now I'm just afraid that I might trip with all these people staring. Yeah, I think it's weird that people are staring at all. Eyes have all bugged out, like we're on fire or something. But you're not on fire. Your group isn't even chanting. No one's making any fuss. The whole purpose is just to be here, to be present as a gay person,

deserving of respect and equal treatment in the eyes of the law. At least that's how Susan described it. She's better at vocalizing her feelings than you are. You always get tongue-tied. But seeing her here, in her element, with a gay power button on her shirt dress, makes you fall in love all over again. And that's when you take your girlfriend's hand in yours. Hey, I'm not sure you should do that.

What do you mean? And that's when one of the girlfriend's hand in yours. Hey, I'm not sure you should do that. What do you mean? And that's when one of the group organizers, Dr. Kameny, comes rushing up. Hey, no, no, no, no, none of that. None of that now. He pulls your hands apart and ushers you both to the side. For once in her life, your girlfriend is too stunned to speak, but you find some words. Excuse me, are you trying to keep me from holding hands with my girlfriend

as we protest for equal rights? That's not the proper image we'd like to present here. Well, then what is the proper image? I'm holding a sign that says I'm gay. Holding hands seems like way less of a problem. There is a way we've done things up until now, and those methods have proven results. We're going to stick to them. No holding hands. By this point, a small group of demonstrators have gathered around you. One of the other members pulls Kameny away and starts to argue with him, leaving you alone with Susan. She's not upset.

She's smiling. Yeah, I don't think we need to worry about him. I think he's finding out that he's not hip anymore. He's upset. So let's hold hands and keep marching. The times were changing. As Frank Kameny pulled two women's hands apart during the annual reminder event, it was visual evidence that two generations of activists

had now emerged, and that the transition from one to the next might be a bumpy one. Frank Kameny was a former U.S. Army astronomer, turned civil rights pioneer. But his views on the movement had suddenly become too safe, too conservative. Kameny, who spent nearly a decade crafting and defining the goals of the gay rights movement, was now seen as hopelessly out of touch by a younger generation of activists. They felt new ideas were needed for the new decade to come.

A young activist named Carl Whitman presented the new philosophy of the movement in what he called a gay manifesto. In it, he wrote, we have pretended that everything is okay because we've been afraid. In the past year, there's been an awakening of gay liberation ideas and energy.

We are full of love for each other and we are showing it. We are full of anger at what has been done to us as we recall all the self-censorship and repression for so many years, and we are euphoric, high with the initial flourish of a movement. Whitman's manifesto was a rallying cry that reverberated through the younger members of the LGBTQ community. But 26-year-old Martha Shelley needed no convincing. Both Jewish and gay, Shelley already considered herself a double outsider. She later told an interviewer, it was very easy when the gay liberation movement came along to run around in a tie-dyed tank top and a pair of cut-off jeans and say, the hell with it. I didn't have to pretend to fit in anymore.

There was a whole movement that was supporting my not fitting in. Shelley was involved with the lesbian organization Daughters of Bilitis, but after Stonewall, she felt the group's tentative approach to activism was no longer enough. Just a few days after Frank Kameny scolded women for holding hands in public in Philadelphia, Martha Shelley spoke at a hastily organized gay power vigil in New York's Washington Square Park on July 31st. Shelley, underneath a lavender-colored banner, addressed a crowd of 500 gay men and lesbians. She told the crowd, The time has come for us to walk in the sunshine. Brothers and sisters, welcome to this city's first gay power vigil.

