Dramatization of my speech before Champaign City Council on cross-dressing arrests
I went inside the City Building and easily found the Council’s meeting room, just steps from the main entrance. The room was filled with townspeople and not a student in sight. I picked up a purple mimeographed copy of the agenda available near the door. The mayor and the councilmen all sat at tables on a raised platform in the front of the room, which was bright with florescent lighting.
At the bottom of the agenda was a place for public announcements. That was where I would make my request. Most of the meeting had to do with traffic or buildings or funding. And while I tried to pay attention, boredom and nerves got the better of me. The Valium I had taken earlier was having little effect.
Scanning the crowd, I noticed one familiar face. It was Neddy Riesman. Neddy was a regular at the Crystal Room. A large man, about fifty years old, Neddy had the appearance of a mobster. He would often carry a thick wad of bills in his pocket he conspicuously used to pay for drinks; sliding bills off one at a time, making the characteristic sound of money rubbing against money. It was not uncommon to see him accompanied by handsome young men. Tonight, Neddy sat in the front row, alone. He must have been considered an expert, since he was called upon by council members on two different occasions to address zoning issues.
Two and a half hours crawled by. At last, it came time for audience participation. By then, my underarms were damp, and I worried the wetness would start to show through my suit jacket. I got up and stood second in line behind a woman, who babbled on and on about the city’s traffic congestion. The council members asked her questions and I hoped the inquiry would go on for hours to prolong the inevitable. I wondered what had brought me to this spot at this time.
Then, with little warning, she left the podium and it was time for me to speak. I approached the microphone.
"Hi," I said, but it was too loud, so I pulled back a few inches. "My name is Dave Rosen from Urbana, Illinois." It did not occur to me until that moment, that I was an Urbana resident at a Champaign council meeting. I paused, but there was no objection. Somebody was putting on their coat. Councilmen shuffled papers. I continued, careful not to use the word ‘represent,’ "I am from the Gay Liberation Front." The line was an attention grabber. The good citizens of Champaign stopped in their tracks and a few of them snickered. At once, I knew that Gloria and her minions would have my head for even mentioning the organization.
"Two weeks ago,” I began, “the Champaign police raided a Halloween party and arrested three transvestites." This was greeted by raucous laughter as if I was Uncle Miltie, in drag for their entertainment.
The mayor, Eben Kane, banged his gavel. "This man is here to speak to us," he said, "and we should give him the courtesy of listening." There was silence in the room.
"I have known several transvestites here in Champaign and Urbana over the past year. The ones I have known have been productive citizens who are just doing what they feel is natural. The clothes they choose to wear should be nobody's business but their own. As long as what they do doesn't hurt anybody else, we…" I hesitated over the use of the word 'we', but then continued.
"We ask you to repeal the ordinance that allowed the police to break up a simple Halloween party and arrest productive citizens. Thank you."
"Thank you, sir," said the Mayor, "for coming here and taking the time to express your point of view. We will take the matter under advisement."
I went back to my seat to see the laughter replaced by looks of scorn that seemed to say, “That wasn’t very entertaining. Still, I was relieved that it went as well as it did. But what would I do for an encore?
