Thirty eight years ago today Judy Garland's funeral was held at the Frank Campbell funeral home in Manhattan. People lined up for hours. That night, the police raided a bar on Christopher Street called the Stonewall Inn. Some people said the reason for the uprising was that Judy had died. Some said it was the full moon that night. Some said, after a decade of watching the civil rights movement, and the women's rights movement, it was time for queer people to fight back.
On the day Judy died, I was at a medieval tournament held in New Jersey under the auspices of the Society for Creative Anachronism. I was 16 years old and desperately trying to come out. I had been to the Oscar Wilde bookshop on Mercer Street, where I listened to the advice of Craig Rodwell. I had gone to Julius' on Waverly and West 10th, still there today, and was not merely underage, but certainly the only person in the bar under 30, which for a skittish 16 year old was rather terrifying. I had been to the West Side Discussion Group, which met at the Church of the Holy Apostle (now home to, among other things, the "gay synagogue" Congregation Beth Simchat Torah) and where every week people talked about homosexuality in polite ways and politics was not the agenda. But on the day Judy died, I was in New Jersey, dancing the galliard and the gavotte while other young men in faux chain mail hit each other was fake swords. On the bus going back that night, we sang Over The Rainbow.
Who knows what I was doing the night of the street fighting. I certainly didn't even know about them until the following Wednesday, when I read the homophobic accounts by reporters from the Village Voice, whose offices were just down the street from the bar, at the site now occupied by the Duplex. I do know that when I read the Voice's story I was outraged by not only the police, but by the so-called liberal newspaper using words to describe queer people that I thought were hateful. Words like, well, queer, haha. Times change. Within a year I was going to meetings of the Gay Liberation Front at Alternate U. on Sixth Avenue and 14th Street. I was a member of Gay Youth. The wall of my bedroom was decorated wtih posters of Oscar Wilde and Allen Ginsberg. I went on demonstrations, and eventually, as a member of the Gay Activists Alliance, on zaps.
I'm a member of the Stonewall Generation. And as it happens, the first movie I ever saw, at age two, was the Wizard of Oz. My mother took me when it was re-released into theaters just in time for the baby boom. She was nervous I would fidget, or cry when Margaret Hamilton as the Witch was on screen. I am told I sat as though hypnotized. So there you have it. Judy Garland and The Wizard of Oz made me gay. The CBS broadcasts in the 60s made an entire generation gay. And Judy's death sent us over the edge. If that's what you want to believe. Heaven knows there are enough wingnuts out there who would believe it. And while they were probably raising glasses to toast her at Julius', some of the people at the Stonewall had more practical things to think about, like where they might be sleeping that night.
All I know is this. I am grateful there was a performer I grew up watching who was completely vulnerable on stage, so that I learned it wasn't shameful to show that vulnerability. And I am grateful there were queer people who had the courage to stand up to the New York Police Force (and as the mythology goes danced in a rockettes style kick line) and fought back— because this wasn't a riot, it was an uprising. To quote a leaflet that was posted on the wall of the Stonewall later that week: Think homosexuals are revolting? You bet we are!
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