American History Tellers - Stonewall | Turbulence | 2

Episode Date: June 24, 2020

As the 1960s dawned, LGBTQ activists began to voice frustration with the gradual approach to civil rights advocated by groups like the Mattachine Society. If LGBTQ people wanted to make real progress, they concluded, they would need to take direct action — starting with tactics shared with the Black civil rights movement. Through protests and sit-ins in places like New York, Washington DC, and San Francisco, LGBTQ activists started agitating for greater rights. They would tackle employment discrimination along with the widespread issues of police harassment, abuse, and entrapment, which targeted LGBTQ people nationwide. But as white gay activists pushed for acceptance by a white, middle-class American majority, transgender activists and people color faced even greater challenges related to their race and gender identity. They would respond by forging their own communities and strategies to protect themselves from harassment and violence. 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 includes sexual situations and violence and may not be suitable for all listeners. Imagine it's January 1958 in Washington, D.C. You're a 32-year-old astronomer with U.S. Army Map Service, just back from assignment in Hawaii. You miss the warm night breezes, looking up at the stars through a high-powered telescope. For you, mapping the constellations was almost a spiritual experience.

But now the capital feels colder than ever, like the chill has seeped inside the very elevator you're standing in. You feel a shiver run up your back. Hello, my name's Franklin Kameny. I was told to be here at 9.30. The receptionist looks up and smiles faintly. You were called to report to the Civil Service Administration Building, but you have no idea why. She stands and ushers you inside the small windowless office. The sign outside with the

word INVESTIGATOR doesn't make you feel any better about this meeting. Inside the office, a man in a dark gray suit stares at you narrowly from behind a spare desk. Take a seat. Shut the door, please. Sure. Can I ask what this is about? This office asked you to return from assignment last week, yet you decided to stay in Hawaii four extra days. Well, yeah, that's correct. The project wasn't done there yet, and the phone call I received was a little vague. I didn't see any need to cancel my study before it was complete. The investigator just stares at you, his head slightly tilted, so you break the silence. As you can see, I didn't stick around to work on my tan. We have information that leads us to believe that you are a homosexual.

Do you have any comment? You're stunned by the question, but more than anything, you feel it's ridiculous. You thrust your chin up. Best not to show any emotion if you can help it. Can I ask where you received this information? We can't tell you. Well, I can't give an intelligent answer until I understand what precisely I'm being accused of. At present, you're not being accused of anything. It's a simple question.

I'm afraid it's not. You lean back in your chair, head spinning. Sure, you've never hid the fact that you were gay from your co-workers. But your world is the world of science, of empiricism. No one ever really asked, and you never came right out and said so either. The question only becomes difficult if you can't answer it. It's not a question that I feel required to answer. It's actually none of your business.

I'm telling you right now, it is. Failure to answer this question will only damage your case even more. My case? What case? How can I defend myself if I don't know what I'm being charged with? Mr. Kameny, I'm sure you understand that security is our highest priority. We have to maintain rigorous standards. Pending a board review, I'm going to have to ask that you stand down from any further duties. So you're firing me? We'll let you know our conclusions.

Thank you for your time, if you'll excuse me. And as if on cue, a young man arrives to escort you down the hall. He must be here to keep you from making a scene. Before you leave the office, you turn to the investigator. What you are doing is discrimination, but the investigator isn't listening. Walking out into the reception area, you can feel people's eyes on you. Do they know? Where are you going to find another job? Your only training is in observational astronomy. The only jobs in that field are with the government.

You head to the elevators and press a button, not turning around. You're so angry you feel tears rising in the back of your throat, but you force them down. You're not going to cry. You're going to fight this. But how? How do you fight when an entire institution is against you. Have you ever wondered who created that bottle of sriracha that's living in your fridge? Or why nearly every house in America has at least one game of Monopoly? Introducing The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast about the surprising origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now, where aspiring entrepreneurs get 90 seconds to pitch to an audience of potential customers. If the audience liked the product, they pitched them in front of our panel of experts, Gwyneth Paltrow, Anthony Anderson, Tabitha Brown, Tony Hawk. Oh my God.

