by Cleve Jones
One immediate effect of Harvey’s death was that plans for the first national march on Washington for gay and lesbian rights began to move forward. Activists had pushed for such an action for years, but most local groups and the tiny new national organizations opposed the notion and called it a waste of precious resources. But Harvey had reached out, built bridges, and taken time to stroke the egos of the local leaders in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Minneapolis, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, Houston, San Francisco, and Washington, DC. The news of his death inspired people across the country to say yes, we will march. Ten years had passed since the Stonewall rebellion. A commemoration made sense, especially after the violence in San Francisco.
I attended some of the regional organizing meetings and was happy when the march was scheduled for Columbus Day weekend. I’d met a hot bartender from Washington, DC, and wanted to spend my 25th birthday, October 11, in his arms and bed.
On Sunday, October 14, I marched in the first National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights. The Metro subway had opened in 1976 and I took a train from my bartender friend’s apartment. I will never forget riding the long steep escalator up from the tracks to Dupont Circle with the chants and clapping of hundreds of marchers, then reaching the top and walking out into the sunlight and the sight of the graffiti, spray-painted boldly in thick black letters on the wall of the station: “Harvey Milk Lives!”
It was an inspiring march, about a hundred thousand strong. At the rally, DC mayor Marion Berry welcomed us. We heard speeches from Harvey’s successor, Harry Britt; Metropolitan Community Church founder Troy Perry; and feminists Charlotte Bunch, Kate Millett, and Eleanor Smeal. Leonard Matlovich, Harvey’s potential challenger, spoke, as did Morris Kight from Los Angeles, Harvey’s ally in the Coors Beer boycott. I was particularly moved by poet Audre Lorde’s speech and was beside myself with joy when I found myself sitting on the Washington Monument lawn, smoking a joint with Allen Ginsberg and a bunch of cute gay hippie boys.
Back in San Francisco I began to organize another march: for November 27, 1979, the first anniversary of the murders at City Hall. When I mentioned it to my friends I discovered that everyone was already talking about it, and we all agreed we should march again down Market Street as we had the previous year, when the blood of Harvey Milk and George Moscone was still fresh on the floor of City Hall.
I started writing a speech. I wanted to write about Harvey, about both the actual man and the legend that he could become. For our new movement, for our emerging little communities, we needed legends, shared histories of our people’s struggles that would help unite a people so separated by distances and division. The legend of Harvey Milk could have that power. He could reach those who were isolated and alone; he could connect us and inspire and inform. If we remembered.
I stayed up late, long after Eric had gone to sleep, and while whoever was in my own bed snored gently, I wrote and rewrote at the kitchen table.
On Tuesday, November 27, 1979, as the sun began to set, many thousands of people gathered at the intersection of Castro and Market Streets to begin the long walk to City Hall. Many, maybe most, had walked that route before, after the votes in Miami, St. Paul, Wichita, and Eugene, and again after the murders in City Hall.
We marched in silence, led by a solitary drummer and both the American and rainbow flags. The crowd filled Civic Center Plaza again with the light of candles. It was so beautiful, so powerful, and so terribly sad. I took a deep breath and lifted the microphone.
We are here tonight to dedicate ourselves to the legend of Harvey Milk, that word of his dream and his struggle may spread across this and all nations. We are here tonight to continue his struggle, continue his dream. We are here to spread the word, so that our sisters and brothers everywhere may know of the life and death of Harvey Milk.
We send this message to all the small children growing up queer in a straight world. We send it to all the strong women and gentle men, to the old faggot uncles and silent spinster aunts. We send them our love and the legend of Harvey Milk, so they may be strengthened and their lives dignified, as we who knew Harvey were, ourselves, strengthened and empowered.
We are here to build a legend, but also to remember the reality of Harvey Milk the man, our friend and neighbor. Harvey, smiling behind the counter of his Castro Camera Store. Harvey, the joker, Harvey the clown. Harvey, who debated John Briggs. Harvey, in blue jeans and a torn sweater on the 8-Market bus.
