PreservationNation

June has officially come and gone.

But wait! Before you ceremoniously flip your calendar and start trying to remember to write a “7” before the date instead of a “6,” let’s take a brief morning moment to look back at a month that was literally full of Pride here in the preservation blogosphere.

Our thirty-day sprint through the spaces and places that matter most to all gay-kind started out in Chicago’s Boystown with an appropriate slogan for the month: Be yourself. Since then, we’ve been to the top of Mill Mountain for a new perspective on Roanoke, Virginia, as well as deep in the heart of Texas for a freshly-out teenager’s take on Houston’s Montrose. Along the way, we toured Not-So-Naptown, got the real story behind New York’s Stonewall Inn, met the legendary Miss Cookie Crawford, hit the pavement on San Francisco’s over-the-top Valencia Street, explored the heart of gay Tulsa, and delved into the fascinating idea of momentary queering.

Out of breath? Hang in there, because our tour has one more stop.

Listen in as National Trust staffers explain in their own words why beautiful Dupont Circle – located mere steps from the front door of our headquarters building – is a place that matters to LGBT people in Washington, DC and beyond.

For a gay man coming out and coming of age in the 1980’s, Dupont Circle was like the Mother Ship, the native sod. It was the place in Washington where gay men and lesbians could freely express themselves before boarding the Metro and heading back to the more closeted lives that we felt we had to lead. It felt safe and comfortable. It also changed lives. One spring day, as my mother – who was visiting from Massachusetts – and I walked along Connecticut Avenue north of the circle, she said, “There are a lot of gay people in this neighborhood.” I paused for what felt like an eternity, weighing my options (run into traffic, perhaps?), and said, “Yes, mum, there are. I think we should talk.” My mother and I always had a very close relationship, but my realization as a young adult that I was gay and the fear that provoked had slowly created a wall between us. After that afternoon in Dupont Circle, the wall came down. She once again became a central and integral part of my life, where she remained until her death in 2007. Indeed, this place matters.

Barry Goodinson, Director of Historic Sites Development

When my partner and I moved to Dupont Circle from Alexandria, VA in 1995, Washington, DC was at a definite low point, and most of our friends were incredulous that we were actually moving into the city rather than out. Despite the city’s problems at that time, we were drawn to the neighborhood by the fantastic array of big old houses. We found an 1895 brick and brownstone home with a turret, carved oak fireplaces, inlaid flooring and brass hardware. Over the next seven years, we renovated the house little by little, learning as we went. We also got to know our neighbors and began to understand the rich and diverse history of the neighborhood. The elderly couple across the alley from us had moved to the neighborhood in the early 70’s, soon after the riots of the late 60’s had devastated the city. Mr. and Mrs. Mezzenotte were drawn to the great beauty of the architecture and, over time, bought and renovated a number of buildings and worked with neighbors to build a sense of community. They epitomized to me what is special about Dupont Circle – the sense of community. They welcomed all their neighbors – young, old, black, white, gay, straight – and fostered a pride in the neighborhood that lives on today.

George Rogers, Director of Development, President Lincoln’s Cottage

Why does Dupont Circle Matter?

1. The fountain. (Daniel Chester French’s work is masterful.)

2. The tulips in Spring. (Stunning.)

3. The trees in Summer. (Shady.)

4. The impromptu musical performances on weekends. (Surprising.)

5. The chess games. (Captivating.)

6. The photo opps. (Ongoing.)

7. The commuter scene. (Invigorating.)

8. The people watching. (Stimulating.)

9. The canine watching. (Heart melting.)

10. Its preservation, despite encroaching high rises and occasional felonious activity. (A neighborhood success story.)

James Schwartz, Editor-in-Chief, Preservation

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By Dave Bidon

Every year on the last Sunday of June, New York City’s Pride March takes over the streets Manhattan, snarling east-west traffic and transforming one of the world’s most iconic urban landscapes into the backdrop for a celebration that is part protest and part art. Though every Pride March is undeniably special, this year’s will be different, and the hundreds upon hundreds of contingents that are waving rainbow flags in the day-long trek will notice as soon as they hit Christopher Street.

During the hot summer of 1969, this narrow street was thrust into the national spotlight when a riot erupted between the police and the gay patrons of the Stonewall Inn. They definitely didn’t know it in the heat of the moment, but what they did launched a civil rights movement that officially turns forty years old this year.

Now, I used to dance at the Stonewall, and I can tell you that there are a lot of myths out there about that critical weekend. Let me start by giving you an idea of what it was like to be young and gay in New York in the late 1960’s, as well as what is was like to visit a gay bar in those days.