Buy It Now. Stream free on Freeview and Prime Video. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history. Your story. Frank Kameny's dismissal over his sexuality was just one of the many cases of discrimination against LGBTQ people in the American workplace during the late 1950s. But in Kameny's case, it forced him to take action. As the 1960s dawned, Kemeny and other activists would come to believe that the evolutionary approach advocated by the homophile movement was falling short. If gay

people wanted to make real progress, they concluded, they would need to take direct action. They would share nonviolent tactics with the Black civil rights movement. In places like New York, Washington, D.C., and San Francisco, LGBTQ activists would start agitating for greater rights. They would have to confront attitudes amongst the clergy, who overwhelmingly viewed homosexuality as a cardinal sin, and they would tackle the widespread issues of police harassment, abuse, and entrapment, which targeted LGBTQ people nationwide. But the success of these efforts continued to depend on earning the approval of white, middle-class, heterosexual Americans, as white, middle-class gay activists focus on proving their respectability to the mainstream majority. This narrow approach to

progress excluded LGBTQ people who also faced discrimination related to their race, class, or gender identity. As organizations like Mattachine and the homophile movement marched down the middle, those left behind would forge their own activist communities, tactics, and strategies, and fight their own battles for acceptance against even greater forces. 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. This is Episode 2, Turbulence.

In 1958, Frank Kameny was fired from his job as an astronomer in the U.S. Army Map Service. With his Ph.D. from Harvard and several years' experience, Kameny was uniquely qualified, but only for a highly specialized career path. He couldn't just go out and find himself another astronomy job. After consulting with a lawyer, Kameny learned he could petition the Supreme Court over his dismissal. As a scientist, he took a strictly logical approach while writing the petition, building a chain of reasoning the way a researcher would formulate a thesis. In Kameny's words, his dismissal on the grounds of immorality was

incorrect, writing, Morality is a matter of personal opinion and individual belief upon which the government has no power. The homosexuals in this country are no longer willing to accept their present status as second-class citizens and as second-class human beings. They are neither. Despite Kameny's careful reasoning, the Supreme Court denied his petition. But by this time, Kameny had learned about the efforts of a gay society called Mattachine, and he asked the New York branch to let him start a chapter in Washington, D.C. But what Kameny discovered was a tiny movement, splintered by infighting. In 1961, 11 years after

the Mattachine Society was founded, and six years after the beginnings of lesbian group Daughters of Bilitis, their combined national membership still numbered less than 400 people. Members were also divided about how or whether the organization should get involved in more direct political action. Some, especially white professionals, worried what exposure through political organizing might mean for their careers and personal lives. At best, there was a sense of ambivalence about whether direct political action could actually find any footing. Manicheen member and One Magazine writer Jim Kepner recalled negative reactions from gay friends when he would invite them to meetings, saying, If you mentioned organizing, they'd say that society hated us and always would, and that

you couldn't change things. Frank Kemeny wanted to use his D.C. chapter to push the homophile movement in a more political direction. In his mind, gay people needed to be standing up and demanding full equality. Kameny looked to the non-violent sit-ins and protest marches of the Black Civil Rights Movement and its most prominent leader, Martin Luther King Jr. In 1963, Kameny and five other Mattachine members attended the March on Washington as a quarter million African Americans demanded civil rights legislation, job training, and school desegregation. Looking around the crowded mall, one of the Mattachine members

wondered aloud, why aren't we having civil rights marches too? The March on Washington had been organized by King's Chief Lieutenant Bayard Rustin, an openly gay black man who worked behind the scenes of the Civil Rights Movement because his sexuality was considered a public relations liability. In 1953, Rustin had been arrested on charges of lewd conduct and vagrancy after he was found in a parked car with two white men following a speech he gave in Pasadena, California. He was sentenced to two months in jail and forced to register as a sex offender. Nevertheless, Rustin went on to play a critical role in the civil rights movement, helping create the Southern Christian Leadership Conference

and introducing Dr. King to Mahatma Gandhi's teachings of nonviolent resistance. Kemeny felt gay people should be demonstrating in the same manner, peacefully but forcibly. In a 1964 speech, he argued that unless the homophile movement adopted the vigorous civil liberties, social action approach of civil rights leaders, we will accomplish nothing of lasting value, and our job will go on literally without end. And even though this notion of direct political action

was too radical for many in Manichean, a young woman named Barbara Giddings agreed with it. Giddings had grown up in Philadelphia in the early 50s, where she would often hitchhike to New York City. Like many women, Giddings went to gay bars in the city, because there was nowhere else she could meet lesbians like herself. But even there, she remembered, she didn't fit in. In those days, there were two types of women in gay bars. The so-called butch ones in short hair and masculine attire, and the so-called femme ones in dresses and makeup.