We are tired of being harassed and persecuted. If a straight couple can hold hands in Washington Square, why can't we? The crowd cheered in agreement. Marty Robinson, a 27-year-old carpenter with shaggy brown hair, took the stage next. He echoed Shelley's sentiment and added some words of warning for the world at large. He said, Gay power is no laugh. There are one million homosexuals in New York City. If we wanted to, we could boycott Bloomingdale's, and that store would be closed in two weeks. Let me tell you right now, we've got to get organized. From Washington Square, the crowd marched down the middle of 4th Street

to Sheridan Square, just across from the Stonewall Inn. It was the first openly gay march, not just in the city, but on the East Coast. Plenty of jaded New Yorkers stared, jaws dropped, as a column of people chanted gay power. At the end of their march, their point made for now. The crowd dispersed. For many, the day was a double achievement. Not only had gay people publicly demonstrated peacefully, but the number of demonstrators was bigger than anyone had hoped for.

By August of 1969, Martha Shelley would help form the Gay Liberation Front, or GLF, the first LGBTQ rights group not affiliated with Mattachine or the Daughters of Bilitis. Their slogan, openly gay 24 hours a day, inspired a radical shift of thought. They took ideas and strategies from the Black Panthers, as well as other anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist movements. The GLF saw social injustice linked to economic and class repression and sought to welcome lesbians and trans people alongside gay men. In a statement, the group announced it would create relations based on brotherhood, cooperation, human love, and uninhibited sexuality. It was a call that leapt far beyond the tentative goals of gay rights groups of the past.

Gay liberationists were committed to nothing less than a social revolution with no apologies. But despite the ambitious rhetoric, by March of 1970, little had actually changed on the ground. In the nine months since the Stonewall raid, New York police detective Seymour Pine still continued to target gay bars like the Zodiac and 17 Barrow Street. These raids culminated at a bar called the Snake Pit, an illegal after-hours club. Around 200 men were in the club when Pine and his officers arrived, and just like at Stonewall, the men did not disperse. Eager to avoid another explosive situation, Pine had 162 men arrested and sent to the 6th Precinct Station House for identification

checks. One of the men, Alfredo Diego Vinales, was a 23-year-old Argentinian with an expired visa. Waiting in line to be processed at the station house, Vinales grew was a 23-year-old Argentinian with an expired visa. Waiting in line to be processed at the station house, Vinales grew more and more afraid that he would be deported as a homosexual, a potential death sentence in his home country. So Vinales broke out of the line and bolted up a set of stairs. As the police chased after him, Vinales grew frantic and tried to escape by jumping from a window to an adjoining roof. He missed and was impaled on an iron fence below.

The next day, the New York Daily News published a front-page photograph of the grisly image. Coverage of the snake pit arrests and Vinales' gruesome injury echoed throughout the LGBTQ community. But the headlines also generated widespread attention in the straight community as well. To build on the public attention, the Gay Liberation Front was able to help coordinate a demonstration in Christopher Park. And with less than 12 hours' notice, over 500 people joined a protest march to the 6th Street station house and then to the hospital where Vinales had been taken. Most feared that Vinales would die from his injuries. But he survived, only to be charged with resisting arrest even as he waited for doctors to finish removing a piece of fence from his body. Vinales' injury became a symbol for the deadly stakes faced by all LGBTQ people.

As a handwritten flyer distributed the day after the arrest put it, any way you look at it, that boy was pushed. We are all being pushed. The Gay Liberation Front's impromptu demonstration, buoyed by sympathetic coverage of Vinales' injury in New York papers, proved just how fast the LGBTQ community could mobilize. In the nine months since Stonewall, a new, open activism had burst onto the scene. But the movement was about to push for even bigger change and take their cause to the highest levels of power in New York. This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area.

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Join Wondery in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. By 1970, the energy of the Gay Liberation Front echoed throughout the country. Local chapters sprang up, formed by young, brash activists. They sought to prove that LGBTQ freedom was intertwined with the Black Civil Rights Movement, the anti-war movement, and toppling Western imperialism. But in New York, GLF meetings had become fractured along lines of gender and race, and even political goals. With so many competing points of focus, meetings were unstructured and often chaotic.

