from dr Marcy Adelman-
It was in the 1960s that I walked into my first gay bar in Boston’s Combat Zone, a seedy neighborhood known for its adult nightlife with strip clubs, adult movie theaters, and adult bookstores. Although I’ve known since I was 16 that I was attracted to other girls, I didn’t know gay people and had no idea what it meant to be bisexual or lesbian, or what kind of life I could lead.
Reading books and playing sports were my favorite pastimes back then. So it was natural for me to look up everything on the subject of “lesbian” and “gay”. I quickly learned that research journals and clinical books on gay people were locked away, closely guarded, on a shelf behind the reference librarian’s desk. You had to be of a certain age and show ID to read them. Needless to say, I didn’t feel safe showing my driver’s license. How would I explain my interest in the topic without coming out?
The clinical material I was able to read made absolutely no sense to me. While the authors and researchers described gay people as morally deficient and mentally ill, I knew that wasn’t true because that description didn’t fit me. Something was terribly wrong, but it wasn’t me. If it was okay to be me, then it was okay to be a lesbian.
In the 1960s there were no laws prohibiting discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender identity in employment, the home, credit, education, the military, and so on. There was no marriage equality. Instead, there were the so-called blue laws, which made it a crime to engage in same-sex activity, to wear cross-dressing, and to prevent gay people from meeting. If you’re outed, you could be jailed, committed to a psychiatric hospital, or lose your job, your children, or your ties with family and friends. It seemed to me that the only way to deal with the combination of social stigma and discriminatory laws was to go into hiding. But that was not easy for me.
After some searching, I discovered a treasure trove of lesbian and gay literature: Gertrude Stein, Natalie Barney, Djuna Barnes, Colette, Virginia Wolfe, and James Baldwin, to name a few. These authors and their books gave me hope that I could find others like me and live a meaningful and purposeful life with them.
That day I stood outside the gay bar in Boston’s Combat Zone, alone with my anxiety and fear balanced by belief in myself and hope that I would and could find my way, and finally stepped into my journey and my future .
My first Pride march was in San Francisco in 1972. Like so many of my generation, I had moved to San Francisco to live an outdoor life. The Pride March, then as now, is a celebration of pride in ourselves and each other and the joy of living openly and being our authentic selves, as well as a protest against those who would deny us our humanity and our civil rights. Each year the parade has seen a different mix of these two experiences that reflect where we are as a community at this moment. The feel and spirit of the parade reflects both the progress we’ve made and the challenges we face.
We have come a long way, from a deeply difficult and difficult beginning to securing legal protections and our civil rights. In 1972, homosexuality as a mental illness was removed from the American Psychiatric Association’s diagnostic manual. In 1976, California decriminalized bestiality between consenting adults in private. At the national level, legislation decriminalizing bestiality was passed in 2003. In 1994, there was the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, which was designed to prohibit military personnel from discriminating against confidential gay military personnel. A twisted rule that banned openly gay people from serving was overturned in 2011. In 2015, the Marriage Equality Act gave full equal legal recognition to same-sex couples in all 50 states. We have much to celebrate and much to be proud of.
When I think about how far we’ve come in such a short amount of time, I’m amazed at what we’ve built together. As I reflect on the changes in my own life, I am filled with pride, gratitude and love. We are everywhere and everywhere we are, we are outside and proud and beautiful. There is strength and love in community and we have never been stronger. Every time homophobes have tried to block our progress, we have come together as a community and triumphed. This year will be no different.
This year, in 2023, more than 600 anti-LGBTQ laws were introduced across the country, according to the National Center for Lesbian Rights (NCLR). This hateful right-wing backlash against our civil rights is unprecedented in scale and coordination. But NCLR and other LGBTQ+ defenders are on the front lines winning cases, protecting our rights, and protecting our trans children and drag queens.
Going forward, we have to keep in mind that we’re going to stick with it for the long haul. We must come together in unity and with our allies to preserve our freedom and protect those of us most at risk and under attack. We must support the great community organizations that we have built over the years that protect and fight for our rights. Each of us must ask ourselves, “What can I do to fight back?”
That pride, ask yourself that question and take action. Volunteer for an organization, make a donation, write a letter to a legislator, find the action that brings out the best in you. Then don’t stop here. Do it again tomorrow and the day after. Embark on a journey to change something. And always remember to bring your joy.
Happy Pride.
dr Marcy Adelman, psychologist and LGBTQ+ longevity advocate and policy advisor, oversees the Age in the Community column. She serves on the California Commission on Aging, the Alzheimer’s Association of Northern California Board of Directors, the California Master Plan on Aging Equity Advisory Committee, and the San Francisco Dignity Fund Oversight and Advisory Committee. She is co-founder of Openhouse, the only nonprofit in San Francisco solely focused on the health and well-being of older LGBTQ+ adults.
aging in community
Published on June 22, 2023