I felt like there was no real place for me in straight culture, but the gay bar culture wasn't the place for me either. At the age of 25, Giddings arrived on the West Coast and quickly became involved with the Daughters of Bilitis, or DOB. She found the organization's name silly and unpronounceable, and she felt that their politics were far too conservative. But still, she signed up to work on the DOB magazine, The Ladder, and soon took over as editor. But while The Ladder was mostly concerned with lesbians working to fit in within straight society, Giddings pushed for a more

progressive tone. Lesbians, she felt, were very much their own people, with their own concerns. Straight society should have to make room for them, not the other way around. By the mid-60s, she had helped form a chapter of the DOB in New York City. It was around this time that she met Frank Kameny. The two shared a philosophy of progressive action and a commitment to educating the public about issues affecting the gay community. But with even the word homosexual considered unfit to print, Kameny and Giddings would have to convince the world that gay, in fact, was good. Imagine it's April 17th, 1965. You're a young woman demonstrating in front of the White House in Washington, D.C. You and around 30 other gay activists walk in a broad oval, one behind the other, each one of you holding up a sign.

Sexual preference is irrelevant to federal employment. You'd be the first to admit it's tough marching in a skirt and dress heels, but it's also thrilling. This feeling of nervous empowerment that comes over you, being openly gay in front of passersby. You've had a lot of experiences in your life, but this has to be a first. The civil service is un-American. Some of the passersby are curious. They take photographs, but others don't hide their looks of shock and revulsion. Many cross the street rather than get too close to you. But they won't have to worry long because the protest is over. You're taking apart your sign when a young man in a blue polo shirt approaches you.

Ah, looks like I missed all the fun. Well, here. You hand him a flyer. It's a Mattachine pamphlet, printed especially for this occasion. The young man looks at the flyer. Federal discrimination against gay people. That's right. You gesture to your sign.

He looks at it, and then back at you, a little confused. But you're not a queer. Oh, yes, I am. Get out of here. Your head organizer, Frank, is now flashing you a look from across the way. What's going on here, he's asking. I'm here to raise awareness about the situation with gay women in this country. Well, yeah, I read this sign. He shakes his head again. Listen, do you live around here? No, I don't. I live in New York. Well, hey, I get to New York all the time. Maybe when this is over, you'd like to get together, have a drink? I'm afraid I can't.

He's still smiling. He reminds you of those boys in high school he used to follow you home from the bus stop. You don't like the feelings he's bringing back, nor how the hair on the back of your neck is beginning to stand up. But he's still talking. Come on, you're too good looking to be a lesbian. You pick up your sign, start to move away from him, but he's blocking you now. And he stops smiling. Didn't you hear what I said? I'm giving you a compliment. For a split second, you're afraid. He's much bigger than you, stronger. You've seen

that look of anger in other people's eyes before, and it's terrifying. But then you remember you're here with your friends, your own gang. You don't have to take this from him. No, that's not a compliment. It's an insult. Sexuality can't be turned on and off. We're not goddamn faucets. Now, excuse me. I have to get back. And with that, you turn, not looking over your shoulder, walking towards the other protesters, your friends, your people. Clearly, it's going to take a long time to change some people's minds, but at least you're trying. And finally, you're not alone. By the summer of 1965, momentum was growing. Three different gay rights demonstrations hit the nation's capital and Philadelphia.

The protests weren't large, just 20 to 50 people, but they were groundbreaking all the same. The sight of an openly gay man or woman parading with signs in public shocked some onlookers. Tourists snapped pictures. But the activists had done their best to appear as unassuming as possible. The men wore jackets and ties. The women wore skirts, dresses, and high heels. If you're asking for equal employment rights, look employable, Kameny had directed. So they dressed apart, but carried signs calling for equal rights and protesting discrimination in the workplace. As Barbara Giddings later said, the goal was to keep attention on the message, not on ourselves. We had to look unexceptional and blend into the landscape. But unexceptional in this context also often meant white.

That, along with policies like requiring protesters to wear clothing reflecting the sex they were assigned at birth, left out a wide swath of the LGBTQ community. Despite Kameny's professed desire to shake things up, Mattachine continued to serve mainly white, gay membership. The last of the demonstrations that summer took place in Philadelphia, in front of Independence Hall, where the nation's founders had drafted the Constitution and finalized the Declaration of Independence. It would be called the Annual Reminder, a reminder for Americans

that gay people still didn't have basic rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Across the country, smaller, separate organizations and networks had also been forming in the trans community. Today, we generally use transgender as an umbrella term to refer to people who identify with a sex other than the one they were assigned at birth. Some transgender people identify as male, some as female, and some, who today might be referred to as non-binary, don't identify as either gender. Transgender people might take hormones to align their bodies with their gender identity or choose to undergo surgery, but some don't. Historically, though, the definition of transgender was less clear-cut. People who chose to undergo surgeries were sometimes referred to

as transsexual, a term many consider offensive today. And transvestite was sometimes applied to people, such as straight men who wore women's clothing, or cross-dressers, who might not use that term today. But their stories help point to how transgender people began to build a social identity within the broader LGBTQ movement. By the late 1940s, Louise Lawrence had begun building her own informal network for transgender people in Northern California. Assigned male at birth, Lawrence had been dressing in women's clothing for most of her life, but was only too aware of the peril she faced in doing so. Municipal laws throughout California and across the country made it illegal for people to appear in public in a dress not belonging to his or her sex. Lawrence would place ads in magazines and newspapers,

