The Complete Works of Pat Parker

by Pat Parker

  We still have a long way to go in eliminating the things that oppress people in this society, but we are trying to change them, and we know that one of the ways to do this is to teach the children. The thing that is exciting about our child’s life is that she is not alone in her learnings.

  People, get ready! If you are racist, sexist, classist, or homophobic, my child is going to think you are strange.

  “Gay Parenting, Or, Look Out, Anita” first appeared in

  Politics of the Heart: A Lesbian Parenting Anthology in 1987.

  The 1987 March on Washington: The Morning Rally

  When HOT WIRE editor Toni Armstrong asked me if I’d be willing to do an article about the 1987 March on Washington—specifically the “Third World Rally” and what it meant a year later—I quickly said, “Yes, no problem.”

  No problem, indeed. Since that phone conversation, I have paced a quarter-inch groove in my studio carpet, chewed enough toothpicks to make a three-year-old redwood tree, and generally became a royal expletive deleted.

  Looking back to the March conjured up all the mixed emotions that existed for me then: the sense of having traveled so far and yet having so far to go, while at the same time passing by lush meadows and crystal blue lakes that entice one to stop and rest and abandon the journey.

  The circumstances that brought me to Washington on that cold October day had given me cause to worry. I received a phone call from Pat Norman, who was serving as one of the national co-chairs of the March. It seemed that Pat had been doing battle. The power that be—the individuals responsible for the logistics of the March, who we shall hereafter refer to as the G.O.B. (read gay old boys)—had once again overlooked the participation of third world people. A compromise was made, and the “Morning Rally” was the result.

  Pat Norman sounded tired on the phone that afternoon. “Parker, I want you heard,” she told me. “These people need to hear what you have to say.” I agreed to come to Washington, but I was conflicted. In 1970, I and a few other women had made forays into the male-dominated gay liberation movement. The goal was unity and coalition. The result was frustration, anger, and rage. There were certain factors that we as lesbians had not considered. One, that men—not unlike women—come to the gay life for different reasons: some because they love their same sex; others because they hate the opposite sex. Two, that a white gay man in the closet enjoyed all the privileges of this patriarchal society, and he was not about to give them up easily.

  So we found ourselves exhausting valuable time and energy in arguments over the rights of drag queens, the word “girl,” and numerous other issues that brought us no closer together—and in fact sent the lesbians out the door angry and disgusted, swearing that the male gay movement was “not ready.”

  Those memories were fresh in my mind, coupled with the experiences of being a lesbian of color in both the feminist and gay movements. I kept reminding myself that 1970 was almost twenty years ago and times had changed; that the myopic tendencies of the G.O.B. was limited to a few and not the many.

  The other part of me wanted to be in Washington. The memory of the 1968 March on Washington led by the Black civil rights movement was vivid. I had not gone to that march because, like so many people in the country at the time, I simply could not afford it, and I am too much of a Capricorn child to put my finger in the wind and take a chance on where I will lay my head down at night. Yet I was well aware of the ramifications of participating in an event of that magnitude. I have talked often with people who participated in that March, and it still affects them to this day. The rumblings through the grapevine here indicated that this March on Washington would be similar in its effect on people.

  So, I boarded a plane last October and headed for the District of Columbia. On the plane from San Francisco to O’Hare Airport in Chicago, there were several small clusters of gay men and lesbians, about twenty in all. The gay-appearing (and note here that what appears “gay” to gay people and “gay” to straight people are a world apart) service representative who took our tickets handed them back with a knowing smile and said, “I know where you’re going.”

  Switching planes in Chicago and boarding the flight to Washington drastically changed the numerical make-up of the passengers. Now the plane was approximately twenty-five percent gay, and the somber passengers who read their books and magazines between San Francisco and Chicago started exchanging names and learning the place of origin of their sister and fellow passengers. The mood lifted, and excitement and anticipation permeated the atmosphere.

  Washington D.C. was packed. Gay mean and lesbians were everywhere. The proportion of men to women, however, seemed to me to be greatly imbalanced, pointing up once again the great difference in the economic realities between men and women. That same economic imbalance was evident in the proportion of whites to people of color. In spite of this, the feeling of community and power was covering the city like a comforter. Washington was, for those few days, a gay town. The streets, restaurants, hotels, and parks were peopled by queers. And the sense of power that comes with numbers—plus the realization for some that they were a long way from home, and their parents and bosses were not watching—led to a mass exodus from the closets. People blatantly walked, strolled, and strutted through the streets of our nation’s capital holding hands, arms around shoulders with no fear, no turning of hands to spot the enemy. And the enemy was silent. The occasional bold soul who dared to scream out “faggot” or “queer” was immediately surrounded by bodies screaming back, “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?”