Martha Shelley later recalled, We got involved in endless debates about what we should do and what our relationship was to other organizations. I think we just talked ourselves to death. Meanwhile, another activist group, the Gay Activists Alliance, had become a counterpoint. Formed in late 1969, the GAA functioned in much the same fashion as the GLF. They both held community dances to raise money and provide safe spaces for LGBTQ people who didn't want to go to gay bars. Members crossed back and forth between the two groups. Meetings were open to anyone who wished to join. The GAA's approach to activism was more straightforward.

The advancement of LGBTQ rights through nonviolent direct action. GAA co-founder Arthur Evans explains the rationale. He said, I become very suspicious of abstract political rhetoric. I've been heavily influenced by Marxist and anarchist thinking, but I felt that in our movement, we had to start with experiential confrontations first. The really revolutionary thing is people on the street acting in that dramatic context. Let's set up the stage so that the right events happen. This message of direct action appealed to Sylvia Rivera. She was then 19 years old and still involved with sex work. She'd had some troubles with drugs, and she lived

on the streets when she couldn't keep a room of her own. But in the spring of 1970, she saw a magazine on a newsstand called Gay Power and was floored. Flipping through the pages of one of the first nationally distributed gay magazines, Rivera realized that something really had changed. That same day, she ran into her friend Marsha P. Johnson, a friend and fellow sex worker, who told Rivera that she should get involved with the Gay Activists Alliance. But at her first GAA meeting, Rivera, a trans-feminine person of Puerto Rican descent, was greeted with stares and odd looks by the young, mostly white, mostly middle-class members.

Despite the GAA's message of inclusiveness, one of the group's founders would later say, The general membership is frightened of Sylvia and thinks she's a troublemaker. They're frightened by street people. But despite feeling rejected, Rivera stuck it out. She kept returning to meetings, forcing GAA members to engage with her, whether they liked it or not. She spoke passionately to her fellow sex workers, too, urging them to join the movement as well. And she jumped into political actions with abandon. While collecting signatures in Times Square for a gay rights petition, Rivera was arrested by New York tactical police,

who were sweeping up anti-war protesters just one block away. Rivera was charged with disorderly conduct, unlawful assembly, and in her recollection, creating a riot. She managed to post a $50 bail out of her own pocket, but she still had to fight her charges through the court system. Members of the GAA and GLF rallied to Rivera's defense, helping her with court costs and legal representation. The charges would eventually be dropped. Heartened by this unexpected show of support, Rivera would continue to stay involved. Meanwhile, the GAA pushed for a public stand of support from New York's mayor, John Lindsay.

They wanted the mayor to embrace the cause of LGBTQ equal rights and to publicly admit discriminatory practices by the city. But Lindsay, who'd only just been newly re-elected with support from gay voters, was suddenly nowhere to be found. Repeated attempts to contact the mayor produced little more than vague replies from his staff along the lines of, we'll get back to you. And a coordinated demonstration at City Hall in March 1970 was met with barricades and police on horseback.

It became clear to activists that even though Lindsay was happy to receive the LGBTQ vote, he had no interest in actively engaging with those same voters. So to be effective, GAA demonstrators had to be more than just signs and marches. For them, it was time to try a different tactic. GAA founder Arthur Evans explained his new direction, saying, There was no division for us between the political and the personal. So we decided that the people on the other side of the power structure were going to have the same thing happen to them. In effect, we would disrupt Mayor Lindsay's personal life. Every time he appeared in public, we would make life as uncomfortable for him as we could and remind him of the reason why. This form of active political disruption would become known

as a zap. The first zap happened April 13, 1970, as Mayor Lindsay was giving a commemoration speech on the vast front steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As the mayor spoke, no one in the crowd noticed Marty Robinson, dressed in a baseball jacket, slowly making his way up the stairs towards the microphone. When he got close enough, Robinson interrupted the mayor's speech, asking when he would finally speak out on gay rights. Robinson was, of course, rushed away by Lindsay's bodyguards, but inside the museum, the zap would continue. GAA members had scattered themselves throughout the crowd.