asking for those who'd been arrested for public cross-dressing to write letters to her. These kinds of correspondence networks were able to help people with problems involving birth certificates, state documents, and resources for transition-related medical care. Lawrence also gave lectures on gender nonconformity at the University of California at San Francisco. Through these lectures, she met another activist named Virginia Prince. Through Lawrence's networks, Prince helped distribute Transvestia, the first U.S. publication devoted to transgender issues. Though the newsletter folded after only a couple of issues,

Prince would later revive it as a magazine for self-described heterosexual transvestites. She would also go on to form the first national cross-dressing network, the Foundation for Full Personality Expression, or FPE, in 1962. These efforts brought together new communities, but they still served a narrow population that reflected Prince's own biases. She personally limited membership in the FPE to white married male crossdressers and stressed that transvestia was for so-called sexually normal people who were simply seeking self-expression.

She took pains to distance crossdressing from homosexuality, which she saw as deviant behavior. Even so, this organization around transgender issues was groundbreaking. But magazines and correspondence clubs were not much help for young trans people living in American cities, where their very presence in public spaces was often criminalized. And unlike Lawrence and Prince, those without political connections or a cushion of white, middle-class privilege were especially vulnerable. That reality was becoming apparent to one pastor in San Francisco who would help the local LGBTQ community gain one surprising ally, the church.

By 1963, the once-conservative Glide Memorial Methodist Church had hired 34-year-old African-American pastor Cecil Williams to reinvigorate the aging congregation. Glide Memorial was based in the Tenderloin District, an area of sex work, drugs, and after-hours entertainment. It was also home to people who couldn't afford to live anywhere else or who faced housing and employment discrimination in other parts of the city, especially gay and transgender youth. In fact, San Francisco police actually directed trans people towards the cheap hotels of the Tenderloin District after they had been arrested in other parts of the city. Even then, they still often arrested trans women

in the neighborhood on suspicion of prostitution just for walking down the street. Under Pastor Williams' guidance, Glyde Memorial began to reach out to the disenfranchised young people in the surrounding neighborhood. Williams later remembered, What happened was, I said, I can't live this way. I've got to accept people as they are. I've got Williams later remembered, Williams enlisted the help of another minister named Ted McIlvana to call a three-day meeting of local ministers, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Lutheran, and others. Forget who you represent, McIlvana told them. We represent the human race. Let's start there.

The ministers heard heart-wrenching testimonials from Louise Lawrence, along with leaders from Mattachine and the DOB. They spoke openly about the Bible's condemnation of homosexuality and about the distrust and fear that had formed through the church's encouragement of hatred and injustice. When the three days were over, McIlvain had proposed that all the ministers should band together to help solve the issues of homelessness and sex work

that were rampant in the Tenderloin's LGBTQ population. To his surprise, the other ministers agreed. They formed an outreach group called the Council on Religion and the Homosexual. For the first time, heterosexual ministers were not denouncing LGBTQ people, but starting to defend their humanity. In time, this defense would lead to the formation of Vanguard, an organization by and for trans youth in the Tenderloin District. But across the country, in New York City, a different kind of movement was taking shape. A neighborhood called Greenwich Village would be the center of it. For the first time, the LGBTQ community was coming together there in large numbers, pooling their resources and imagination.

But they would find that politics in Manhattan were quite different from the West Coast. Entrenched notions about LGBTQ people would be much more difficult to shake. And those notions were never more entrenched than in one of the most powerful organizations of all, the entrepreneurs get 90 seconds to pitch to an audience of potential customers. This is match point, baby. If the audience liked the product, it gets them in front of our panel of experts. Gwyneth Paltrow. Anthony Anderson.

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Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening. By the 1960s, Greenwich Village could boast a long and varied history of sheltering a radical population. The New York neighborhood was home to artists, musicians, and political progressives. It appeared in the works of writers who also lived there, including James Baldwin, Allen Ginsberg, and Audre Lorde. Lorde, a Black poet born and raised in the city, fashioned a community for herself and other lesbians and gay people in the village. She wrote, We all cared for and about each other, sometimes with more or less understanding, regardless of who was entangled with whom at any given time. However

imperfectly, we tried to build a community of sorts where we could, at the very least, survive in a world we correctly perceived to be hostile to us. To many people in small towns across America, visions of New York and Greenwich Village's culturally relaxed attitudes proved intoxicating. One by one, those who were excluded from their communities made the pilgrimage to the big city. But as welcoming as New York seemed, it also echoed the same discrimination that was prevalent across the rest of the United States. In the years following World War II, the city had rapidly modernized its stakeout, decoy, and police raid operations, arresting thousands of LGBTQ people, sometimes just for socializing at a private party.