First, it was literally against New York’s liquor laws for there to be more than four gay people in a legal drinking establishment. That meant that any bar that catered to gays was illegal. Gay bars were all owned by “organized crime” or sometimes by cops, but never by gay people. They tolerated us just long enough to take our money for watered down drinks. Most places like the Stonewall were absolute dumps – the walls and windows were painted black, and there was usually a rough looking guy (think “Sopranos”) at the door who decided who got in.

Gay bars were often raided by the police, so they opened and closed all the time. I was in a few potential raids and there was a script. A couple of plainclothes cops would walk in, push the jukebox away from the wall and pull the plug. One of them would stand and stare, daring us to say something. The other would walk over to the bar. If the cash register opened, ka-ching, they both turned and left, and the bartender or manager would plug in the jukebox and tell us it’s over. If the register didn’t open, one of the cops would walk to the door and let in some uniforms. Then the announcement: “This is an illegal establishment…” Sometimes they just made the patrons leave and arrested the manager, bartenders and waiters. Other times they brought everybody down to the station.

These were the days of Weegee photos of “perverts” getting into paddy wagons and then having their names published all over the press. You didn’t even say the word “homosexual” in mixed company back then. It was pretty frightening.

A lot of Stonewall myths have arisen from a lack of understanding of the time. Stonewall catered largely to young gays. Yes, many of us didn’t have a permanent address, and a few may have accepted money once in a while from an older guy who offered, but we weren’t really hustlers or homeless. Full drag was only allowed two nights a week at the Stonewall –Tuesday and Sunday I think, but definitely not on a Friday or Saturday when the riot took place.

That’s the second most common myth. Absolutely all of us were flamboyant back then, both in dress and manner. We wore silk scarves and beads and baby blue bellbottoms (we were just taking hippie a few steps further) and we also styled our longer hair. This was still a few years before most young gays would even dream of looking butch. The Christopher Street clone hadn’t been invented yet. So, when you see the pictures today, we may look like drag queens, but we were really only “fem and fierce.”

And yes, at the time of he riots, Judy Garland’s body was on view at Frank Campbell’s uptown. However, most of the regular Stonewall denizens were too young and could have cared less. We were into Aretha and dancing to “My Cherie Amour.”

The police were raiding bars left and right that month. And that was after a long period with fewer and fewer incidents, so we were taken by surprise and getting worried. The story going around the city was that the police commissioner was at war with John Lindsay, our very liberal independent mayor. Supposedly the commissioner had learned that Lindsay’s brother was gay, and he was trying to catch him in a raid to embarrass the mayor.

I wasn’t at the Stonewall that fateful night, but I was there the next day. My best Lesbian friend and I went running and skipping all around the Village, jumping in and out of stores and yelling “I’m Gay!” at everybody and laughing together. Somehow, I think we were all ready for it at the time. It felt like queer VE Day or something. Gay people – especially young gays – had been getting angry for a long while. After all, this was the sixties: civil rights, anti-Vietnam and hippies. We’d just had enough.

That was officially the beginning of a new life for of us. We embraced our gay identities and wore them on the outside in defiance. And it gave us new feelings of freedom, righteousness and joy. This was like an electric shock that went through us all overnight. A new gay consciousness was riding on the waves of the many social movements of the sixties, and we weren’t going back.

A year and day later, I joined the first Stonewall march. I remember we gathered on Christopher Street in little nervous groups that morning. There weren’t many people there, and I think we delayed our start time a little. It was scary. There were signs that said “Hi Mom.” Then I looked across the street and saw TV crews. Suddenly, I put the two together and realized that I could outing myself. I quickly moved back a few rows from the front of the march and started watching for cameras.

I can still remember what it felt like to step out onto 6th Avenue. I experienced complete internal panic and then I just let go. We didn’t know if there would be gangs ready to beat us up or ugly name shouting or what. This wasn’t a parade like later years; it was a demonstration. And it wasn’t a march really, as it was more like speed walking. By the time we got up into the teens, we started getting applause here and there, and we could see lots of gay people hanging out of windows and standing on the sidewalk trying to make up there minds about joining. So we had our first chants, “Out of Your Buildings, Off of the Sidewalks, Into the Streets!”

And people did just that.

It got a little more festive as we got further uptown, and I remember meeting Taylor Meade, poet and sometime Warhol superstar (who was a little too solicitous) and other notable queers of the day. I believe I learned my favorite chant of all time that afternoon. A cute guy with a tambourine jumped out ahead and announced, “a Tarantella.” All I could think of was that song by Cyril Richard as Captain Hook. Anyway, it went: “Ho Ho Homosexual, the Ruling Class Ineffectual!”