As Mayor Lindsay toured the museum, they randomly confronted him with flyers, asking what he'd done to improve the rights of gay people. And then, in the receiving line at the end of the tour, Lindsay was challenged by a GAA member who shook his hand and wouldn't let go. You have our leaflet. Now, when in the hell are you going to speak to homosexuals? During every confrontation, Lindsay stayed silent and waited for his security guards to haul the person off. But the GAA had made their point.

They brought their politics into Lindsay's everyday life. Mayor Lindsay didn't publicly comment on the group's had made their point. They brought their politics into Lindsay's everyday life. Mayor Lindsay didn't publicly comment on the group's issues or their tactics. But if the mayor thought he was off the hook after this one event, he was wrong. Imagine it's spring 1970. You're an aide to New York Mayor John Lindsay, and lately you've been tasked with helping run his weekly television talk show at WNEW Studios. It was a new idea to have a city's mayor appear on TV in a question-and-answer format with a host, but so far it's been a good one.

The mayor is sharp and funny, and he has a face for television. The show's been popular, and it's been running smoothly for three years. You head into the studio to see if they need any help checking in the last of the audience members. But by the time you get there, the line in the hallway has dwindled to just one person. You stand between him and the door. Then you notice something. Excuse me, I've seen you somewhere before. The man is wearing jeans and a plaid shirt.

He looks like a student, but too old to be in college. Yes, you have. My name's Arthur, and I'm with the Gay be in college. Yes, you have. My name's Arthur, and I'm with the Gay Activists Alliance. Ah, you were at the Met. At Mayor Lindsay's speech, you were in the handshake line. That's right. We were trying to have a word with the mayor. Is your group here as well? But Arthur answers your question with a question. Why haven't we heard from you? From Mayor Lindsay's office. We're his constituents, and we could use the mayor's help with a pretty big problem we're facing. Behind you, a studio tech gives warning that the show's live in two minutes.

You begin to panic. What should you do, throw him out? But for what? He's done nothing but be polite and ask questions. No, you'll just be accused of discrimination. As all of these thoughts rush through your head, the man breezes right past you. Excuse me, I'm going to grab my seat. I can't wait to hear what Mayor Lindsay has to say today.

You rush off to warn the mayor, and security too. If the studio audience is full of gay rights activists, who knows what kind of stunt they're going to try and pull. You tried to warn the mayor he couldn't ignore this group forever, but he didn't listen. And now, he's going to have to pay the mayor he couldn't ignore this group forever, but he didn't listen. And now, he's going to have to pay the price in public. The Gay Activists Alliance had written in advance for tickets to Mayor Lindsay's TV show taping. Around 40 GAA members were scattered throughout the

audience. As the cameras rolled, Lindsay looked visibly nervous. Five minutes later, in the middle of a discussion on ecology, Arthur Evans burst from his seat shouting, Homosexuals want an end to job discrimination. Another GAA member in the audience shouted, Yes, let that man speak. Before the security guards could intervene, GAA members in seats all across the studio were stomping their feet, chanting, Answer the question.

Evans was hustled out of the studio, but as taping resumed, GAA members throughout the crowd kept interrupting. When Lindsay's guests spoke about what to do with abandoned cars in the city, one of the GAA members shouted out, What about abandoned homosexuals? When Lindsay replied to a question about street congestion, saying, If you're stuck in a traffic jam, it's illegal to blow your horn, another voice from the audience called out, It's illegal in New York to blow anything. The zap at WNEW resulted in a hastily scheduled meeting at the mayor's office.

