Remembering Harvey Milk

 6/19/2022

One of my Zen teachers, Bob Aitken said to me, “We don’t realize that we’re making history when we’re living it.” I don’t know if he was quoting someone, and he was talking about the upheaval in Buddhist practice once it hit the shores of Hawaii and California, but I think of it as I reflect on my history in the early gay liberation movement.

Recently Shivam, a friend of Kumar’s, was visiting, and when I began to tell the story of Harvey Milk, I went searching for Gus van Zant’s Milk on Youtube. I couldn’t find it, but some raw footage from “The Mayor of Castro Street” came up. It was the march from Castro Street to City Hall at about noon on January 9, 1978 to witness Harvey’s swearing in. And there, not more than 6’ behind the smiling Harvey with his arm thrown over Jack Lira, I recognized my 34 year-old self. I had a rather stern determined look on my face, not as exuberant as the majority of the marchers, but I was there. I had forgotten about that event. As a matter of fact, quite a bit of that period remains a bit blurry.

I knew Harvey Milk before he became famous, before he was elected to the Board of Supervisors. Though I met him face to face many times, I don’t know if I registered in his world, but that doesn't really matter much anyway. It’s funny how earth shattering events turn memories around. They make it hard, if not impossible to see what really occurred. In the early 70’s I wasn’t totally out. This middle class kid was not entirely comfortable in the Castro, but I knew that it was as close to gay heaven as I would ever get, and I was having a great time. No that’s not exactly accurate--I was determined to discover if I really could have a good time, if life for a gay man was not to follow the dire course that my parents, and my church seemed to have pre-ordained.

When I first met Harvey, I didn’t even really know that he was interested in politics. He was the very talkative, affable guy who had the camera store on Castro who had a rather sullen boyfriend I often found behind the counter. I was shooting film and usually visited at least once a week. The desk was in such perpetual disarray that you might have wondered how he could track his customers’ film, but he never lost any of mine. When suddenly political signs went up in the windows of his shop, and he was running for the Board of Supervisors, and the shop became his campaign headquarters. I supported him in every election mostly because I liked him—among gay men he was not universally popular—yet I didn’t get as deeply involved in politics as I did after his assassination. 

I sat on the famous beat-up red couch while we did business, and then was invited to stay for as long as I wanted. I always felt welcomed and, when I spoke, listened to, but I mostly sat and listened. I sometimes had a hard time following the wide ranging conversation. Over the course of an hour customers, kids from the street, a few other Castro merchants, political friends came and went. He could laugh at any topic or take it with complete, serious concern. He might talk about the flood of gay kids looking for work, experimenting sexually, VD, pumping up rents, leaving litter (and doggie poop!) in the gutter, upsetting the old line merchants. I always had a sense that he was probing for the deeply felt concerns of the neighbors who ultimately became his constituents. When anyone asked him any question, that person became his total focus; he always linked your concern to the general good. It was clear that he had thought long and hard about the issues. He was a born politician, crafting solutions to all the complexities of our full participation and acceptance in all levels of society. He never lost sight of his primary focus: that gay men and women were entitled to equal rights without having to masquerade or make deals that would push us back in the closet. 

I remember one afternoon very well: three older well dressed Irish women, probably  widows who still lived in the neighborhood, came in to complain about the worked-out guys cruising shirtless on the corner of 18th and Castro in front of the old Irish bank which became known as Hibernia Beach. Harvey’s influence was already established, and they thought he could do something about the open sexuality of their new neighbors (I’d even say provocative judging the Castro of the ‘70’s by today’s standards). He listened to the women’s case attentively and sympathetically, but he also made sure they understood that these men were not violating any laws and had rights.

Harvey was killed on November 27, 1978. He was only 48. If he were alive today, he’d be 92. He didn’t live to see much real effect of the gay revolution that he had such a huge part in formatting., but I am sure that were he still alive, he would have been thrilled to see the massive demonstrations across the country protesting the passage of Proposition 8 here in California. He’d also be raising hell, tempering passions, and organizing a skillful, resolute opposition to the religious faction that opposes the rights of gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgender people.

Even if Harvey had known that he would wind up dead early on a Monday morning in his City Hall office, I’m sure that he still would have run for supervisor and worked as hard as he did to get elected. He might have tried a different tactic in trying to win Dan White’s support--he was an idealist, but he was also a realist, and he was aware of the risks. When we found out that he had gotten up from his desk and approached White with his hand outstretched and a smile, it seemed like a way that Harvey would have chosen to meet his death. We have made him into a martyr. He would certainly prefer to be alive, but having his murder become part of the story of our liberation is not something he would have objected to as long as we don’t substitute it for the ongoing work to achieve complete inclusion and participation in the political process.

Every year when the anniversary of Harvey’s assassination comes round, everyone remembers where they were when they heard the news. That night was not the first time that I joined a march from Castro to City Hall, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the most solemn. I won’t engage in morbid speculation of how different things might have been had he lived, but I will allow myself a few tears.