More often than not, citizens and performers were targeted in hostile ways by police because of their sexuality and the color of their skin. A young man named Aaron Payne experienced that hostility firsthand. A performer originally from Trenton, New Jersey, a 23-year-old Payne experienced that hostility firsthand. A performer originally from Trenton, New Jersey, a 23-year-old Payne traveled to the village in the late 40s to make a name for himself in the cabaret scene. A black gay man with thick Coke bottle glasses, Payne performed bawdy stand-up routines and torch songs that combined comedy with coded references to his experiences as a gay man. But after being arrested and convicted under vague charges that police characterized as degeneracy, Payne found himself unable to perform in any club anywhere in

the city. Despite this, Payne's routine was good enough that one club, called the Salle de Champagne, allowed him to perform without a cabaret license. But one night in 1950, a plainclothes policeman happened to catch Payne's performance. Shocked by the subject matter, and shocked when he noticed other customers in the club who appeared to be gay, the policeman had the entire venue shut down. The city revoked the club's license for permitting homosexuals to congregate and permitting a performance by a homosexual. But New York's crackdown on LGBTQ culture didn't stop at cabaret shutdowns. New York Mayor Robert Wagner trumpeted these actions as victories for law and order politics. The mayor's allies at the neighborhood level encouraged discriminatory practices

in an open campaign to drive LGBTQ people from the area completely. Both active duty and plainclothes police infiltrated places where LGBTQ people gathered, arresting people indiscriminately. These arrests could happen anywhere in the city, in Harlem, in Midtown, and certainly in Greenwich Village, where the police trained their focus specifically on cruising culture. Cruising was slang for picking up sexual partners, and it was a way gay men could meet each other while not obviously outing themselves. One man could signal interest in another through glances or by walking past the other person repeatedly. Some people wore specific items of clothing, like brightly colored or folded scarves. You could cruise anywhere,

on the street, in a bar, and for many it was a harmless and integral part of the gay male experience. But opinions on the safety of cruising varied drastically, as some men merely posed as gay in order to harass and attack gay men. Worse still, some of the people cruising were officers of the New York Police Department. Imagine it's October 1965, a brisk autumn evening in the city of New York. You're finally heading back to your apartment after an exhausting and frustrating day. You're an actor in a play at the Cherry Lane Theater. When rehearsals first began, you were over the moon. But now, with opening night just a week away, you're feeling less than confident about your performance, the direction, pretty much everything. So after tonight's rehearsal, you went to a quiet bar you know in the village. All you wanted is to have a quiet

drink in peace, to be left alone with an old-fashioned. But a guy came right up and offered to buy you a drink. You wouldn't take no for an answer. So you went to another bar down the street. But that same guy showed up there too. Finally, you decided to call it a night and head home. Suddenly, you hear a voice from behind you. Excuse me. I think you dropped this. Oh god, it's him, that guy again. You quicken your pace. Oh come on, slow up, will you? This is actually a very important document, needs your attention. He's closed the distance, right behind you now. Finally you stop and turn around. He's blonde with a sly grin, like he knows what he wants and usually gets it. Look, leave me alone, okay? Go find

someone else to pester. I get it. No sweat. But here. He holds something up so you can see. It's a bar napkin with his phone number on it. Suddenly your frustration breaks and you can't help but laugh. Man, you come on strong. I'm a glutton for punishment. Come on, let's get one last drink, all right? I think I deserve a last chance, you know? A consolation prize for perseverance. He is attractive, but that was never the problem. It was his confidence. But now that he's a little out of breath, a little back on his foot, he's suddenly gotten even more good looking. Maybe that drink wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. Okay, look, if you're going to follow me around all night like a puppy, then yes, you can buy me a drink. But I have to warn you, I'm not going to be good company. I'm grumpy.

He grins at you, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a badge. I need you to stand against the fence for me and put your hands up behind your back. You're under arrest. What? For what? For solicitation. Against the fence, now. You don't have any choice but to follow his orders. Your mind is reeling. He pursued you. He wouldn't take no for an answer. And you haven't done anything wrong. Only now, as the cuffs slap against your wrists, do you realize that this was all a setup. In cities and towns across America, LGBTQ people were targeted, arrested, then threatened with public embarrassment and large fines. This process was known as entrapment, even though police officials publicly denied any such practice.