And although the press arrived to cover it, it became clear that Mayor Lindsay was still not going to make any public statements in support of LGBTQ rights. But thanks to Zapp's and other active confrontations, public exposure to LGBTQ issues was at an all-time high by the spring of 1970. When a member of the New York City Marriage Bureau made public statements against homosexuality, his office was occupied by the GAA. Activists took over the phones, telling all callers that the office was now only issuing same-sex marriage license. Some GAA activists applied the ZAP tactic to other

feminist causes. Another occupation, this time at the Ladies' Home Journal, involved a group of over 100 women who took over the magazine's offices with the goal of liberating the so-called women's magazine from its male editor-in-chief. The protesters pointed out that the few women who did work for the journal were underpaid and that there were no black women working there at all. Carla Jay, a 23-year-old lesbian activist, joined with members of the National Organization for Women, or NOW, for the occupation. But her own feelings about combining lesbian activism with straight feminist activism were mixed. After the demonstration, she wrote, what good had we actually done? Aside from the publicity, which might awaken

middle America to the magazine's hypocrisy and lies, we had succeeded only in getting vassar girls higher-paying jobs in publishing. So Jay would help go on to stage a far more effective zap against the National Organization for Women, after its founder made anti-gay statements. Betty Friedan, now's leader and herself a feminist activist, had dismissively referred to lesbians as a lavender menace. Friedan prevented lesbian groups like the Daughters of Bilitis from joining now, worried that lesbians would give the broader public the wrong idea of what feminism was. But Friedan was about to find out very clearly what a ZAP was. It came as much of a surprise to Friedan was about to find out very clearly what a zap was.

It came as much of a surprise to Friedan as anyone when on the first evening of the organization's second annual conference, all the lights in the auditorium mysteriously went dark. The assembled audience of 300 people heard shouts and hoots and the sound of people running down the aisles. When the lights came back on, the aisles were lined with women wearing t-shirts that read, Lavender Menace, shouting, we're tired of being in the closet because of the women's movement. Who wants to join us? Many in the audience that night did. The Lavender Menace would go on to become the first post-Stonewall group to center lesbian issues. But as Zaps were helping raise the profile of gay and lesbian causes,

ideological and personal rifts were forming among the activists. Men were shouting down women at GLF meetings. And despite a public message of inclusiveness, these new so-called radical groups were still addressing predominantly white, middle-class concerns. They were still failing to address the needs of transgender people, activists who had been on the front lines at Stonewall. It was clear that following Stonewall, everything and nothing had changed. As the LGBTQ rights movement faced a new decade, trans activists would push the movement to live up to its radical rhetoric. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now, the show where aspiring entrepreneurs

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between FDR and Winston Churchill as they make plans to defeat Nazi forces in 1941. And you'll be in the Situation Room when President Barack Obama approves the raid to bring down the most infamous terrorist in American history. Order The Hidden History of the White House now in hardcover or digital edition, wherever you get your books. By June 1970, Craig Rodwell was putting the finishing touches on a demonstration he felt could bring the different factions of the LGBTQ rights movement together. It was a simple idea, a parade, to celebrate the one-year anniversary of the Stonewall Uprising. Rodwell was calling it the Liberation Day March. But he still had to go through the proper channels

if the march was going to happen at all. The Gay Liberation Front and the Gay Activists Alliance both held fundraisers. Rodwell himself brought in additional money by asking customers at his bookstore for donations. It took some convincing, but eventually even Mattachine and the Daughters of Bilitis signed on. Little by little, Rodwell and the organizers raised the thousand dollars that it took to throw a parade in New York. But on the eve of the march, Rodwell's simple idea kept him up all night with worry. Public demonstrations across the country were drawing a violent response from the government and the police. Just the month before, on May 4th, four students had been shot to death by the National Guard at Kent State University. Less than a week later, a group of young anti-war demonstrators on Wall Street had been attacked by roughly 200 unionized construction workers. Seventy people were injured as construction

workers, many of them carrying American flags and pro-war placards, fought students in the street. It was called the Hard Hat Riot, and it was this specter of violent retribution that haunted Craig Rodwell, along with many other activists. Even though the Liberation Day march wasn't explicitly about the war in Vietnam, it was clear that a demonstration on this scale, of any kind, could very well end in violence. But the Liberation Day march was a success. Thousands of LGBTQ people and their allies marched 51 city blocks from Greenwich Village to Sheep Meadow and Central Park. More importantly, no one attacked them. Although many curiosity seekers turned out to watch from the sidewalks, the marchers faced little open animosity. GAA activist and co-founder Marty Robinson was quoted in the New York Times saying,

