In the epilogue of Linda Hirshman’s breezily written history Victory: The Triumphant Gay Revolution, one of her interview subjects asks her, “Do you really think you ought to call it Victory?” After all, only six states allow gay people to marry, while 30 have constitutional amendments barring it, and the federal government refuses to recognize any same-sex marriage or to pass a long-stalled nondiscrimination law. On top of legal inequality, LGBT Americans are disproportionately prone to attempting suicide, to being bullied and assaulted, and to struggling with depression and anxiety. Transgender Americans face even greater challenges in securing both equal rights and equal dignity.
Hirshman’s answer—“Why in the world not? This is an amazing story”—displays a kind of certainty that’s itself contagious, if not fully convincing. One wants to think that, in proclaiming 2011 the year of triumph for the gay rights movement, Hirshman is onto something, and in many ways she is. That was the year when more than one-half the country told pollsters for the first time that they supported the rights of gays to marry, and—perhaps more importantly—that same-sex relations are “morally acceptable.” It was the year the military finally allowed openly gay Americans to be warriors, after two centuries of stigma and exclusion. It was a year when the Justice Department declared the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional, and when a new law in New York state doubled the number of people living in a jurisdiction where gays could wed.
Hirshman’s answer certainly makes sense when considered on the terms she means to offer it: At a minimum, 2011 was a crucial tipping point in moral acceptability of homosexuality. And how much closer victory feels in the wake of President Obama’s dramatic announcement that he now supports same-sex marriage—and seems not to have suffered politically for saying so.
But Hirshman aims to say something stronger, more interesting, and even more provocative than proclaiming victory for the equal rights of gay people. “The movement succeeded,” she writes, “uniquely and in large part because, at the critical moments, its leaders made a moral claim.” That claim was not simply a demand to be left alone but an insistence on society’s recognition of their “virtue” on wholly equal terms with everybody else. Being gay would no longer be something that’s merely tolerated in a liberal state that made room for any kind of freak; LGBT equality would no longer mean the dominant society would hold its nose while granting rights to members of a group it despised. Instead, it would mean embracing gay and transgender people as equally worthy of respect and dignity. “The gay movement was stuck with two choices,” writes Hirshman about the post-Stonewall era. “They could ask the society to ignore or tolerate their behavior, immoral or not, in the interests of higher values like freedom or privacy.” Or they could insist that they and their actions were moral, that, in short, “gay is good.”
That phrase, “gay is good,” is borrowed from the late Frank Kameny, an indefatigable gay rights crusader who was fired from his government job as an astronomer in the 1950s and who—rare for his time—never seemed to doubt for an instant that he was as good a human soul as any straight person. Whether the rest of the LGBT universe has followed Kameny’s inspiring lead—and whether having that “moral certainty,” as Hirshman calls it, is responsible for carving a path to full equality and to “changing America for everyone”—remains in question, even after completing this lively movement history.
Certainly there were leaders like Kameny who asserted gay virtue from the outset (though even he scolded two lesbians for holding hands at a march the week after Stonewall). Harry Hay, a founder of the 1950s homophile Mattachine Society, demanded to “be respected for our differences not for our sameness to heterosexuals.” Carl Wittman, a gay SDS activist, wrote in his 1970 “Gay Manifesto,” “We have to learn that our loving each other is a good thing, not an unfortunate thing, and that we have a lot to teach straights about sex, love, strength, and resistance.” Wittman here voiced not only the equal virtue of gay people but a “value-added” notion that the movement had something to teach the world, an achievement Hirshman also attributes to what she dubs the “gay revolution.”
But if some leaders voiced such ambitious moral sentiments, innumerable others, along with ordinary LGBT people afraid—quite understandably—to ever leave the closet, felt little or no moral certainty about either their goodness or their cause. Even after impressive levels of progress were achieved, it is not clear this was the result of moral certainty. I’d say nearly every LGBT American knows someone—perhaps themselves—who has stood up to fight for equality, perhaps with great success, but despite lingering self-hatred and a profound sense that they were not good, but rotten at their core. When Hirshman says of David Mixner, the prominent anti-war and gay rights activist, that he “knew he was different” and “thought he was bad,” she is pithily describing not just many people in the movement but their motive for joining it.
In fact, contrary to Hirshman’s assertion, the historical record of the LGBT movement emphasizes an embrace of the hold-your-nose zone of privacy more than an insistence on moral virtue. From the start of the organized gay rights movement in the mid-20th century, gay leaders embraced this liberal zone of tolerance as their best hope for freedom. And it was freedom, more than equality, they sought. Above all, they wanted to be left alone from the entrapment, police raids, and violence of fellow citizens that resulted from being a despised minority.
This changed over time, of course. By the 1980s, the zone of privacy was inadequate both in practice and in theory. In particular, it was no shield against the ravages of AIDS. Any other public health epidemic of equivalent scale would have (indeed had) drawn far greater government efforts to stop the dying, and the neglect in the case of AIDS was clearly driven by anti-gay animus. The mental and physical anguish that resulted spurred some of the most effective and enduring forms of activism in American history, from the Lavender Hill Mob’s haunting “Silence = Death” poster art to the street theater of ACT UP.
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Beautiful, sexy, and fascinatingly mean.