  The sense of power was infectious. I flashed back to a time early in the movement when the idea was put forth of founding a lesbian state, a place where we could live in peace and without closets. At that time I said “no way.” I was not prepared to live in a totally lesbian state, because to the gay movement I was still invisible. (Although I feel more visible today, I still believe that no minority can make major change alone; when we join together we create power blocks and become a force to be reckoned with.) And to those in the early days who were aware of people of color, many equated third world lesbians with violence, drugs, booze, hustlers, and poverty. In speaking of the feminist and lesbian-feminist movements, many still say that they are “white women’s movements”—yet I was there and have never been white. Still for a few days in that October of 1987 I considered the possibility that maybe such a thing was now viable. Faggots and dykes of different races and cultures reveled in their togetherness; embraced each other without reservation.

  October 8th arrived, and the early morning streets were filled with people. The morning rally—which has mistakenly since been dubbed the “Third World rally”—was to begin at 9 a.m., following the reading of the Names Project quilt. The people involved in setting up the morning rally sought to fill in the obvious gaps in the program of the main rally, which was scheduled to follow the March. The morning rally producers sought to bring together not only representatives of the third world, but also people who had been there when no one else was. A major criticism that can be levied against our movement today is our glaring failure to teach our history to those who follow, and to honor those who stood alone.

  I was honored to share the stage with early activists such as Morris Kight and Buffy Dunker. I went to Washington knowing that Pat Norman had not asked me to come just because she liked my poetry, but because she knew that back in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s I took my words into church and bars, coffeehouses, and parks and said, “I am Black and I am Lesbian; I am proud of both and not willing to compromise either.” Pat Norman knew that I had stood alone.

  So I was filled with mixed emotions that day. I was exhilarated by the signs of hundreds of thousands of lesbians and gay men gathering to march through the streets of Washington; I was honored when Pat took my hand, led me to the front of the March, and said, “You march here; you deserve it.” Yet I was saddened by the fact that so many who deserved to be there were not.

&nbs
p; As I walked through those streets, filled with pride, I couldn’t help but ask, where is Judy Grahn? She was there in the early ‘70s breaking new ground—why is she not here? As I watched the main rally, I was thrilled to see people like Whoopi Goldberg risking the wrath of the neo-fascists in our midst and risking monetary losses and damage to her career—but where was Audre Lorde? She did the same thing almost fifteen years ago.

  As I watched performer after performer take the stage, I could not help but remember Paul Mariah, a white gay man who took his poems to the straight poetry readings (the only forum available) and tolerated the polite indifference of his peers to the pain and isolation chronicled in his work.

  Despite what was missing, I could not help but feel pride as I watched an event unfold that had been a dream. I could not help but leave Washington filled with hope and expectation of what was to follow. I knew that so many of those people who had never dared to leave their closets would find it extremely difficult to go back into them when they returned home. I knew that so many of the doubts and mistrusts of various gay groups toward each other had been broken down. I knew that hundreds of thousands of lesbians and gay men, buoyed by the energy of that march, had left that town filled with the commitment to continue to struggle for change. I believed that the straight world had best brace itself, for returning into their midst was an army of people who not only believed but knew that they had the right to exist and live their lives openly and without shame.

  So when Toni asked me to write this article, I thought—no problem. Then I began to think—where are they? What happened to all that energy and commitment?

  I attended a national conference of Black Lesbians and Gays in Los Angeles last February and was appalled to learn that in the opening session of the conference the only lesbian scheduled to speak was a woman doing a slide show. I listed to Black gay men tell, with a great deal of anger, of their battles with white gay men over who should control the pitiful allotment of AIDS funding.

  I am buoyed by the knowledge that lesbians in the Bay Area are forming blood drives to give blood to AIDS patients; still I have to ask my gay brothers some questions. Instead of organizing and marching for people with AIDS or ARC, why not instead organize and march for a national health care system so that any person needing medical care can get it in this country? And if tomorrow I call for a march to raise funds to fight cancer—which is decimating my lesbian community—will the gay men be there?

  I am saddened by the knowledge that the Pacific Center, which is a center for gay people which offers counseling, intern programs for future gay and lesbian counselors, and support groups, has been left en masse by the lesbian and third world staff, because the predominantly white gay male board of directors has not listened to them and has adopted policies and practices which threaten the existence of the organization.

  So, where have we come since the March? Not nearly far enough. We are still fighting the same battles, because we have not studied our history enough to avoid making the same mistakes. We are still not demanding political integrity from our brothers and sisters and especially our lovers, and so we are still victims to those people who believe that “gay rights” means that they have the freedom to open businesses to exploit us just as much as their straight counterparts. We still have gay people who refuse to vote because “all politics is the same,” while the neo-fascists continue to put amendments on the ballot in every election to reduce even further any rights gay people may have.

  Yet, there is still hope. We have young gay people, like singer-songwriter Faith Nolan, who came and spent a day with me because she wanted to know what it was like before. We have young people who know that their ability to go to women’s music festivals and bars was won by the struggles and deaths of people who came before, and who realize that if they do not pick up the mantle, all that has been won can be lost again.

