I'm moved to write this in response to OPOL's latest diary, in which a march on Washington, currently being organized for September 15, is discussed.
This is going to be a very personal diary, because I'm going to talk about my own experience of marching on Washington.
On October 11, 1987, I was in Washington for the Second National March on Washington for Gay and Lesbian Rights. I went because I knew literally dozens of people who were suffering from AIDS back then, and I wanted to be there for them and with them, to add my voice to theirs.
I took the red-eye from LA to DC on the night of October 9th along with a couple of friends. We got to DC the morning of the 10th and immediately set out to do some sightseeing. It was a rather bizarre experience, because I'd never set foot in Washington before that day, but I couldn't walk more than a block without bumping into someone I knew. It seemed like everyone I knew was there.
That afternoon, after I checked into the hotel room I was sharing with a few friends, we went to a bar in DC where Harvey Fierstein was hosting a party. One of my friends had an invite and I got to tag along. It was a great party until Harvey got up to make some remarks and started trashing straight people. That was... well it was a real shock to the system to hear someone trashing people like me just because of our sexual orientation. At first I was really angry at Harvey's insensitivity and obnoxiousness (Harvey Fierstein, obnoxious??? Perish the thought!), but upon reflection I eventually concluded that he'd given me an insight that I may otherwise never have had, to be vilified just because of my sexual orientation. I got a taste of what that felt like. Let me tell you, I didn't like it much.
Dinner the night of the 10th was with a group of 15 or so friends at a cafe on Dupont Circle. It was balmy that night, and we sat outside. About every third person who walked by was someone one of us knew. It was like being on a family vacation, only we were with our family of choice. A family of hundreds and hundreds of people.
On the morning of the march, I hooked up at the gathering area with all my peeps. One of the guys had brought a huge bunch of balloons so we'd know where to find our group.
Of the march itself -- I no longer remember how long or how far we walked. The march route took us from the gathering place (I think it might have been the Ellipse, but I no longer remember exactly), past the front of the White House and on to the Capitol Mall. What I do remember, and vividly, are two things: the fundamentalist Christian contingent who lined part of our route with signs and bullhorns and chants that consigned us all to hell; and walking past the White House and the entire crowd chanting as we passed, "Shame. Shame. Shame." The pResident back then was Reagan, remember, and this was a man who did not so much as publicly acknowledge the existence of the AIDS epidemic until after his old pal Rock Hudson had died. (Anyone who has not read And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts should run-not-walk to their local bookseller and get a copy. In my opinion, that book should be required reading in every high school in America.) It was announced pre-march by some of the organizers that Reagan had decided on the spur of the moment to spend the weekend at Camp David, so we chanted to an empty White House -- but then again, even when Ronnie was there, it was pretty empty. But I digress.
At the end of the march we all assembled on the Capitol Mall, where there were speeches and music. I particularly remember a group out of San Francisco called Sister Boom (not to be confused with Sister Boom Boom), a bunch of (presumably) lesbian percussionists who had everyone there dancing.
I don't know how many of us were there. I think the official count was around half a million. To me, it seemed like more. The sea of humanity stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. March organizers said afterward that their own attendance estimate was around 1 million.
It was after sunset when I finally left the Mall with some of my roommates. After showering back in our room, we headed out to the Capitol Hilton for a big post-march fundraising bash in the ballroom. I no longer remember who hosted that party, but I think it may have been the Human Rights Campaign Fund. The ballroom was filled to capacity and we drank and danced until about 2 a.m.
What I remember most about that day and night was how un-somber it was. There was nothing depressing or gloomy or even angry about it at all (with the possible exception of the time we spent walking in front of the White House). What I felt -- what I think we all felt -- was a sense of purpose, a sense of community, a sense of joy and celebration, and, at the end of the day, a sense of accomplishment, of having done something to make a difference.
After about two hours' sleep, I got up again and went, alone, back to the Mall for the first-ever unveiling of the Names Project quilt. The unveiling ceremony started at dawn. I lost all track of the passage of time that morning as I watched the volunteers go through the ritual of laying out the quilt one square at a time. There weren't many people there when I arrived, but by the time they'd finished with the unveiling ceremony there was a huge crowd. Once the ceremony was complete people were free to walk around (on the canvas strips between the quilt squares) and look at the quilt pieces. I walked the entire quilt much the way one walks a labyrinth, and along the way I found the quilt piece that I'd made for a friend of mine, Das, who'd died the year before. I of course bumped into dozens of friends, but only stayed with each of them long enough to share hugs and tears before continuing on alone. I stayed there until it was time to go get my things and head for the airport to go home.
(Note: I saw the quilt in Washington twice, once in 1987 and once a couple of years later. I no longer remember which exhibit these photos came from, but I don't think it matters...)
If someone were to ask me today what one thing I've done in my life that I'm proudest of, my answer would be: I marched on Washington in October of 1987.
Never before, and never since, have I ever felt so much a part of a community. Never before, and never since, have I felt so empowered, and so good about doing something to make a difference for some of the people who I loved most. I wasn't fighting for my own life, but I was fighting for theirs. And there were a million people right there fighting with me.
Maybe that's the difference. Today, I don't think any of us feel like we're fighting for our very survival, and in a literal sense we aren't -- yet. But we are teetering on the brink of a great, and irrevocable loss, and we need to be acting as if our lives were at stake. And what was true in 1987 is every bit as true today: Silence = death.
At least half of the people I went to Washington with, almost twenty years ago, are dead now. Most of the rest of them are living with AIDS. I like to think that part of the reason they're living with AIDS instead of dead, is that we all went to Washington and spoke out.
If I could be granted a wish right this moment, it would be that everyone who reads this is filled with the same sense of urgency that we had back in 1987, that our lives literally depend on us going to Washington and making our voices heard.
Update 8:45 a.m. PDT: Please stop nitpicking over the exact date of the march. Honest to God, people, some of you really don't get it. You don't come into a process that others have been working on, probably for months, at the eleventh hour and start trying to change the goddamned date. If this is something you think is worthwhile and important, then just fucking show up. As the old saying goes -- the world is run by the ones who show up. So show up.
Sorry for the mini-rant, but Jesus H. Chocolate Christ on a popsicle stick. 17 comments and nearly half of them are arguing about what date the march should be. If that doesn't prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is a Democratic Party website, I dunno what does. Sigh.