In New York City, police were well aware of cruising culture and used it as a way to arrest and shake down gay men. And by 1966, city police were using entrapment methods to arrest more than 100 men a week. Many of these arrested men called into the New York branch of the Mattachine Society to report their stories of entrapment. And the new president of Mattachine, New York, wanted to do something. Dick Leisch had grown up in Kentucky, where he'd been one of those gay men drawn to the bright lights of New York. But after arriving in the village, Leisch realized that the cosmopolitan city he'd relocated to was in some ways more dangerous than his hometown. Now, as a Mattachine leader, the 31-year-old

decided his first order of business would be to try to eliminate the practice of entrapment. He and other Mattachine volunteers began to chronicle the stories of men who'd been entrapped, and a pattern emerged. A man would be approached at a gay bar or a park by a plain clothes police officer, dressed and acting as if he were looking for sex. In some cases, the officer would even engage in sexual contact, and only afterward announce that he was making an arrest. Once the victim was cuffed and booked at a police station, the officer would recommend an attorney, someone who specialized in the relevant charges, usually solicitation or loitering. But of course, the attorneys didn't come cheap, and they were in on the scheme.

The arrested men, fearful for their jobs and their reputations, and often their wives back home, succumbed to the pressure. For the police, it was a double win. They hit their quota of arrests, while also getting kickbacks from the exorbitant lawyer fees. In the fall of 1966, Leisch and the Manichean Society were heartened by the election of John Lindsay as the new mayor of New York. The good-looking Republican inspired comparisons to John Kennedy, and his win was tentatively seen as a good thing by LGBTQ voters who felt things couldn't have been any worse under the previous mayor, and that perhaps this new one would begin to listen. It took over a year, but finally Mattachine and other political groups in the village managed to secure a town hall

meeting with some of Mayor Lindsay's top brass. So on a raucous night in 1966, Mayor Lindsay's chief of police found himself publicly ambushed at a neighborhood meeting in the village. Person after person in the audience rose to question him directly about entrapment. What about these plainclothesmen, a young man in the crowd asked, who come into places dressed in tight pants to lure people into explicit acts? The police chief blankly quoted the department's usual line, that entrapment was a violation of police procedure. But another person in the audience quickly pointed out that his response was plainly naive at best. Yet another person stood up. It's alarming, a woman said, that the chief inspector doesn't know a large number of

police spend their duty hours dressed in tight pants, sneakers, and polo sweaters trying to bring about solicitations. This brought a round of cheers and applause from the assembly hall in a single voice. The police chief could not have known that these seemingly unconnected people in the audience had all been organized by Dick Leach and Mattachine. He also could not have known that the New York Post was about to publish a series of articles highlighting entrapment by the city's vice squad. Soon, the New York Times was running its own stories, too, based on tips by Mattachine members. The campaign by Mattachine and other activists of pressuring police leadership and engaging the media was starting to pay off. Finally, Mayor Lindsay agreed to sit down with

Mattachine, along with other village groups and politicians, for an evening meeting at the Village Gate, a local jazz club. Sitting on a stage normally reserved for musicians like Nina Simone and Albert Eiler, the mayor sipped a Bloody Mary and promised that he would end the entrapment policies of the police department effective immediately. Lindsay also promised he would curb discriminatory practices that took operating licenses away from gay bars and cabarets, another reform that activists had pushed for. The New York Times covered the event with the headline, Lindsay Placates Coffeehouse Set. For the moment, Mattachine had gotten the promise of reform it wanted. Open entrapment by the police in New York would decrease dramatically. And although entrapment practices are still used by police today, the conduct is broadly discouraged and,

in many cases, can be used by a defendant as legal grounds for dismissal of their case. But while Elish and others were trying to advance their cause through local politics, transgender communities were developing their own tactics and forming their own strategies to respond to police harassment and violence. Though informal and less specifically organized, these tactics and strategies would form the first steps toward active physical resistance. accused of committing war crimes look no further than Paul Bergeron. All the big guys go to Bergeron because he gets everybody off. You name it, Paul can do it. Need to launder some money? Broker a deal with a drug cartel?

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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 Pit Can once they reached the age of 10 that would still have heard it. It just happens to all of them. 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 Pit Can. 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+. Join Wondery in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.

Even more so than today, transgender people in the 1960s faced discrimination based on their gender identity. Those who were also gay faced discrimination related to their sexual orientation. They had to navigate incredibly difficult, sometimes life-or-death decisions daily about how much of their authentic selves they could share with the world. Transgender people struggled with issues that persist today. Many trans people faced employment discrimination, making it difficult to find or hold a job. For trans people of color, these challenges were often compounded by racial discrimination and violence. And even today, transgender people of color,

especially black transgender women, suffer disproportionately high rates of violence and murder. And in the 60s, like now, many transgender youth found themselves rejected or thrown out by their religiously or socially conservative families. With nowhere else to turn, some young transgender people were forced to become homeless. Others gravitated to major cities like New York or San Francisco to try and carve out new lives for themselves where at least they had the chance to find a more accepting community.