  “The 1987 March on Washington:

  The Morning Rally” first appeared in Hot Wire in 1989.

  Two Plays

  Hard Time & Pinocle

  Hard Time

  A One-Act Play

  Characters (in order of appearance):

  Officer Paul, a white police officer

  Frank, a Black man in his early fifties, father of Uhuru

  Uhuru, young black man, son of Frank and Helen

  Richie, man in jail

  Melvin, man in jail

  Poppa, man in jail

  Helen, Frank’s wife and Uhuru’s mother

  James, man in his early twenties

  Junior, the young Uhuru

  Clifford, man in jail

  September 12th // Woodrow Wilson (text above image of a slanted vehicle or spaceship)

  The stage has four small sets on it. Upstage right, there are jail cells. If possible, they should be elevated with stairs leading to them. Upstage left there is a soda fountain. A booth. Downstage right there is a small room. Down stage left there is a kitchen. The empty space formed by the sets should form a cross.

  Setting: Interrogation room of a city prison. There is a large table with three chairs. An overhead lamp hands over the table.

  Scene: A Black man in his early fifties or late forties sits at the table. He is wearing slacks, a shite shirt and a button down cardigan. His hair is cut short; he smokes a pipe. A uniformed white officer brings in a young Black man wearing flared levis, dark tee shirt, and Levi jacket. His hair is long, worn in afro style. He has a beard and moustache.

  Officer: Here he is Frank. I’ll be right outside.

  Frank: Thanks, Paul. I appreciate this.

  Officer: No problem, Frank. Sorry about your trouble. (He leaves, closing door softly with great care)

  Frank: Sit down, boy. (Young man remains standing) Junior, sit down.

  Uhuru: My name is Uhuru.

  Frank: Well, whoever you are, sit down. (Young man sits). I asked permission to see you here instead of the regular visiting room. It’s hard to talk to a person on a phone through glass. This way we can have more privacy. (Young man picks at his nails, remains silent) Why did you do it, son?

  Uhuru: What?

  Frank: Don’t play games with me, boy! You’re not locked up in this jail for playing jacks. You killed a policeman. There are four witnesses who positively identified you. Why son? Were you on dope or something?

  Uhuru: I am Uhuru. I come from the earth to cleanse the earth. I killed a swine, a filth, a pig. It was stinking up the streets.

  Frank: You sound like a Panther or something. Is that it? Did the Panthers put you up to this? Did they indoctrinate? We can get good psychiatrists to say they brainwashed you. That you didn’t know what you what you were doing. We can get…

  Uhuru: I knew. I am Uhuru.

  Frank: You must be crazy. I have spent 18 years on the force. Everything you’ve ever had came from me and my job. I’m not a pig. I’m your father.

  Uhuru: I am Uhuru. I come from the earth.

  Frank: Dammit boy… (He goes to the door and knocks) Paul, get him out of here.

  The white officer opens the door and walks over to the young man. He takes him by the arm and leads him out. He is returned to the cell.

  Setting: Jail cells. Two adjoining cells. In one, there are three men. One is about 35; the other two are in their early twenties. There is a toilet with no seat and a wash basin. Four bunks, two on each side. The second cell has one occupant. A young man. It contains the same fixtures as the first.

  Scene: Uhuru is led past the first cell and into the second. He climbs into a top bunk, lays on his back, arms under his head.

  Richie: Damn man, I’m hungry. Seem like I been hungry ever since I been here. Wish I had some of my old lady’s cooking right now. Some greens and corn…

  Melvin: Aw, nigger hush. All you ever want to do is eat. You probably the only turkey in this joint that likes the food here.

  Richie: Well, it’s better than nothing. I’ve had worse. Sides you gotta make do with what you have.

  Melvin:
Yeah, make do. Nigger, you are pitiful. We sitting here facing all kind of time and you flapping your jaws about food.

  Richie: Well, what you want me to do? Ain’t gonna do no good feeling sorry for myself. We got caught; I can’t change that. Better to think about something good.

  Melvin: Well just tell me what is good about your old lady or her cooking. You know damn well that chick can’t even boil eggs right.

  Richie: Hey man, now you just cool out. You got no call to be rapping my old lady. She ain’t the reason for us being here.

  Melvin: The hell she ain’t nigger. Who came to my place crying about money. If you hadn’t…

  Richie: Hold it man. Nobody forced you to do nothing. And for sure that liquor store didn’t come to you. You act…

  Poppa: Why don’t you two knock it off. All the time fussing and fighting bout who’s fault this is and that is. A man can’t think for all your racket.

  Melvin: (winks at Richie and smiles) You thinking about Poppa? You not thinking about that lil yellow gal are you?

  Poppa: You best shut your mouth boy.