The last thing I remember was the subway ride back downtown. The cars were full of shirtless beauties all going back to our turf – the Village.

Photo by Ross Bradford

By Debby Mayabb

The Dennis R. Neill Equality Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma matters because it is the permanent home of Oklahomans for Equality – the oldest and largest organization serving the LGBT community of Oklahoma, as well as the four-state region of the Heartland.

The Equality Center is housed in a 1920’s structure originally built as the business office of an oil refinery. The refinery lasted only eight months, and in 1921, the Independent Torpedo Factory purchased the building to use for its labs and business offices. Prior to 1930, torpedoes were manufactured in Tulsa as blasting mechanisms for drilling oil wells. The walls of the defunct oil refinery were reinforced so that they could withstand the blast of nitroglycerin explosions.

Today, it’s our Equality Center.

In 1980, Dennis R. Neill founded a group by the name of Tulsa Oklahomans for Human Rights. In the 1990’s, the organization opened the very first LGBT community center in Oklahoma. After 12 years of rented space and nervous landlords who would not allow the organization to display rainbow flags or signage, a capital campaign was launched to raise the funds necessary to create a permanent home for our LGBT community. Seven years of fundraising lead to the purchase of 621 E. 4th Street, and after 7,000 hours of volunteer-led renovations, the doors were opened.

The Robert S. Cisar memorial lobby maintains the original terrazzo floors, a 1920’s operational office dumbwaiter, and the original accounting partitions that lead to the still-functional vault that was installed by the Schwab Safe Company when the building first opened nine decades ago. Today, the lobby houses a reception area, a Pride gift shop and the staff offices of Oklahomans for Equality. It opens up into the Sue Welch Great Hall, which is named after the chair of the building’s capital campaign. This unique space functions as the “living room” of the Equality Center, and it is where panels of the internationally-famous AIDS Quilt (once displayed on the National Mall in Washington, DC) are on permanent display.

The Great Hall leads into the renovated elevator lobby, where the doors of the original freight elevator are on display. In this space, you’ll also find community conference rooms and our art gallery, which offers a unique venue for regional artists through monthly showcases.

The Equality Center’s event room is the largest of our renovated spaces, and is home to holiday balls, trade shows, education and employment fairs, theatrical productions, and concerts. Because of its size, it’s also where floats are built and decorated for our annual Pride parade.

On the second level of the building, you’ll find the Veteran’s Billiard Lobby. This area was dedicated on November 8, 2008, to honor the many LGBT veterans of the United States. The Lambda Bowling League raised the funds to purchase and donate the pool table in honor of Sergeant Harold Joseph Hooker, a highly-decorated veteran who served in the Korean War. Close by, the Nancy and Joe McDonald Rainbow Library has over 10,000 books, including the largest children’s section for LGBT families in the region. At any given time, over 5,000 books are checked out by Center members, as well as by high school and college student groups. The library also houses its own legal clinic, where attorneys aid members of our community with their legal issues on a pro bono basis.

Interested in some yoga or strength training? The second floor also features our Wellness Center, which is used for a variety of health and wellness-related endeavors. In the common area, the David Bohnett Cyber Center was created as a place where Center visitors could access the Internet. David Bohnett actually donates computers to LGBT community centers nationwide, and Oklahomans for Equality was the first center to be granted this wonderful resource. Here, members of our community check their e-mail, do homework, and fill out job applications.

The waiting area outside the Wellness Center and the David Bohnett Cyber Center was created by physician Dr. Clio Robertson in loving memory of his son, Ryan, who at the young age of 22 committed suicide. This area serves as a place of serenity and contemplation. Nearby, the Neill/Southard History Project Room archives every piece of news that has been generated by Tulsa Oklahomans for Human Rights and Oklahomans for Equality, creating a fascinating look at LGBT life in our state.

Sharing the same floor, the Center’s medical services room offers HIV testing five days a week. It is here that the Tulsa County Health Department has monthly health fairs focusing on issues such as diabetes screening, cholesterol testing, breast examines, hepatitis testing, and weight loss instructions. Nearby, a classroom area serves as the Center’s venue for lectures on LGBT issues and workshops on coming out.

For these reasons (and so many more), the Dennis R. Neill Equality Center is a place that truly matters.

Debby Mayabb is the office manager for Oklahomans for Equality, which, like so many things, is proud to call the Dennis R. Neill Equality Center home.

Join the National Trust for Historic Preservation as we celebrate Pride + Preservation throughout the month of June. Want to help us show some pride in place? Upload a This Place Matters photo of a building, site or neighborhood that matters to you and your local LGBT community.