One of these was Sylvia Rivera, born in the Bronx in 1951 to a Puerto Rican father and a Venezuelan mother. She was orphaned at an early age after her father abandoned the family and her mother killed herself. Rivera's grandmother took her in, but by the time Rivera was 10 years old, the two barely got along. She and her grandmother would get into explosive fights about Rivera wearing mascara and eyeliner and about the boys she was bringing around to the apartment. After her grandmother tried to have her put into foster care, Rivera moved out at age 11. She made her way to Times Square, where she began doing sex work to survive. There, Rivera struck up a fast friendship with a black transgender woman named Marsha P. Johnson.

Johnson was five years older, and she gave Rivera advice on how to stay safe on the streets and maximize her profit. Johnson and Rivera would become inseparable. In their off hours, the two would hang in coffee shops and swap stories. But despite these moments of happiness, Rivera still lived a precarious existence, where the threat of violence was never far. So by 1965, she was carrying a gun in her purse to protect herself. One night, in a pay-by-the-hour hotel room, a client who had discovered Rivera was transgender began to beat her, punching her so hard she flew across the room. She reached for her purse, hoping the sight of the gun would make the man think twice before he hit her again.

But when he charged at her in rage, she fired. Rivera fled without knowing whether the man was dead or alive. But beyond the dangers of sex work itself, the risk of police violence and arrest posed an even bigger threat. Down by the waterfront along the Hudson River, where sex work was common, police roundups occurred like clockwork. Along with other trans women of color, Rivera would be arrested and spend the night in the Tombs Prison near the downtown courthouse, only to be released the next day. Rivera later recalled,

Back then we were beat up by the police, by everybody. We always felt that the police were the real enemy. We expected nothing better than to be treated like we were animals, and we were. We were stuck in a bullpen like a bunch of freaks. We were disrespected. A lot of us were beaten up and raped. When I ended up going to jail to do 90 days, they tried to rape me. I very nicely beat the shit out of a man. The world that Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson experienced in New York mirrored other people's experiences in different cities across the country. With mainstream gay organizations ignoring the need of trans communities, people of color, and the working class, these groups

understood a brutal truth. If they didn't take measures to protect themselves, no one else was going to do it for them. A 1965 protest in Philadelphia employed tactics directly from the pages of the Black Civil Rights Movement. When gay and transgender customers, many of whom were also people of color, were denied service at a lunch counter called Dewey's. They staged a series of nonviolent sit-ins at the restaurant. These protests resulted in arrests, but ultimately Dewey's management backed down, promising to end their policy of discrimination. Afterwards, a local gay and lesbian organization

called the Janus Society issued this statement. All too often, there is a tendency to be concerned with the rights of homosexuals as long as they somehow appear to be heterosexual, whatever that is. The masculine woman and the feminine man are often looked down upon, but what is offensive today we have seen become the style of tomorrow. And even if what is offensive today remains offensive tomorrow to some persons, there is no reason to penalize non-conformist behavior unless there is a direct anti-social behavior connected with it.

The success of the Dewey's Lunch Counter protests would echo far beyond LGBTQ communities on the East Coast. One year later, similar tactics of resistance would take place in San Francisco. Imagine it's the summer of 1966. Not that you know it in San Francisco. It's nighttime and the air is cold and wet as you make your way through a bustle of streetcars and shoppers on Market Street. You pull your coat tight around your shoulders as you walk inside Compton's to meet your friend.

Lucia's already sitting at your favorite booth near the window, so you slide in across from her. Gosh, it's a ghost town in here tonight. You glance around. You hadn't noticed it, but there aren't many people at the diner at all. Well, that's fine by me. More space for us to stretch out. Compton's is your spot. Yours and Lucia's. It's hard to find a diner that will let you stick around for hours just getting coffee refills. And you're not the only ones that come here. This diner is on the map. Anyone on the street knows that they can come here and get a little bit of shelter, even if it's just a little while.

Across from you, Lucia sips the last of her coffee. I don't know. It's been weird in here lately. Something's off. But how are you? You making it? I'm trying. Bought some strings for my guitar, and I've been playing some on Market Street.

It's good money. Some days as much as five dollars. Well, I believe it. You sound just like Odetta. People love that folk music stuff. Oh, stop. You're gonna make me blush. I won't stop. You've got talent. I wish I could sing or dance or just about anything. I guess I should just stick to what I'm good at. Listen, I've been staying over at a shelter on Ellis. It's just a couple blocks from here. I know where it is. Well, you should come by. I know some of the people there.

