by Cleve Jones
The Bakery Café was sold, and a guy from Germany named Wolfgang took over. He was tall and handsome but I couldn’t stand him and neither could his employees, who approached Local 2 of HERE, the Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Union, for help in organizing.
I retrieved the file from my apartment and walked the half block to the Patio Café, grabbed a picket sign, and began walking with the other picketers. I knew a few of them, told them that Harvey sent his regards and got in a conversation with one about the giant ugly deck that Wolfgang had built over the beautiful garden area. The flowers and hummingbirds were gone.
After about fifteen minutes the 24-Divisadero bus drove up and slowed down to stop at 18th Street. A woman I recognized from the Women’s Building yelled at me out of the bus window, “Cleve, it’s on the radio, they shot Mayor Moscone.” I dropped my picket sign and ran to the curb to hail a taxi. As the cab sped down Market Street, I wondered who “they” were. I figured it was either death squads from People’s Temple or the cops.
The driver dropped me off on Van Ness Avenue at the western side of City Hall. I ran in, seeing the police swarming around the mayor’s office on the other side of the building. The cops frightened me and I ran up the stairs. The Board of Supervisors was on the second floor, and each supervisor had a small office opening to a private hallway that ran parallel to the public hallway. There was a passageway that connected the ornate supervisors’ chambers to the reception area and the hall to the individual offices.
Harvey had given me a key to the passageway, and as I let myself in I saw even more police officers running up the stairs. I felt panic in my chest and turned left towards the offices, looking for Harvey, when Dianne Feinstein and an assistant rushed past me. Feinstein’s sleeve and hand were streaked with dark red.
I looked down the hallway and saw Harvey’s feet sticking out from Dan White’s office. I recognized his secondhand wingtip shoes immediately.
Then my memory shifts to slow motion.
I float to the door of White’s office and peer in. There is a cop there, on his knees, turning Harvey’s body over. I see his head roll. I see blood, bits of bone, brain tissue. Harvey’s face is a hideous purple. I feel all the air leave my lungs. My brain freezes. I cannot breathe or think or move. He is dead. I have never seen a dead person before.
I struggle to comprehend, as my mind begins to understand what my eyes are seeing. The only thing I can think is that it is over. It is all over. He was my mentor and friend and he is gone. He was our leader and he is gone. It is over.
We are there for hours, trapped in his little office as they bundle up his body. People come in. More cops. We find Harvey’s old cassette player and the taped message he had recorded in anticipation of his assassination.
I’d known of the tape and teased him a bit, “Who do you think you are, Mr. Milk? Dr. King? Malcolm X? I don’t think you’re important enough to be assassinated.” We press the play button.
And now he is dead and it is all over and we are listening to his voice tell us that he always knew this is how it would go down.
This is what he expected.
This is what he was willing to do.
This is what had to happen.
And all I can think, all I can say to myself, is, “It’s over. It’s all over.” And then the sun goes down and the people begin to gather.
They come from all over the Bay Area: young and old; black and brown and white; gay and straight; immigrant and native-born; men and women and children of all races and backgrounds streaming into Castro Street—Harvey’s street—faces wet with tears, hands clutching candles. Hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands fill the street and begin the long slow march down Market Street to City Hall, a river of candlelight moving in total silence through the center of the city.
There were songs and speeches but I remember none of them. I stood there in Civic Center Plaza in the midst of an ocean of candlelight, in front of the building where Harvey had died, in the middle of the city he had come to love and that had come to love him back in equal measure. And now it was all over.
My friends and I walked slowly back to Castro Street. Police cruisers lined Market Street and followed the returning marchers, but they kept their distance. Had they been closer we might have heard what they were hearing: over the police radio, the cops were singing
Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.
From glen to glen and down the mountain side…
Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy, I love you so.
I was wrong. It wasn’t over. It was just beginning.
CHAPTER 19
A Long Winter
THE WINTER OF 1978–79 WAS LONG, DARK, AND COLD. DIANNE Feinstein, as president of the Board of Supervisors, made the announcement that Mayor Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk had been shot and killed, and that the suspect was former Supervisor Dan White. The city charter provided for the board president to become mayor if the mayor’s office was vacated. It was ironic, as Feinstein had recently signaled her intention to retire, citing the polarized nature of San Francisco politics and deciding there was no role for a polite, moderate centrist such as herself. But now she was mayor, Dan White was on trial, and the city was in shock.
In the audiotape that Harvey had recorded in anticipation of his assassination, he included instructions for the mayor, who, under the city charter, would appoint a replacement to serve out Harvey’s term. As he recorded it, Harvey of course had believed that the mayor to make the decision would be the liberal populist George Moscone. He certainly never would have imagined that it would be up to Dianne Feinstein.
Harvey left the names of four people that he endorsed to serve in his stead. He also left a list of political enemies, many of them close to Feinstein, that he deemed unfit for the job. On the list of acceptable successors was Frank M. Robinson, a writer and Harvey’s speechwriter. Frank was much older than most of Harvey’s friends and supporters and was much loved by all. However, Frank quickly took his name out of consideration. Also on Harvey’s list was Bob Ross, publisher of the Bay Area Reporter and a leader of the Tavern Guild and the Imperial Court. Bob was viewed by many of us as conservative, arrogant, and way too close to Feinstein. Harry Britt was also on Harvey’s list. A socially awkward socialist and former minister turned mail carrier, Harry was loved by many of the progressive activists. But it was the last name on the list that got the most attention and created the most excitement: Anne Kronenberg.
