The Charge of the Gay Brigade!
By: James Finn
Tags: This Happened To Me, Mental Health, LGBTQ, Equality, Military

Herman invited me to go with him to the 1993 March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights. I was already planning to go. With Act Up.

“I dunno, Herman,” I protested as we chilled on a bench outside the Center. “My buddy Roy already sprung for a couple hotel rooms a bunch of us can share. We’re taking the Metro-liner together.”

He nods. “I know, man. I ain’t asking you to ditch your friends. We can march with em, you want.”

“OK, and? Just come with us!”

“It ain’t like that, Mijo. I got somethin’ I gotta do. And I need a brother with me. A vet. You gotta come help me. Please?”

A month later I was on the Mall, me and a million other lesbians and gay men. Herman and I did march with Act Up. We helped with banners and posters, and shouted ourselves hoarse.

Then we slipped away and found what we were looking for —

Vietnam War Memorial, image by Brandon Bourdages on Shutterstock

Herman had already told me why. He had to find Steve’s name and make a rubbing. He hadn’t been brave enough to seek it out before.

He’d been too afraid he’d break down.

He’d been too afraid he’d start drinking again if he let the memories surface. He’d been too afraid to do it without another gay veteran at his side.

Pink triangles shone in the sun and rainbow flags whipped in the wind. We charged down that hill, hundreds of us, if not thousands.

So we were going to find that name, take that rubbing, and then go and find a place where Herman could tell stories about Steve in peace, and cry while he sought closure.

But that’s not how things went down. Because that photo I just showed you of the memorial isn’t what we found.

Check out this wider view —

US Geological Survey satellite image taken April 26, 2002. Wikimedia Commons.

The US Park Police had cordoned the area off. They were blocking access at the open end with a line of officers on horseback. A cop was pacing back and forth in front of the horses with a bullhorn, shouting that the memorial was off limits.

Herman was shocked. I was incensed.

We started asking around and discovered that we were in the middle of a group of gay veterans from Minnesota. They’d come all the way to DC to visit the memorial with a million other lesbians and gay men, only to be told they weren’t allowed.

I walked up to the cop with the bullhorn, Herman trying to drag me back.

“What the hell is going on,” I demanded. “We’re here to visit our memorial. You and the other officers need to step out of the way RIGHT now. You’re blocking our passage.”

I used my officer voice, the one that says, I will brook no questioning of my orders.

The cop looked at me and sneered. Took in my outfit with its pink Queer Nation triangles and Act Up buttons.

“The memorial’s closed. You and … your kind… can come back some other day.”

I stared at him without blinking, then took two steps in his direction until my nose was six inches from his. “No!” I barked. My heart started to race as adrenaline flooded my body.

The cop flinched and stepped back. “You need to move along… sir. The memorial is closed. And it’s staying closed until this event is over. Those are my orders.”

I didn’t say a word to the cop, just pivoted and rushed away, dragging Herman behind me. It took us 15 minutes to round up a pair of reporters with cameras.

Act Up had taught me well.

I stood on a bench and started speaking in as much of a shout as I could manage, addressing the Minnesota vets and everybody else. The reporters snapped photos.

“This is OUR memorial! We’re here to pay tribute to our fallen brothers, lovers, and comrades! We’re here because this memorial BELONGS to us. Some of us here paid for it with our own blood!

“They don’t want us here, because they think queer people can’t be real soldiers.

“Are you real soldiers?”

A cheer rose from the crowd. Not earth shattering, but loud.

“That’s not enough! I can’t hear you! Are you real or are you just a bunch of worthless fags and dykes?”

The roar from the crowd shook me. I could feel it vibrating in my bones.

I kept at it for a while as the crowd grew and grew. The cadre of reporters grew as well. A video crew joined the still photographers.

I figured there were enough of us now. “All right, then! If this is our memorial, then fuck those cops and their horses too. Let’s go! Move, move, move!”

I used Marine Corps infantry hand signals to announce a charge. I started to sprint down the hill toward the memorial, pumping my fist.

This time, the crowd roared so loud they almost knocked me off my feet. And then they were with me — running behind me, beside me, in front of me, all around me.

Pink triangles shone in the sun and rainbow flags whipped in the wind. We charged down that hill, hundreds of us, if not thousands. We screamed like ancient barbarian warriors, a paean that raised goosebumps over my whole body.

We ran straight at the horses.

They started to move.

Forward. At us! Enormous beasts.

A shout rang out of the bullhorn, and the horses trotted quickly to the side and away. All of them. They disappeared like they hadn’t ever been there.

Herman found Steve’s name. Took his rubbing. Had a cry.

I looked around and saw so many gay men doing the same. All together.

Gay soldiers. Gay veterans. Men and women mourning the loss of beloved comrades. Mourning the loss of lovers.