LGBT Revisionism and LGBT Careerism

There is a great deal of tongue clucking- and rightly so, over the new film "Stonewall." The reasons are many but center on the appropriation of the story of that pivotal night and the way in which Hollywood deforms the truth for commercial purposes. LGBTQI people are furious to see the tale told from the point of view of a white suburban male, and that a riot initiated by transgender women of color has seen them sidelined, while the history, and the honor, is colonized by gay white men.

In short: Truth is sanitized- revised to comport with a preset idea of how it was Way Back When. It is the same process by which the 60s are turned into an era of "peace love and flowers." The 60s did have an aspect of that idyllic ideal. I saw it. I was there. But the Summer of Love in 1967 was brief. And more to the point, the 60s was a decade in which great leaders were gunned down, (e.g., JFK, MLK, and RFK), and where heads were busted by cops and hardhats. Yet as seen through a rosy lens of hindsight, platitudes of "peace love and flowers" trump the hard-nosed reality of an era when the nation was being torn apart by a second civil war.

Not only as an activist, but as a writer, I'm familiar with the spite of Stalinist revisionists when it comes to upsetting cozy assumptions of a narrative they want enshrined. It makes sense: careers are built on 'owning' a socially approved angle on a profitable commodity, such as being a 60s radical, or vanguard 70s "gay liberationist." But the actuality of such eras is far different from the reductionist simplicities and certainties, which translate into easy acceptability at the expense of nuance.

In 2008, I published a memoir about my life in of San Francisco's "gay liberation" culture in which I was prominent as a poet and as the primary scriptwriter and star of the iconic free theater troupe, "the San Francisco Angels of Light." Shortly before official release, my book- FLIGHTS OF ANGELS- was scuttled by its publishers; put simply, they got me to pay for the publication, then abrogated the written contract, expecting me to pay more money in advance. I didn't. They retaliated by pulling the book. I don't mind and I don't regret it. Refusing to buckle to bullying is a simple matter of principle.

What happened next was revelatory. The book was hailed by many in the print media as a fascinating, no-holds barred tale of the 70s- the highs and the lows of a gorgeous and luminous vision, one which certainly existed. It was also a journey into the most idealistic and unusual underground in modern LGBT history- something which, at its best, was shining and radiant- a theater, which inspired Harvey Milk and gave utterance to the collective dreams of a people. But it would have been a rank lie to present the "Angels of Light" as pure flower children dancing in joy and innocence while creating beauty. Of course, that part is true... in part; and, where it existed, it existed in abundance.

But there was an underside of drug addiction, manipulation, sordid and psychotic depravity, which ran in tandem with the beauty, and which, ultimately, destroyed the group. Its locus was a drug dealer with a shrine to Hitler in her flat, one who opined, "Hitler failed. He didn't get enough Jews." It seems incredible that such a person could exist within a tribe or extended family of artists who worked for free for 12 years, to create free theater as a gift of love for their community. But such was the case.

Perhaps dichotomy is inevitable with great art? Perhaps there is always the light in striking contrast to dark? That which exalts in an existential battle with that which seeks to demolish and degrade? I don't know. I do know that, among a few shrill LGBT Stalinists, there was outrage that an insider- (me), would present the story of the "Angels of Light" and/or suggest that the cosmic force of gay light was counterbalanced and, indeed, ultimately demolished by centrifugal chaos and progressive damages as the 70s spun on to the threshold of AIDS and other forms of disintegration brought about, inevitably, by age and penury, the cost of addiction, and trying to sustain a dream despite a marginal existence.

The porno critic of a local newspaper took umbrage to my book. So did a self-anointed cultural critic who lived in SF during the first 6 years of the 70s but never did anything more engaged than having a walk on role in one "Angels" epic, a show, which I starred in and had the dominant role in scripting. Having stood by watching as the "gay revolution" took form, years later, he pronounced himself an expert. Now, along with the aforementioned porno critic- a friend of the Angel Dust dealer with a shrine to Hitler- he shared his outrage... in an anonymous review of the memoir, which was banned five times by amazon since it was so clearly the rant of an unbalanced observor.

My point isn't that hysterics masquerade as critics or that people with no actual knowledge of a scene present themselves as informed. My point is that any history requires honest accounting of what made an era great, as well as the human failings or mounting pressures, which combined to make it brief. It was true in the incandescent years of "the Angels of Light." Yet I saw inversion of truth in the two "critics" who attacked my book, which was a personal memoir, not a formal history.