I can get you a bed. Lucia's eyes dart away. You've been trying to convince her for weeks to come into the shelter, but she won't do it. Like she always does, she changes the subject. Garcon? She raises her empty cup of coffee, and the manager approaches. He's an older man with a kind, doughy face. Refill, Lucia.

I thank you kindly. I gotta let you know, starting tomorrow, there's going to be a service charge of 50 cents applied to every order. What? Why? The owners don't like people sitting around all night just ordering coffee. They think it's bad for business and that it's driving customers away. You mean people like us? The manager gives Lucia a sad smile. It's not my rule. Just wanted to let you know. As the manager heads back to the front counter, Lucia leans across the table, hissing at you.

I don't believe it. They're trying to run us out of here. You nod. Lucia, maybe it's time for us to find a new spot. Why? I'm not going anywhere. I pay for the coffee. I have a right to be here.

You're right. You're right. But just think about my offer. Maybe come by the shelter. Lucia shrugs, looks down into her coffee cup. You're not going to change your mind tonight, but that doesn't mean you're not going to keep trying. For now, you've still got Compton's. It might not be much, but it's home. Compton's was a local chain restaurant in San Francisco that had long been a hangout for homeless youth in the Tenderloin neighborhood. For many, Compton's was a place of refuge, a safe place from the daily battle of street living, or simply a place to sit for a moment for people who had nowhere else to go. In the words of one Compton's regular,

it was just a place that we would come and hang out. If you didn't manage up a trick that night, it's where you would hang out with your friends. We'd stay there and then eat breakfast and go home and sleep until it was time to get up and go out on the prowl again. The evening manager, who everyone understood to be gay, allowed kids to stay there all hours, sipping refills of coffee and rarely buying anything else. But when the evening manager died, new management wanted nothing to do with

this particular kind of clientele. The diner hired private detectives to harass the customers and drive them out of the shop, but they kept coming back. Compton's was the only safe space they had. But there was a new organization that was trying to give homeless youth a sense of self-worth and support. A group of gay and transgender youth, with the support of Reverend Cecil Williams and the Glide Methodist Church, formed Vanguard. In addition to supporting and uplifting homeless youth, its goal was also to bring their issues to the attention of older, more privileged city dwellers. An early flyer read, You've heard about black power and white power. Now get ready for street power. Vanguard urged its members to think beyond racial divisions

and focus on the community they all shared, namely the Tenderloin neighborhood. They organized community cleanups of trash and used needles that littered the streets. They also helped organize the first picket of Compton's cafeteria to protest harassment and discrimination there. But matters came to a head in August 1966, when Compton's management called the police to remove a customer who wouldn't leave. An altercation erupted in the restaurant when a police officer grabbed the arm of a transgender

woman and tried to drag her away. To his surprise, she threw a cup of coffee in his face. In the melee that followed, plates, cups, silverware, and saucers flew through the air at the policeman, who had to dash outside for backup. Approximately 50 customers spilled out into the street. And as police attempted to make arrests, transgender women protected themselves by fighting back with their purses or kicking officers in the groin. Violence erupted all around the intersection of Turk and Taylor Streets. But it wasn't a victory for Comptons.

The next night saw a cross-section of the LGBTQ community arrive to picket the restaurant. With the backing of the local clergy and a grassroots organization of their own, LGBTQ people in San Francisco were emboldened to take a stand. For the first time, there was hope that institutional oppression could be resisted on a large scale. But the movement's biggest moment was yet to come. It would happen at a private bar in Greenwich Village, run by Italian mobsters, the Stonewall Inn. From Wondery, this is episode two of Stonewall from American History Tellers. On the next episode, the Mattachine Society turns its focus from entrapment

to the New York state liquor laws, just as the mafia takes over the gay bar industry. And when the police conduct a raid on the Stonewall Inn, its patrons decide to fight back. 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. Audio editing by Molly Pott. This episode is written by George Ducker, edited by Doreen Marina. Special thanks to Sylveon Consulting for serving as an advisor on this series, and to Kyle Norris, who provided feedback on an early version of this episode. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery. Richard Bandler revolutionized the world of self-help all thanks to an approach he developed called neurolinguistic programming. Even though NLP worked for some,

its methods have been criticized for being dangerous in the wrong hands. Throw in Richard's dark past as a cocaine addict and murder suspect, and you can't help but wonder what his true intentions were. I'm Sachi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the hosts of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the most infamous scams of all time,

the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away. We recently dove into the story of the godfather of modern mental manipulation, Richard Bandler, whose methods inspired some of the most toxic and criminal self-help movements of the last two decades. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Scamfluencers and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid and Kill List early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. Check out Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid and Kill List early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening.