June 1982, after my junior year at Augustana College. Thomas, the former Episcopalian priest who I met with my ex-boyfriend Fred last year, calls to invite me to Des Moines for the first Gay Rights March in Iowa.
I have never heard of such a thing.
"We march to protest police harassment, discrimination in jobs and housing, sodomy laws, that sort of thing. They have them in cities all over the country. It's always close to June 28th, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots."
I have never heard of the Stonewall Riots, either. But count me in.
June 27th, 8:00 pm: Thomas, his lover (in those days it was always "lover," not "partner"), six other gay men, and two lesbians sit on folding chairs and on the floor in his rec room, making banners: "Stop Gay Police Harassment," "We Are Your Children," "Gay is Good," "Gay People are People Too."
"Maybe not the catchiest slogans," Thomas tells me, "But idea is to get the word "gay" out there, to let the straights know that there are gay people even in Iowa."
I sit next to Mickey, the only other guy my age, a grad student in Russian at the University of Iowa: short, tan heavily muscled, very attractive, with dirty blond hair and a round boyish face. We chat a bit, but don't exchange any personal information -- in those days you were circumspect, even among other gay people.
Thomas walks around the room, looking at each of the guys. Finally he stops in front of me and Mickey. "I want you guys to take first place, with the banner that says ;Gay is Good.' We want some muscle out front, to show the straights that we're not all weak little sissies."
Mickey grins. "Up for being partners?"
Marching at the front, coming out to the whole state? "Um...well, what if one of my professors sees me on the news? I could get expelled."
Thomas laughs. "Don't worry, there won't be any tv cameras, or newspaper reporters. The media ignores us. We might get a write-up in The Daily Planet." Drake University's student-run alternative paper.
I am still nervous, but more gay guys than I've ever seen in one place are looking at me, so: "Ok, I'm in."
We move to the living room for sodas and snacks, and go over the plan: Tomorrow at 1:30, we meet at Western Gateway Park in downtown Des Moines. Dress casually, but nothing flamboyant, no leather or drag. At 2:00 pm we walk the 13 blocks east on Grand Avenue to City Hall. Forty gay men and lesbians have signed up, so we will march with a banner followed by six people walking three abreast, then another banner, and so on.
We discuss what to do if someone tries to engage, if someone attacks, if we have to scatter -- and if we are arrested. We have a parade permit, so the police should be cooperative, but you never know.
Then Mickey and the other townies go home, and the out of town visitors bed down for the night. It's crowded: the two bedrooms are full, and four of us get sleeping bags on the living room floor (nothing erotic happens).
June 28th, 11:00 am: Mickey and the other townies arrive for a brunch of pancakes, scrambled eggs,and sausages. I'm slightly disappointed; I was expecting quiche and mimoses, the sort of gay cuisine I read about in The Advocate.
Mickey is wearing one of thse mesh half t-shirts popular at the time, with his pecs and shoulders visible behind the sheer mesh stuff, and your abs were completely exposed. They only work if you have a perfect body. A centimeter less than perfection, and they look stupid. He doesn't look stupid.
After some discussion, Thomas decides that, although the t-shirt is hot, it's too flamboyant, and asks him to change into an Iowa Hawkeyes t-shirt. "It's a football team," he explains. "Turning Mickey into a wholesome all-American jock, the kind of boy you want your son to date." Everyone laughs.
More Mickey after the break