Today, the film "Stonewall" panders to the commercial taste of a market, which wants historical testaments sanitized and doesn't mind shunting aside uncomfortable aspects which interfere with the Pablum of easily-digested maxims. The larger loss is that such a film repudiates complex- (dare I also say "thought provoking"?) paradoxes of how any outsiders work through their demons and psychological 'Shadow' as they progress towards maturity. And that robs the telling of greatness.

The trajectory of LGBT history was neither smooth nor easy. And the personal stories of those in the vanguard were often rocky. But how could it be otherwise? We're taking about people brought up to be self-hating and called 'sick.' Correcting that horrendous lie took years of concentrated effort by heroes, such as Frank Kameny. But I suggest that one hallmark of coming to the reality of wholeness and the appreciation of complex history is found in the willingness to face the diverse, contradictory and, sometimes, self-canceling aspects of our Past. That is how we grow. And keep evolving.

In the case of Stonewall- the event, not the film- we can now appreciate that it wasn't gay white men asserting a leading role; it was transgender women of color, such as Miss Major Griffin-Gracy. As such, the attempt by the film "Stonewall" to evade that fact not only deprives the picture of accuracy, it repeats the damage inflicted by a culture which wants history presented in bite-sized pieces instead of the often-difficult, painful and contradictory ways in which it actually occurred. But artistic value lies in facing facts as they are, not in how we'd like them to be in order to promote easy acceptance of ourselves, friends, or facile group-think. Or so say I.

Adrian Brooks: Who are the (Stalinist) LGBTQI Thought Police?!

This evening, I read something totally crazy. A bisexual female friend, who is in a loving relationship with a trans man, is apprehensive about attending Pride celebrations because gay men hog the atmosphere, and because many people- (I assume of various gender preferences)- cast slurs or aim criticism at others whom they perceive as not being 'gay enough,' according to their assumptions. Okay. That is beyond nuts. That's flat out weird. And I'm unafraid to say it since I was out before Stonewall, and was an activist before the LGBT Movement (or Gay Liberation) was even heard of.

Let's get this straight, if you'll pardon the pun: everyone should be accorded equal rights, equal respect; and attendees who call themselves sexually, spiritually or personally advanced who doesn't grasp this simple fact should go back to Square One and start again. I'm serious. This is like some African-American people thinking they they're "better" because their skin is more pale than some other African-American. Does anyone seriously believe that bisexuals or transgender folk or people who are sexually comfortable or fluid aren't standing with us if they attend Pride?! For anyone who does, I have news for you as a Civil Rights and anti-war activist in the mid-60s, who risked my life for both causes. And that's no exaggeration.

When I went to Woodstock, (which was in 1969, for any pc types who don't know), I saw lots of people- mainly men- who would have beaten the shit out of my friends and me a year earlier for protesting the Vietnam war. But- hey!- now that it was "hip" to supporting peace, there they were- sporting weird mutton-chop sideburns and swaggering around exuding macho righteousness. It was vulgar, just as coarse as anyone who claims to be aware trying to make others uncomfortable because they appear to be different.

THE WHOLE POINT is to be different; to be yourSELF; to be unique, Whole, not stereotyped, not castrated or controlled by the system, not desexed, dumbed down, or blunted by conformist pressure. Failing to celebrate others only means that you still define yourself by some applied value system. If so, it's based more on Ideas than heart, on theories than the reality of humanness in all its subtly, and that you're still unresolved about your own core Truth. So! stop being robotic. Look at others in terms of what you share. See the courage and humor and freedom expressed and celebrated instead of reincarnating some Puritanical anal retentive need to criticize or dismiss people who aren't the same as you.

I say all this as one who was out on the front lines, who understood- then and now (as millions of my generation said they did in the 60s before so many bailed after the Kent State killings), that what we were fighting for, marching for, committing to wasn't group-think or mind control but has, finally, become the ability to be distinctly individual and, yes, marry if we so choose, have children, if we so choose, and agitate for human rights and equal access to legal rights for all- regardless of superficial differences- until everyone is secure and free from the specter of being punished for authenticity.

Wake up and smell the coffee. If you endorse the LGBTQI Cause, it is not to be chipped away at, trivialized, or rendered soulless. If you can't manage that, you're in the wrong place, regardless of what gets you physically excited. Sex is the trivial part. But as the dynamic (bisexual) anarchist Emma Goldman is reputed to have said, "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution."

Author Adrian Brooks: From Philadelphia to San Francisco to India and Back Again.

