Dramatization of Bloomington-Normal IGLA Conference

Two weeks later, Winston and I were on a bus to the twin cities Bloomington-Normal, Illinois. My demons were hounding me. Champaign and Urbana had not gone according to plan. Without those victories, our positions would carry little weight.

After arriving downtown, we hiked to the Illinois State campus. With some difficulty, we found the classroom where Illinois Gays for Legislative Action was holding its statewide meeting. We allotted extra time for finding the place and ended up arriving fifteen minutes early.

I felt that this was a meeting of critical importance. I was nervous and excited and pleasantly relieved that Winston had on a fresh set of clean clothes. I marched into the meeting room, papers at my side, like a diplomat entering the United Nations.

The desks in the classroom were old, solid oak, single units with enough pen marks on the tables to give them a rough, almost unusable, surface of blue, black and red. I sat at a desk which caught my eye. A heart, carved into the surface read 'Brian & Dawn'. It broke my upbeat demeanor and moved me to incredible sadness, but I had to sit there. Winston took the seat beside me. Otherwise the room was empty.

The setback in Urbana had been devastating. My bitterness only grew, my obsessions magnified, and my rage could not be contained. In the days leading up to the council meeting I felt that victory was the light at the end of the tunnel, my ticket to a normal life; all that killed by Barber and his 1500 signatures.

A victory in Urbana would have clinched our leadership authority in Normal. Nobody would argue with a march on Springfield when I unveiled the trophy: the first gay civil rights bill in the state—the second or third in the entire nation. Now Winston and I could report only on delay in Urbana and defeat in Champaign.

“Any chance they might still agree to the march on Springfield?” I asked Winston, while tracing the ‘Brian & Dawn’ heart with my index finger.

“We don’t know their politics,” replied Winston, “Hard to say.” I shrugged and stared at the heart.

A few minutes later, others wandered in, and introduced themselves to us. They sat in groups of two or three at the front of the room. Winston smoked and got up to pace while I sat at the desk, lighting a Pall Mall Filter Gold and attempting to blow smoke rings. Before long there were ten of us.

When he entered the room, there was a hush. He was tall and handsome with jet black hair and a well-trimmed goatee. The eyes of this young man who looked to be in his early twenties could easily mesmerize. Without breaking his stare at those of us assembled, he placed a stack of papers on the front desk.

“Hi Garret,” said a large guy in the front row. The man with the jet black hair moved his eyes to the fat man and nodded. Having established his presence over each of us in the room, Garret sat, and organized the papers on the desk. Winston took this as a cue and hurried to his seat beside me. The ten of us quieted and waited for the meeting to begin.

“My name is Garret Gray,” said the Faustian man when all was quiet, “Chairperson of Illinois Gays for Legislative Action. Welcome to our first statewide meeting held outside the Chicago area.” His words sounded ordinary. Garret thanked everyone for attending and had each person introduce themselves. Two of the participants were from Bloomington-Normal, Winston and I from Champaign-Urbana and the rest hailed from Chicago.

"Let me begin," said Garret, "with the Springfield update. As some of you are aware, we have contacted two state legislators in the Chicago area who have expressed interest in the idea of a statewide civil rights bill. Our contacts plan on discussing the idea with several of their colleagues. To that end, we have designed a questionnaire that I would like to pass around for comments. Once this body has approved the final text, we hope you will take this form, give it to your own representatives and give copies to friends who can do likewise." Garret passed around the form as a prelude to the discussion that would follow.

One of the participants commented that "most of our friends in the legislature might be afraid to complete the form as that would put them on record as gay rights advocates."

I was disgusted at the cowardly comment. "Sending forms to legislators is certainly a good start," I began, diplomatically. "However, the only way to win gay rights is through militant mass action. We must demand our rights and not stop until those rights are won. Our group in Champaign-Urbana proposes a march on Springfield demanding full civil rights for gays and lesbians."

The room grew quiet and one of the guys from Chicago spoke up. "You’re not living in the real world," he said. "Twenty freaks marching in Springfield with picket signs would make us the laughing stock down there. I have been involved with government for some time. Taking it slow and steady is the mature, responsible way to win our rights." There were some nods of agreement, but not from Winston or me.

Garret glanced around and smiled, sending chills down my back. It wasn’t a Seth Heller, Joseph Stalin kind of grin, but something kinder, more subtle and even creepier. "I see there is a bit of a disagreement," he said shifting to a lower voice.

I wasn’t about to be intimidated and continued. "In Champaign and Urbana, we have been fighting for civil rights with demonstrations, yelling, and militant action. We have never apologized and never backed down one inch from the conservative councilmen and hate-filled crap that comes from the religious fundamentalists. We now have the votes in Urbana to win. It's just a matter of time." But as I said the words, my confidence was lost, no longer sure whether the votes were there at all.

Garret seized on my reticence. "You haven't won yet, and even if you do, tactics that succeed in a college town are not necessarily appropriate for a state legislature." Then he shifted direction like wind around a tall building and gave the wicked little smile again and said, "Still the idea is not without merit."

"We believe that a march on Springfield is very appropriate,” I resumed, unsure whether Garret was with me or against me. “Furthermore, it can be used to build a march on Washington.” I paused long enough to look at Winston with a guilty expression and then continued. “Only with tens of thousands of gays marching on Washington can we truly secure equality."

"What planet are you from?" interrupted a guy from Chicago. "The sixties are over. Demonstrations are a thing of the past. A million people could not end the war. How do you expect a couple hundred faggots to do anything at all but get themselves laughed at, beat up and busted? Nixon won. The revolution’s over. Grow up!"

I bristled at the use of the word faggot and looked at Winston, hoping that he would continue the argument, but Winston was quiet and seemed nervous, so I reluctantly continued. "April 24th, 1971, where a million people were mobilized in D.C., changed the very course of the war. It forced the Paris Peace talks and drove Nixon so mad he bugged the Democrats. We cannot win by begging, only by demanding justice. Mobilization of the gay community is critical for our survival."

Garret appeared pleased with the conflict, like he was about to score. "I see our Champaign-Urbana delegates are bringing some radical suggestions to the table. I wonder, Dave, if you could give us a quick summary of the resources you have available to pull off the march in Springfield, let alone the march on Washington."

I squirmed, unprepared to answer the question, and Garret seemed to relish my silence. From out of nowhere, it came—my answer. And I even believed at the moment it was a good one.

"The Socialist Workers Party," I began, "is one of the most powerful organizations on the U.S. left. The same people who brought us April 24th, 1971, and, as a result, completely changed the course of world history, are considering building an equally large march on Washington for gay and lesbian civil rights. A successful march on Springfield will influence the outcome of that consideration."

Winston’s jaw dropped and the others were silent. At first I thought they would cheer like I was suggesting the greatest alliance since WWII. But I saw in their faces something else and the glare in Winston’s eye told me it was time to begin damage control. "Of course, there is no commitment. The discussion is just in its preliminary stages.” I fumbled. “The SWP is the organization that can provide the resources we need."

"Communists!" spat out the large fellow in front. "You intend to subordinate our movement to a bunch of communists!"

"Not subordinate our movement, but use the socialists," I shouted. "Use the Socialist Workers Party to further our own agenda. They have the organization, the manpower to accomplish what we need to accomplish."

"The Socialist Workers Party is a bunch of Trotskyites," shouted the guy from Chicago. "They wrecked the anti-war movement with their splitter tactics." I recognized the last line as boiler plate anti-SWP propaganda.

"We believe in the single issue united front," I replied. "Everybody who supports an issue is welcome: Republicans, Democrats, everybody."

"OK folks," said Garret, dead-panned, like he was speaking from a script. "Let’s try and respect each others’ opinion." He looked at me with a strange, yet fascinated, expression. "So you really think it’s possible the Socialist Workers Party will use their resources to help build a gay march on Washington?"

At last, the response I was looking for. Garret focused his handsome eyes briefly on each member of the group. "I feel we should move ahead with a march on Springfield," he said, in a commanding voice, and then looked at me. My eyes lit up. "What’s your time frame?" he asked.

I was having a hard time holding back my excitement. “I would say late October. We can use the march as a springboard for a subsequent conference discussing the march on Washington." I dared to glance at Winston whose expression remained unchanged.

"Very good," said Garret. "All in favor?"

It was unanimous, save the Trotsky baiter who cautioned, "You guys are making a big mistake." Winston raised his hand with the others, but seemed ready to explode.

---

After the meeting adjourned, Winston and I walked to a street corner where by prearrangement we would be picked up by Bill Waveland, my so-called partner from Peoria, sometime in the next two hours. Winston was menacing in his silence and I finally built up the courage to broach the subject.

“I admit it was stupid, but it worked,” I blurted out. “Garret seems just as excited with the march on Springfield as we are.”

"Not only were the comments you made inappropriate,” Winston said, “but you could be expelled for them.”

His response was far more severe than I expected. "I didn't really lie," I replied, trying to squirm my way out of the mess. "We are starting to consider the issue. You did tell me you discussed it with New York Comrade Zach Doubleday on the phone last week. He was excited by the idea, wasn’t he?”

"It's not a question of truth or lies,” Winston said gravely. “The internal business of the Party is never to be discussed with non-members, especially in a hostile forum like that. Internal discussions are precisely that: internal."

"The party should be happy to have its name bandied about to build mass actions,” I grumbled. “Clearly, Garret Gray seemed impressed…and he's head of IGLA. Did you notice the respect he has in the group?” Winston just shook his head. “The point is,” I continued, “if I never mentioned the resources supplied by the Party, the whole plan would have fallen apart. It's not like we have an Urbana victory to wave around."

"If the National Executive Committee hears that you suggested, in a public forum, that the SWP was directly involved in a national gay march on Washington, you most likely would be expelled from the YSA.”

I had no answer and looked at the ground silently and so did Winston. Several minutes passed with nothing said, until he finally spoke. “I believe that, expulsion can be avoided if you would agree to censure by the local and issue an apology."

Winston had provided an out and I was pleased. As far as I was concerned, eating crow was a small price to pay for today’s victory at the IGLA meeting. "Fine," I said, holding back a smile. "I'll apologize and graciously accept the censure."

Winston nodded approvingly and I was glad that the incident had passed. Sometimes it seemed my entire life was escaping from the consequences of my own words. We analyzed the events of the day and it felt good to have a normal conversation again.