We've never had a demonstration like this. It serves notice to every politician in the nation that we're not going to hide anymore. We won't be harassed and degraded anymore. Michael Brown from the GLF agreed, saying, This march is an affirmation and declaration of our new pride. When Craig Rodwell arrived in Central Park at the end of the march, he had a broad smile on his face, surrounded by thousands of fellow friends and compatriots. They were all there around him. And friends and compatriots. They were all

there around him. And at least for the moment, they were all together. But for Sylvia Rivera, the Liberation Day march only emphasized her mixed feelings about political involvement. On the one hand, it was good that the march had happened. But on the other, she still felt excluded from goals the march had been trying to achieve. The leaders was good that the march had happened. But on the other, she still felt excluded from goals the march had been trying to achieve. The leaders and faces in the march were mostly white. They were mostly concerned with engaging with white politicians and the middle-class status quo. None of these people considered the issues facing people who lived on the streets, or people of color, or people of any sort who didn't fit into conventional paradigms.

Rivera's world looked nothing like the meetings she returned to again and again with the GAA and the GLF. Some lesbians even attacked her identity directly, arguing that trans women were not really women and so they shouldn't be allowed to join in lesbian organizing. In the face of this transphobia, however, Rivera would always reply forcefully. She felt most comfortable in women's clothing, in women's makeup. Labels were not her concern. What mattered to her was fighting for liberation. So despite the antagonism she faced, Sylvia continued to stay active. In the fall of 1970, she and Marsha P. Johnson took part in a political act that would have far-reaching

implications. When New York University suddenly put an end to hosting gay social functions, a call went out to occupy Weinstein Hall, a building near Washington Square Park. The university's administration had closed its facilities to gay students until a panel of ministers and psychologists determined whether homosexuality was morally acceptable. In response, for five days, students and activists peacefully occupied the building, holding teach-ins for the public about gay rights. Rivera, Johnson, and other trans activists took part in this occupation, and over the five days, some of

the tension dissipated as Rivera and Johnson, bedding down in the same space as cis-lesbian activists, engaged in frank and personal dialogue. One of the occupiers described it later, saying, We started mixing together and really started getting along very well. All kinds of us were together. Trans people, middle class people, people used to passing for straight, blacks, whites, Latinos, street people, students. A lot of barriers and fears were broken down. But on the fifth day, New York City police arrived to forcibly evict the students and activists. Rivera resisted and had to be carried out. But she had come away from the occupation with a new idea.

She would start an organization of her own. By the fall of 1970, Sylvia Rivera had formed a community organization that could finally address the issues facing young, often homeless sex workers. In other words, people like her. She called it STAR, which stood for Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries. Its goal was first to provide housing for homeless LGBTQ people. Rivera approached Marsha P. Johnson and asked her if she'd like to be president of this new group, but Johnson declined, telling Rivera that she should have the job, saying,

You stay on one thought when you speak. I go off in all directions. You'll be the president. I'll be vice president. The two began the organization out of the back of an abandoned trailer truck. Gathering around two dozen sex workers and friends from the street, Rivera and Johnson laid out some ground rules. Star members could sleep in the trailer whenever they wanted. Rivera later recalled, Marsha and I would go out and hustle. We'd pick up breakfast and whatnot for the kids. We would tell them, if you don't want to go out there and sell your body, don't do it.

But if you want to, whatever you get, you got to remember to push back into helping all of us. Soon, enough money was raised that Rivera was able to move Star into a four-bedroom apartment in the East Village. She called the apartment Star House. With Rivera acting as a kind of den mother, Star House took in whoever needed a place to stay, teaching them how to cook and holding dances to raise money. Star proved to be ahead of its time. Without open support from any traditional LGBTQ groups, Rivera, Johnson, and other volunteers created a much-needed shelter for underage and adult trans people. Star House offered a simple respite from the dangers of homelessness, sex work, and societal rejection. Rivera described the apartment.

It was only four rooms, and the landlord had turned the electricity off, so we lived there by candlelight, a floating bunch of 15 to 25 queens, cramped in those rooms with all our wardrobe. But it worked. We'd cook up these big spaghetti dinners, and sometimes we'd have sausage for breakfast if we were feeling rich. The tenants came and went. Rivera explained, Some of them went to the streets. We lost them. But we tried to do the best we could for them. Star engaged in active campaigns as well, teaming up with members of the GAA, GLF, and Latino civil rights group the Young Lords. STAR members also marched at the New York Statehouse in Albany

and campaigned to raise awareness of abuses in the state's prison and judicial system, a cause dear to STAR activists. Without ability to post bail or acquire legal counsel, those with extensive records of minor infractions like Starr members often remained in prison for years awaiting adjudication. Marsha P. Johnson herself had pled guilty to charges of prostitution. In her mind, a 30-day sentence and a guilty charge on her record was still better than being imprisoned indefinitely while waiting to plead not guilty. But the immense challenges facing Rivera,

Johnson, and the members of Star House would prove to be too great. Fundraising efforts had borne little fruit, and in the summer of 1971, they faced eviction by their landlord after falling three months behind in rent. Rivera turned to the members of the GAA for help. Imagine it's July 1971. You're one of the few remaining members of Star House. Since the eviction notice was posted, nearly everyone living in the house is scattered. But this morning, Sylvia sent you to the GAA offices on a mission. But when you arrive, after rushing up the stairs and into the GAA's main hallway, you're surprised to find no one around. Hello? Anyone here? Your voice just echoes in the hallway.

Usually, the offices are buzzing with activity, but today, they've gone quiet. Anyone here? Then, one of the GAA members appears in a doorway. Oh, hi. It's nice to see you. Well, I gotta tell you, it's not so nice to be me today. I want to tell you what. I came by to check on the donation box Sylvia left here a few days ago. Sure, sure. Yeah. We left the box on the front table over there, just like she asked. Oh, good. Okay. I've been running all over the city trying to put some money together. Every little bit helps,

you know. They're going to throw us out of Star House if we don't pay them by tomorrow. Yes, I'm sorry to hear that. You've been doing such great work over there. But the GAA member's face is pinched. There's a halting, nervous tone in his voice. Still, ever hopeful, you walk over to the donation box. Give it a little shake. Oh, dear.

Doesn't feel like there's much here. No, I'm sorry. I know there was a big meeting here last night. I couldn't make it myself, but I know you had a meeting. I was hoping that maybe a few of your people could have helped us out a little bit. Just then, another GAA member emerges, cautiously into the hallway. You turn to her with a donation box in your hand. Do you want to give some money to help Starhouse? They're going to put us out in the street. Street transvestite action revolutionaries. We need $900, honey.

It can start with you. Make a revolutionary donation. But she doesn't respond. You realize that now several GAA members have all silently come out of their offices. They're looking at you, staring at you. Their faces are blank, like? Or you, miss? Hey, I've got an idea. We could work out a loan situation, right?

Think about it. A Gay Activist Alliance loan. Yeah. We discussed that with Sylvia the other day. We all talked about it. We'd love to help you out with the money, but the GAA is not in the business of giving loans. But you could start getting in the business, like right now, and I think it's a fine idea. I do.

The banks do it all the time. But we're not a bank, and it's a dangerous precedent. What if we give money to Star House, but we didn't give money to someone else? Then we'd be playing favors. But that's all I'm asking for, a favor. Aren't you all supposed to be queer activists? It's just not possible. Maybe leave the donation box out for a few more weeks. We don't have a few more weeks. I'm going to take this donation box and I'm going to hit the streets. I'd have better luck at the waterfront than here. So thanks for your time and your generous help. You used to cry about things like this,

but that was a long time ago. Now you've toughened up. You've had to be tough. Survival is different from marches and demonstrations and meetings. Survival is about having food to eat and a place to sleep. You emerge onto the streets of New York. It's a beautiful day, but it could all change in a second. It could all get worse out on the street, but you're going to keep pushing. If those people won't listen, you'll just have to find someone who will. Despite the efforts of the Star House members, they were unable to collect the rent, and the building's landlord evicted them. But Sylvia Rivera didn't let the loss of Star House dissuade her.

There still needed to be an open conversation about the needs of disadvantaged people, and she was one of the few who clung to the cause. By June of 1973, the Gay Activists Alliance and other gay rights groups had distanced themselves politically from the trans members of their community. But at the third annual Christopher Street Liberation Day march, Rivera decided she was tired of being ignored. Insisting on being heard amidst the raft of mainstream gay speakers that day, Rivera rushed the stage and took hold of the microphone. She was greeted with a chorus of boos and jeers from the gay activist audience, but she responded forcefully, saying, y'all better quiet down. I've been trying to get up here all day for your gay brothers and your gay

sisters in jail. They write me every week, asking for your help, and you don't do a thing for them. The audience did quiet down as Rivera continued, speaking about how she had been raped in jail, how she had been beaten, lost her job and her apartment, and how all that time she had been fighting for gay liberation. But where, she how all that time she'd been fighting for gay liberation. But where, she asked, had the gay rights movement been for her and for her trans brothers and sisters who were not part of, as Rivera put it, a white middle-class club? This indictment was damning, and her words echoed through the crowd. She continued, I believe in the gay power. I believe in us getting our rights, or else I would not be

out there fighting for our rights. Rivera ended with a call for revolution and gay power as the crowd cheered her on, and her call for true solidarity would reverberate in the years that followed. In the coming decades, LGBTQ activists would continue the struggle to advance civil rights in their communities and across the nation. Political engagement would not always be easy, and even today, the movement struggles to ensure that LGBTQ people of all races, gender identities, and class backgrounds benefit from the civil rights gains that have been made. LGBTQ people continue to face unequal access to housing, employment, and health care. Transgender people, in particular, report mistreatment at the hands of police. Their fight for equality continues. Up until the end of her life in 2002, Sylvia Rivera remained a steadfast advocate for LGBTQ youth.

Marsha P. Johnson continued her activist work, helping to fight the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s. But in 1992, her body was found floating in the Hudson River. Craig Rodwell, too, stayed active in LGBTQ organizing. He continued to run the Oscar Wilde bookstore on Christopher Street until his death in 1993. And although the Manichean Society effectively came to an end after the Stonewall raids, Dick Leisch would remain a voice in the movement until his death in 2018. As for the Stonewall Inn itself, the bar lasted only three months after the police raid in 1969.

After a successful boycott by the LGBTQ community, the bar's mafia owners were forced to give up the lease. Over the next decades, the bar changed hands several times. Today, the Stonewall endures as a bar and restaurant, but also a living monument for the struggle for equal rights. A struggle that continues to this day. From Wondery, this is episode four of Stonewall from American History Tellers.

On the next episode, I speak with Eric Marcus, author of the book Making Gay History, and the founder and host of book Making Gay History, and the founder and host of the Making Gay History podcast. We discuss the people who were instrumental to the LGBTQ movement before, during, and after Stonewall, and how the significance of those events are still felt today. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Molly Pott. Sound design by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by George Ducker, edited by Doreen Marina.

Special thanks to Sylveon Consulting for serving as an advisor on this series. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondering. Thank you. It's time to book your rendezvous with Paris starting at $749 or Barcelona starting at $859 return from Toronto tax included. You can enjoy a glass of champagne however you fly, economy included. Elegance is a journey. Air France. Travel from November 1st to December 14th, 2024 and from January 8th to April 30th, 2025. See conditions at airfrance.ca.