As Harvey’s campaign manager and as his assistant in City Hall, Annie was well known to everyone in Harvey’s coalition. She was smart and always gracious, polite, and patient, even with some of Harvey’s more complicated and demanding constituents. She was especially adept at helping the many senior citizens who would appear, often without an appointment, asking for help. She also was kind of glamorous, with long hair and a tough-looking girlfriend named Joyce, who drove motorcycles and city buses. I was among those who wanted Annie to get the job. We rallied around her and helped move her stuff from her own apartment, which was not in District 5, into Harvey’s place to meet the residency requirement.
We all thought that Feinstein would make her decision within a few days, but she didn’t. Weeks went by and Harvey’s seat on the board remained vacant, his district and constituents unrepresented. Anne Kronenberg supporters began to organize, printing thousands of campaign-style window signs that spelled her name in the same font and colors that had been Harvey’s. Lesbians were very enthused and it was good to see so many gay men and lesbians working together again, as we had against Proposition 6.
Down on Castro Street the cops were back, harassing people on the street and going into the bars, supposedly to check for underage drinkers and ensure that there weren’t too many pinball machines.
After several weeks, Mayor Feinstein was still stalled on her decision. Privately, the mayor had communicated her discomfort with Kronenberg. She perceived Annie to be a radical lesbian feminist and was
concerned she’d show up for board meetings in leather. Leaders from SEIU, the largest union in the city, met with Harry Britt, Dick Pabich, and Bill Kraus to communicate their concern that by pushing Kronenberg over Ross and Britt we might end up with someone much worse, possibly even an appointee from the other list, Harvey’s enemies.
In the end, Mayor Feinstein offered the position to Harry Britt and he accepted.
Annie and her friends were both angry and hurt. Lesbian leaders I admired were furious. Del Martin, Phyllis Lyon, Pat Norman, and others blasted the choice as an example of sexism. My friend Roma Guy knew that I supported Annie but looked at me sadly as she said, “Cleve, you know this is only going to make it even harder for lesbians to trust gay men.” I knew it was true.
It also stung a bit that I was not included in the conversations about Britt’s possible appointment. I tried to take some comfort in the knowledge that Harry’s politics were in line with Harvey’s and possibly even more to the left and closer to my own. To his credit, the usually shy Harry stepped up to the challenge, making it clear from his first days in office that he would not be supporting Feinstein’s centrist agenda. He immediately took up the cause of renters, gay liberation, and police misconduct.
Police Chief Charles Gain, appointed by the late Mayor Moscone, clearly did not enjoy the support of the rank-and-file police officers or the leaders of the Police Officers Association. He had served previously as chief of police across the bay in Oakland, and was seen as a liberal reformer who had attempted, albeit with limited success, to reduce tensions between the Oakland P.D. and that city’s large African American community.
One of his first actions after his appointment in San Francisco was to order all the police cruisers and other vehicles repainted, replacing the macho black-and-white color scheme with a gentler pale-blue and white. Many mocked the decision, and the cops on the beat were incensed.
Tension between the police and the gay community, as well as other minority communities, increased. For many of us, Dan White became a symbol of what we were fighting. His last name was perfect, of course, and everyone knew of his previous careers as a police officer and firefighter. The media often described him, both before and after the murders, as an “all-American boy.”
It also seemed that Dan White was getting preferential treatment, starting from the day of the murder when he was allowed to surrender to a close friend, Office Frank Falzon, inside Saint Mary’s Cathedral, the principal church of San Francisco’s Roman Catholic archdiocese.
As the trial began the city was awash in rumors: that the district attorney was going to go easy on White, that the jury selection process was rigged, that the police were raising money to defend White. In the bars people could be heard asking each other if he would get away with it. At first I couldn’t imagine any possible outcome other than two counts of first-degree murder. But as the weeks dragged on I began to share the growing apprehension that the heterosexual old boy network of Italian and Irish Catholics would prevail and Dan White would go free.
One Saturday in early May the gay boys were congregating on the sidewalks of Castro and 18th, cruising and enjoying the afternoon sun. A local gay photographer named Guy Corey was taping announcements of an upcoming photo show when he was abruptly collared by a uniformed police officer. Guy was about to be arrested for the grave crime of taping a piece of paper to a telephone pole. He cried out for help, and whistles began to shriek up and down the block.
Within minutes Guy and the hapless cop were surrounded by about a hundred men shouting, “Let him go, let him go!” A few flicked cigarette butts at the cop; some threw pennies, then a bottle. The cop called in for help as the crowd grew larger and the chants changed to “Cops get out!” and, more ominously, “Dan White was a cop! Dan White was a cop!”
Reinforcements arrived quickly and the cops released Guy and sped out of the neighborhood. As they left the crowd roared and took over the intersection for a while, clapping and chanting. Someone in the apartment building on the corner dragged his stereo speakers to the fire escape, blasting the new hit song from the Pointer Sisters, “We Are Family,” as we danced in the intersection.
A few days later a feminist activist named Priscilla Alexander and I requested a meeting with Sergeant Jeffries at Mission Station. His district included the Castro. Accompanied by a young reporter from the SF Sentinel, we described what had happened on Castro Street and expressed our concern that violence could erupt if Dan White was not convicted of murder.
Sergeant Jeffries seemed amused by our anxiety and tried to downplay the situation.
“But,” he said, “if a crowd gathers, you just march them down Market Street like you always do.” He smiled and I thought for a moment he was going to pat us on our heads.
My friends and I, and all those who had worked with Harvey Milk, were following the trial closely but we were also talking about ways to honor Harvey and to ensure that he would be remembered by future generations. We’d had many martyrs before—those who were beaten to death, those who burned in Nazi death camps, those we lost to suicide and those who gave their lives up to drug and alcohol addictions. But Harvey was the first shared martyr of the new liberation movement. His life and death held a special meaning for gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, and gender minorities. We knew it was important that his story be known across the country and around the world.
Harvey had predicted that he would not live to be 50, and the prophecy proved to be true. So we decided to throw a party for him on Castro Street on Tuesday, May 22, to celebrate what would have been his 49th birthday. We got the necessary permits to close the street, build a stage, and use amplified sound.
I called Sylvester and he agreed to perform. Sally Gearhart and Carol Ruth Silver, Harvey’s closest ally on the Board of Supervisors, accepted invitations to speak. It was shaping up to be a fun but political tribute to Harvey.
The weekend before Harvey’s birthday I spent doing what I did best—working the streets and the clubs to build an action. With flyers promoting the party, my friends and I fanned out to the neighborhoods. To Polk Street and the Tenderloin. Along Folsom Street and the South of Market district. Up Market Street to the Castro. Haight-Ashbury. North Beach. We taped and stapled our flyers to telephone poles and bulletin boards. We worked the bars and clubs, pressed flyers into the hands of patrons, and persuaded the disc jockeys to announce the event. We used the telephone tree to recruit volunteers and had announcements printed in the gay and lesbian newspapers.
By Saturday night at the Stud bar we didn’t need leaflets or persuasion; everyone I saw called out to me, “See you on Tuesday—happy birthday, Harvey Milk!”
CHAPTER 20
White Night
I WOKE UP EARLY ON MONDAY, MAY 21, 1979, WITH A LONG LIST OF errands to run, calls to make, and problems to solve before the next day’s birthday celebration for Harvey Milk on Castro Street. Everyone pitched in. The organizers of the Castro Street Fair had a sound system. The owners of Cliff’s Variety convinced other Castro Street business owners to support the street closure, and we obtained the required city permits.
I spent the day working and got back to the apartment on Castro Street around four p.m. My roommate Eric Garber was making tea and coffee for the volunteers who’d stopped by for more leaflets. We had one telephone, mounted to the kitchen wall by the hallway. We had bought an extra-long handset cord so if either of us desired privacy we could take the phone into the bathroom or out into the hall.
Eric was standing next to the phone when it rang; startled, he jumped and then grinned as he picked up the phone. His face immediately changed as he listened then handed the phone to me.
“Hello, Cleve?” It was one of the reporters covering the Dan White trial. I took the phone into the bathroom and closed the door behind me.
“He got off, Cleve. Manslaughter for Moscone, manslaughter for Milk.” My throat closed and I couldn’t speak.
“Hello, Cleve, are you there?” I felt my stom
ach turn over and leaned over the toilet as I vomited. “Do you have anything to say?” My face burned and I began to sweat. My eyes overflowed and my nose filled and my stomach emptied again.
She waited while I cleared my throat and I managed a one-sentence response, “This means that in America it is OK to kill gay people.”
I could hear people shouting and crying in the kitchen, so I placed the phone on the tile floor while I washed the puke and snot and tears off my face. I brushed my teeth and opened the door. Every room of our flat was already filled with young men and women, many weeping as they watched the breaking news reports on the TV.
Eric handed me a glass of water and leaned in to tell me, “People are already gathering at Castro and Market. Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon are there and want you to meet them in front of the Twin Peaks for a press conference. You should go now, I’ll stay here and deal with this.” He looked towards our front door and the hallway rapidly filling with people.
I grabbed a jacket and headed down the stairs and north on Castro towards Market Street. On every side I could see people walking in the same direction. Some carried signs; one said “Avenge Harvey Milk.” I felt a bolt of fear in my gut and a terrible uncertainty. I didn’t know what to do.
At the corner about 150 people and several camera crews and radio news reporters surrounded Del and Phyllis. I don’t remember what any of us said as we decried the verdict except near the end, when a reporter from the CBS affiliate KPIX asked me, “You have a permit to close Castro Street tomorrow to celebrate Harvey Milk’s birthday. Is that when the gay community will react to this verdict?”
By that time, I’d learned enough to look directly at the camera and not the reporter when I responded, “No. The reaction will be tonight. It will be now.”