July 28, 1969

I leaned against the brick in the alley, smoking my cigarette. Man, I needed a break.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d sought out the Stonewall Inn for a bartending gig. It was the only place in town where I could breathe without fear that someone would notice I was doing it differently. But sometimes, after watching boys holding boys, shame twisted my gut. Don’t get me wrong, my shame wasn’t about who I was, but about not being brave enough to be it out loud. I wanted to join in, to belong, but only if I could do it without risk. I can say it—I was a coward. 

I think Josie knew. She came in drag that night, complete with blonde wig, glitter, sequins, and red, glossy lips. But when she sat at the bar as Joe, he lingered a bit longer after I slid him his drink, as if he were waiting for something. I said nothing, even though I was attracted to him. As I said—coward. 

Frankie had called on my day off. “We’re short. Can you help?” 

I didn’t hesitate. I had no plans, not since I was in high school. After that, it became weird to my friends that I didn’t date. I no longer played baseball, so being too busy wasn’t an excuse anymore. 

So, I didn’t mind coming into work. The music playing always improved my mood. I served the drinks and watched them dance and mingle. That’s who I was—a watcher—and a wisher. 

Some nights, being there made me feel like part of them; other nights, it made me feel even more alone. Kind of like I was on the other side of the glass, looking in. 

I took another drag just as the back door crashed open, and people poured out, running and shouting. I knew immediately it was a raid. I’d heard it happened, but never when I’d been working. For a moment, I panicked, but then thought I had nothing to fear. Right? I stepped back into the shadows anyway.

But that night wasn’t like the others. 

I heard the shouts before I saw them—Josie and the police officer stumbling into the alley, mid-battle. She was still in drag and scrambling to get away from the officer’s grip. He tore off her wig. She cursed in his face. The officer wrenched Josie’s arms behind her back, trying to lock the cuffs, but Josie twisted free. The officer cruelly slammed his baton across her back, knocking her to her knees. 

Something snapped inside me.

I saw the broken brick, half-buried in litter. Grabbing it, I hurled it at the police officer. The impact on his back created a break in the beating, long enough for Josie to crawl away. She gave me a grateful nod while the officer jerked around to face me. 

I didn’t move a muscle. We locked eyes. His were filled with hate; mine were filled with something unfamiliar. I swear he wanted me dead. 

Someone shouted,” Gay power!” Then, the dam broke. 

With the baton raised, the officer managed one step toward me before an angry mob of queers, lesbians, and drag queens flooded the alley, with officers struggling to contain them. They were fed up. I’m not sure how long I stood there, being jostled around. 

Garbage cans toppled, and some were set on fire. More bricks flew. More blood spilled. Sirens wailed, but the protesters were louder. I looked around at people who, on that night, decided they’d taken enough shit. I felt their collective roar, but something held me back. I hadn’t earned the right to join in their rage, so I quietly slipped away. 

That night, I came out—at the most violent, scary time—and I survived it. 

As I walked, the noise from the riot was still heard in the distance, and something unknown began to untangle the knot of shame inside me. 

Maybe it was pride. 

Lord, I hoped so.