Having been born and raised in Main Line/Rittenhouse Square Philadelphia when the East Coast's multi-tiered class system was still dominant, I've seen a lot of changes in 67 years. When I was a boy, no one questioned Authority. Then along came Martin Luther King (for whom I was a volunteer) and Vietnam, (which I protested very early on) and everything was turned upside down.

The 'up' wasn't only the high of belonging to a generation, which seemed committed to wide-scale social progress; it was drugs, in my case. The magical mystery LSD  tour led by the Beatles swept me through Woodstock to San Francisco in time for the last days of the hippie revolution, something which gelled perfectly with my Quaker sense of activism.

Throughout the early 70s, San Francisco seemed an "island in time" as gay liberation moved front and center. As a vanguard artist in that revolutionary culture, I still conceived of the country in terms of polarities of consciousness: the east coast vs the west coast. For me, idyllic California represented everything that I was trying to escape from. It was the new and organic vs. the old and stale.

But even long before Reaganomics "trickle down economics" hit, and AIDS descended, and high tech offered a wholly different vista of The Future, lines drawn geographically had blurred. In 1985, when I found out that I'm HIV+, I left the US and went to live in India. I'd been there twice for fairly long stretches. Now I spent 10 years boomeranging between Europe and Asia, concentrating on my spiritual development since I believed that I was going to die of "the gay plague."

But when protease inhibitors became available in 1995, I moved back to California to avail myself of the medication and to study with a spiritual teacher carrying on the lineage of Ramana Maharshi, the great saint of 20th century India, who lived most of his life in silence. Ten years had passed, years in which I'd accepted Death as natural. And I had grown.

But San Francisco had changed. The tiny city by the Bay was under intolerable pressure from the new world economic engine of Silicon Valley. My once defiantly Bohemian city was now vanishing. Oh, its beautiful landmarks remain, of course, the Golden Gate Bridge and splendid hills. But the character or nature of the place was undergoing irrevocable change.

Growing older, I've seen a great paradox: the upper middle or upper class life I'd tried to get away from in Philadelphia had transplanted itself to move West. Now California boasted its chic wineries and gentrification which translated into minorities being uprooted from San Francisco and forced out. So they left- unable to afford the skyrocketing rents. And "new people" moved in, sometimes apologetic and, aware, somehow, that they weren't the same sort who'd created such a storied place.

One of the most surreal features of this shift was to see the new similarities between east and west coasts. Some of the symbols of white privilege are different here. But there are many ways in which the unfortunate template is maintained or perpetuated. Meanwhile, to my surprise- perhaps I should say "shock" since I had believed that racism had been fairly successfully addressed decades ago, at least on an axiomatic moral level- the ugly beast returned. Or was exposed, just as mean-spirited and vicious as in the days of Jim Crow.

And so, I see a North/South divide again. A nation of police killings. A country, which, still fails to heed the lessons, which Dr. King taught us: that everything we do matters. That every choice has social and political consequences. Violence escalates. The beautiful green parks of San Francisco are going brown. They call it "the new green." But I can't help calling it tragic: the inevitable outgrowth of pollution and environmental ruin, which we (hippies) were protesting in the 60s.

When in India, I was forced to face the Hydra of my own ego and see the ways I create my universe. It's humbling to realize that absolutely no evasion will work; that we must face Truth "as is." Stripped bare, it's frightening, yet liberating, to realize that to acquire more means nothing if we're divorced from our own Self. And yet, even if we manage to center ourselves independent of the pressure to conform and move in lockstep and maintain "groupthink", there is still the reality all around us: a world out of order. A white society still plagued by delusions of Success and its own toxic racism.

Thus, I have gone from the east coast to the west, and then to the East and now back to the West. Strangely, I've seen the east come west as big money follows opportunity to golden California. In doing so, it obliterates the old sense of California being ahead, or out front of, the rest of the nation. After finding myself in India, I returned to see the browning hills of a once-green city; farmlands gone to dust; tinderbox forests burning every summer and no end in sight.

My journey returns me to a personal paradox: the need for peace within even at the risk of closing myself off to exterior upset. But that is what I wanted to get away from; it's why I came to California in 1971- not to shut down but to be open, more engaged. I was blessed. I fulfilled my personal destiny. Still, finding myself numbed by the murders in Charleston, I want to cocoon and tell myself: this can't be happening again. Surely, America must have realized some basic truth by now. Surely, we must have evolved past this sticking point, to be so hemmed in by race. No. Sadly, that is not so. And so I come around the far turn of my life in a different America where East came West, but one in which the North/South divide- socially and politically- still haunts us with the unfulfilled promises of a nation which bled so much so long ago.