We must always remember the man behind the legend that we are building—the man who was neither genius nor saint, the man who was not our movement’s first martyr. We must remember that the work done by Harvey Milk is work we all can share, that his achievements are ones to which we can all aspire. We must remember as well, that our defeats, our humiliations, our losses were also all shared by Harvey in his time.
Yes, we know well that Harvey Milk was not our first martyr, nor our last. He had a lover named Jack and one summer day in ’78 Harvey came home to find Jack’s body hanging from the ceiling—a suicide.
I wonder, how many of you here tonight have lost a friend or loved one to suicide? Raise your candles high, how many?
How many of you know a woman who has experienced the pain and terror of rape? Let me see your candles, how many?
How many of you have been attacked, how many of you have been beaten? By bashers or the police, how many?
How many of you have heard the taunting cry from behind, “hey faggot, hey dyke,” how many?
That is why we are here tonight. That is why we marched on Washington; that is why we will keep on marching. That is why Harvey lived, that is why Harvey died. That is why we will not rest until Harvey’s dream is fulfilled: when lesbians and gay men of every age, race, and background come out to join in the struggle with all of us who seek lives of freedom and dignity and joy.
It will be a long struggle. There will be decades of campaigns and leaders and, no doubt, many martyrs. But let no one misunderstand, our movement is powered by the determination of a people too long denied, too long abused. A people who seek only the freedom to live; to work and to love. Let no one misunderstand—we are deadly serious, we grow daily in power, and we will not be stopped.
That is why we are here tonight.
CHAPTER 22
Sacramento
HELLO, CAN I SPEAK WITH CLEVE JONES, PLEASE?” THE VOICE ON THE phone sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it.
“Speaking.”
“Hello Cleve, this is Assemblyman Art Agnos. I was wondering if I could take you out to lunch. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
That was a surprise. Art Agnos had defeated Harvey Milk in the bitterly contested Democratic primary for the 16th Assembly District, which included all of the eastern half of San Francisco and all the gay neighborhoods. Many of us who had campaigned for Harvey still disliked him, but Agnos had gone out of his way to show his support for lesbian and gay people and kept his word to introduce a bill to outlaw discrimination in employment due to sexual orientation. I thought perhaps that was why he was calling, and asked him if it was regarding the bill.
“No,” Agnos responded, “It’s about a job, working in Sacramento for the legislature. Working for the Speaker, actually. Interested?”
Assembly Speaker Leo T. McCarthy was the second-most powerful man in state government. Only the governor wielded more authority. Art Agnos was well known to be Speaker McCarthy’s right-hand man. I was almost speechless but kept it together enough to say, “Sure. Let’s meet.”
Over lunch a few days later Agnos told me about the job. If I accepted, I’d be working for Assembly Majority Consultants, a group of handpicked consultants who worked on legislative issues when the legislature was in session but went off the state payroll during campaign season to run campaigns for candidates loyal to the Speaker. They were civil service exempt and served at the pleasure of the Speaker.
“You’re going to be our Jackie Robinson, Cleve, the first o
penly gay legislative staffer.” The comparison seemed a bit inflated, but I asked Agnos what the next step was.
He looked me up and down in my usual T-shirt and jeans and said, “Get yourself a suit. You’ll have to go to Sacramento for the interview. I’m sure you’ll do well. You will need to move, though, so think about that. It would be a great step for you.”
I moved to Sacramento in early January of 1980. My friend Jok Church introduced me to two guys named Harold and Lou with an extra room on 21st Street, within walking distance of the capitol.
I was about to get a crash course in real politics. I was pretty full of myself in those days. When I walked down Castro Street I knew just about everyone I saw. When I went to the Stud, I’d know almost everyone there. My reputation as an organizer of raucous street protests was solidified by coverage from the three gay newspapers—the Sentinel, the Bay Area Reporter, and the Bay Times—and numerous interviews on local TV and radio.
My friends and detractors both called me a “media queen,” with admiration or disdain. This was before the word branding became part of popular jargon, but I saw clearly that the more I got my name out there, the more likely I would find employment and the more power I would have to get things done. I also loved it and thought I was pretty good at it despite an occasional embarrassing misstep or two.
Randy Shilts had moved to San Francisco from Eugene, Oregon, and found work as a freelance journalist and TV reporter. He warned me that not all of my friends and allies would be thrilled by my new job with Speaker McCarthy. “Watch your back, Cleve,” he’d say, and I soon found out why. Supervisor Harry Britt took me out for a sandwich and warned me that working for “those people” would damage my credibility with some Harvey Milk loyalists who had never forgiven McCarthy and the Democratic establishment for supporting Agnos over Harvey in the 1977 state assembly race. My socialist friends were also dismayed and shook their heads as they disparaged the Democrats and muttered, “Sellout.”
I wasn’t the only one looking for work and finding it. With passage of Harvey Milk’s nondiscrimination bill and our obviously growing political and economic clout, gay and lesbian activists were finding positions as political consultants and staffers. I was among several gay men and lesbians elected to the San Francisco Democratic County Central Committee, the governing body of the Democratic Party. Gay people were finding work in the scores of gay-owned bars, restaurants, bathhouses, bookstores, travel agencies, and cafés as well as in banks, real estate offices, and insurance companies.
The job Agnos and McCarthy offered was perfect. It would give me a solid understanding of the legislative process and supplement my street organizing experience with hands-on work in the mechanics of political campaigns. I arrived in Sacramento with great anticipation.
I was assigned to work with Assemblyman Agnos on the gay rights legislation, Assembly Bill 1; and to monitor the Assembly Health Committee and serve as liaison between the Committee’s Democratic members and Speaker McCarthy. I knew next to nothing about health issues beyond some work I’d done with the San Francisco Mission Mental Health District, but I plunged into it and subscribed to a long list of publications in the areas of epidemiology, research, medicine, and public health policy. Among them was the Centers for Disease Control’s MMWR, the Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. Now there’s a catchy name, I thought, as I sent in the subscription form.
There were about twenty of us in the Majority Consultants Office. Some were veterans who’d worked in various positions in the legislature and on campaigns for decades. Some of us were young and new—including two women, the first Latino, two black men, and me, the gay guy. The legislature was in session, but it was an election year. Soon we would go off the state payroll and onto the Speaker’s personal political accounts. A fine line divided the political from the legislative work, a line that sometimes blurred.
The Speaker had enormous power. He alone determined the committee assignments of every member of the assembly. He chose the committee chairs and vice-chairs; he picked which bills moved forward and which died without a vote. With his own seat safe in heavily Democratic San Francisco, all of the prodigious sums of money he raised from labor unions and businesses could be used to support his loyal members during their reelection campaigns against Republican challengers.
I was hopeful that the gay rights bill would pass, perhaps not in this first year, but soon. Agnos was more circumspect: “Let’s just focus on getting it out of committee, Cleve.” He’d already counted the votes and knew we had no chance of getting to the assembly floor for a full vote. Nonetheless, he organized as if we were going to win, traveling the state, bringing in expert testimony, and reaching out to liberal clergy, educators, and editorial boards up and down the state.
“We’re going to do this every session until we get it passed by both houses and signed by the governor. We’re going to force my colleagues to hear about discrimination against gay people and we’re going to force them to record a public vote. Eventually we’ll win.”
It was fascinating to learn how it all worked. Every day brought some revelation or hot gossip or rumor of intrigue. I also soon discovered the secret world of gay men in and around the state capitol. There were closeted gay men in positions of great power all over Sacramento and I grew more and more amazed as I met them and watched them at work, and sometimes at play.
The third most powerful man in the capitol was John Vasconcellos, chair of the Assembly Ways and Means Committee. If you were a legislator with a bill you wanted passed, and if that bill cost any money at all, it had to go through Ways and Means. A few weeks after I began working, I was startled to receive a letter from Vasconcellos inviting me to spend time with him and “shadow” him to aid in my political education. He also invited me to join him for dinner some evening. I’d already met a few closeted gay staffers and I showed one of them the letter.
He laughed. “Yeah, Vasco sends that same exact letter to every cute new guy.” He smoothed the lapels of his jacket and winked. “I went out with him a few times.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Did you have sex with him?” I wanted to know all the details.
“No, we didn’t have sex and he never once came out and said he was gay. I think he’s so deep in the closet he just wants to talk with guys. Or rather, talk to them.”
I had my dinners with Vasco; he never hit on me, never spoke openly about his sexuality. He was a great hero to liberal Californians, but I thought he was sad and that his focus on self-esteem (lampooned in Garry Trudeau’s Doonesbury) was part of his own effort to live comfortably within his own skin. Later, Vasconcellos did have romantic as well as sexual relationships with men I knew, but I don’t recall him ever actually coming out publicly.
The chair of the Assembly Health Committee was Art Torres, who’d been elected to the assembly after several years with Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers. He was gay, but still married and a father. Vice-chair of the Health Committee, Dennis Mangers, was a rare Democrat elected from conservative Orange County; his wholesome, handsome boy-next-door face set my gaydar jangling. He was also married and a father.
Mangers was facing an uphill and ultimately unsuccessful fight to retain his seat and was targeted by a nutty group advocating a controversial cancer “treatment” called Laetrile. A precursor to today’s anti-vaccination idiocy, the Laetrile quackery inspired fanatics who were rampant in Manger’s already conservative district. We met a few times; I liked him and hoped he would find the courage to come out. Soon enough, he did.
I also met C. K. McClatchy, whose grandfather had founded the McClatchy newspaper chain in the 1920s. Among their publications were the Sacramento Bee, the Modesto Bee, and the Fresno Bee, main dailies for the three largest cities in the northern half of California’s great Central Valley. As president of the company, C. K. McClatchy continued his family’s tradition of progressive political values, including strong support for labor unions.
At the southern end o
f the Central Valley is Bakersfield; their daily newspaper is the Californian. The editor and co-owner of the Californian was Ted Fritts. He lived in a famous mansion on the corner of Oleander Avenue and Chester Lane in Bakersfield and hosted lavish parties for politicians, Hollywood folk, and musicians. I got to know Ted a few years later but heard all sorts of crazy stories about him as soon as I got to Sacramento.
Both C. K. McClatchy and Ted Fritts were gay. The Central Valley that their newspapers served was conservative, mostly rural with small towns where no gay organizations yet existed. But in the fights to come, their influence ensured that the editorial boards of the four largest newspapers in the Central Valley would be unequivocally on our side.
Just a few weeks after I moved to Sacramento a civil war broke out between assembly Democrats. Howard Berman, a trusted ally of Speaker McCarthy, had supported McCarthy against a challenge from Willie Brown back in 1974 and been well rewarded. But now he was going for the Speakership himself. McCarthy and Berman fought it out in assembly primary elections in scores of districts all over the state, each fielding and supporting opposing candidates. It was a vicious battle and cost millions of dollars. Speaker McCarthy’s troops, myself among them, were led by Art Agnos with Richie Ross, who had been an organizer with the United Farm Workers. Ross gave me a withering look when I told him I didn’t have a driver’s license and told me to get one immediately. Within weeks I was driving trucks full of campaign mailers from printing shops to post offices up and down the state.
McCarthy and Berman fought it out in the assembly primaries, but when the votes were tallied neither had won a clear victory. The final outcome would not be known until after November, when the Democratic nominees faced their Republican opponents.
