“A Conversation Between Myself and the Ghosts of the Past”: A Poem on The History of LGBTQ+ Rights in the US
a brief history of LGBTQ+ rights in the United States, 1924-1990
or, a conversation between myself and the ghosts of the past.
words by Chloe Johnston
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I wrote this piece while contemplating how we, as a society, tend to mold moments into our own subconscious. Separate from intention and context, we often break down history to the bare bones — x happened, y was involved, z is the repercussions — but in doing so, we leave behind narratives and nuance and questions. We leave communities and voices behind in that long stretch of time hidden between the pages of a textbook. Marsha P. Johnson didn’t actually throw the first brick at Stonewall (she arrived hours later) — in fact, it’s hard to know if bricks were even thrown at all. But the legend of that night has taken on a life of its own, one often commodified by the status quo.
I wanted to remind the LGBTQ community where we come from, to whom we owe our liberties, and that our very existence is built on the idea of revolution. Pride month is about honoring our ancestors, and continuing to fight for the freedom of all. In the words of the legendary Marsha P. Johnson, “No Pride for some of us without liberation for all of us.”
But in that vein, there are going to be moments and people and messages that are not featured in this poem. It’s centered on the American view of LGBTQ history, but there (as I say in the poem) is still so much to talk about. I hope it still resonates with you, and reminds you where we as a community come from — and how far we still have to go.
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I. tell me [everything]
tell me about the love letters you sent.
[violets pressed into paper like a prayer, like sacrilege, like tenderness.]
tell me about the quilt you helped make.
[stitch your lovers into fabric and they will live forever. right?]
tell me about the ghosts in your closet.
[no, not the skeletons. immortality lies in more than bone. besides, the connotation’s wrong.]
tell me, tell me, tell me —
oh, right. you aren’t here, are you?
[a generation lost. a generation remembered.]
okay, i’ll tell the story myself.
did you know you can’t have revolt without love
did you know that anger is a secondary emotion
because sadness comes first and mutates
like perception and fact and words in our mouths.
did you know, did you know, did you know —
[i’m sorry. i’ll get on with it.]
hello, memory. hello, reverence. it’s storytime.
II. the beginning [they say]
1969 was not the beginning, but everyone tells me it was.
the first gay rights organization
the first one recorded, anyway
was created in 1924 by henry gerber —
[skip ahead to the good part, please.]
definition, homosexuality: a sociopathic personality disturbance
definition, provided: the american psychiatric association, 1952.
define a room you are outside of by the color of its walls
define caged birds by the gild of their wings
define a product of the time period
[wait, isn’t everything a product of its time period?]
definition, history: just a product of time unfolding and twisting
to fit into our mouths like palatability, like recognition
pick a moment or a memory and hang
cycles of information outside the window of opportunity
san francisco had riots before june 28th
compton’s cafeteria cradling the crown of controversy
[tell me about the coffee she threw in his face]
[tell me that we are standing on the shoulders of giants]
the mattachine society sat down in los angeles
in 1950, with harry hay at the helm
the daughters of bilitis follow after five years
but revolution is not a word on their tongues yet
[oh, darling. we create giants when we need them.]
package the narrative into bite sized pieces
and remember the beginning of a circle comes back
ouroboros eating his own tail until
he chokes on the lessons he has yet to learn
randy wicker in black suit and tie
stands in front of the us army building in lower manhattan
sits in the bar at julius’s
demanding freedom, demanding justice
and an old fashioned
new jersey rules in favor in ‘67
but the new york times writes
“three deviants invite exclusion from bars”
progress takes time, movement takes time
[and we don’t deal in absolutes]
history repeats itself.
haven’t you heard?
or maybe history builds in spirals
cycling through progressions of the same
narrative rising above legend into
foundation for the future
1969 was not the beginning, but everyone will tell you it was.
III. one of many turning points
the first pride was a riot. the first pride was a riot. the first pride was a riot.
stonewall inn, christopher street, greenwich village.
ask me who threw the first brick
and i’ll tell you everyone says it was —
dear marsha // sylvia // storme,
was it you?
tell me about first
tell me about revolution
give me a button to surmise a movement
[WE DON’T DEAL IN ABSOLUTES.]
definition, revolution: the orbit of one object around another
definition, revolution: not a one time event
definition, provided: audre lorde, sister outsider. 1984
cycles upon cycles of change pressed between
when time freezes in the pages of a history book
can we repurpose it to fit our needs?
in 1970, the gay liberation front
marches down the streets of three separate cities
united in the shadow of christopher street
and sunlit rays point the way ahead
already a moment becomes legend
when a figure becomes more than a figure
when i leave ghosts in the closet like my
identity on the floor of a classroom
do i re-learn existence with each breath
or am i just reconfiguring it
to prove a point
in history, there are always
voices we leave behind
different interpretations
gray areas
[absolutely.]
dear marsha // sylvia // storme,
i’m sorry.
the first pride was a riot
and you helped start it
but convolute a legend enough
and it has a life of its own.
V. silence = death
patrick buchanan writes that homosexuals
“have declared war upon nature,
and now nature is exacting
an awful retribution”
may 2, 1983 marches proud down san francisco streets
larry kramer and vito russo already act up
before 1987 calls to end the silence
protest written in the pages of liberation
richard nixon doesn’t mention “gay plague”
until 1985 sputters out, relief denied oxygen
the american people dying embers
burning the candle at both ends
only saves when the government
answers to the call of fire
i keep thinking about the photographs
of men in hospital beds
wondering who survived them
wondering who remembers them
wondering who knows them
[we survive]
[we remember. for all of those the world forgets]
[we will never know them]
in 1990, david kirby
head cradled by a father once estranged
said he wanted to come home to die.
what is the body worth
if not for the stories written
inside them like stitching
tear apart the seams and follow
the thread to the origin
[gilbert baker creates the gay pride flag in 1978]
[he stitches identity into community, reconfigured]
[he is not the beginning, either.]
what is the body worth
if not for the memory held
between marrow converted
to memorial to memorandum
to movement encapsulated by shutter
shudder softly because no one
likes loud revolutions until
they become cannon fodder
for future textbooks
the photo that changed the face of aids
becomes a color ad.
what i’m saying is there is only one story
but you hear it told differently
from each mouth that holds names
between their teeth
[larry kramer. vito russo.
aids coalition to unleash power
a narrative of discriminationdeathdefiance]
[at least, that’s the story i’ve been told]
what i’m saying is
die in. die out.
bodies on the lawn of the white house
and a quilt to remember their names
what i’m saying is
the awful retribution of memory is
in that we know too much and too little
write the narrative across the nation
and still people will close their eyes to it
there is so much more i want to tell you.
VII. history, written in the space between us
pause a moment in time and try to remember the details
stamp recollection across whiteboards like a
stain in the fabric of existence
this is the story we are told
as the sun rises each morning
dawn’s rosy fingers reaching
connects her brethren across time
through the thread of history
tell me about the ghosts in your closet
and i will tell you about mine
we must create the context ourselves
piece together moment by moment
in the grasp for recognition comes understanding
in the act of remembrance comes reverence
history is a room we stand within
and one we stand outside of
liminal spaces pressed into paper
like preservation
listen.
do you hear the world calling out
as history unfolds over itself
spiraling into the present
connecting to the past
[can i tell the story now?]
sure. tell me everything.