Issue 10.1-10.2 | Fall 2011/Spring 2012 / Guest edited by Joseph N. DeFilippis, Lisa Duggan, Kenyon Farrow, and Richard Kim

Queer Left Histories: Achebe Powell and Martin Duberman on Culture and Politics

We’re talking access to meaningful and fairly compensated work, quality education and healthcare, substantive participation in the political process, quality access to mobility … “Je me plains au monde:” “I stand in complaint before the world.” That’s my Left. I stand in complaint on all of these issues.
—Achebe Powell

We’re all this wild bundle and mixes of fantasies and possibilities and that’s what we have to explore. Saying the most important thing about you is that you’re gay or you’re lesbian puts you in a little box and prevents you from looking at any other aspects of who you are.
—Martin Duberman

There have been sexual outlaws, gender deviants, and same-sex loving people in politically radical or progressive movements throughout the history of the United States, whether or not they named themselves as such. From female-bodied soldiers in the Revolutionary army to female impersonators on the nineteenth century stage (who might today be named transvestite, gay, lesbian, or transgender), queer embodiment and desire were everywhere, including on the political left. The specific discrete identities of invert, homosexual, or transvestite did not emerge until the mid-nineteenth century in the United States, and those of transsexual, intersex, and transgender appeared later in the twentieth century. Influential leftist advocates for and representatives of these populations included socialist Edward Carpenter (who considered himself of the “intermediate” sex), writer Oscar Wilde, and anarchist organizer and intellectual Emma Goldman (among many others). Discussions and dissension over gender and sexual dissent occupied many anarchist, socialist, populist, labor, and communist groups in the United States through the first half of the twentieth century.

More recently, from the upsurge of organizing that both preceded and followed World War II, a multitude of self-identified sexual and gender dissidents have emerged, complicating any simple notion of how exactly a queer left might be defined. Achebe Powell and Martin Duberman are two prominent voices among the many that created the last half century of queer political life. They developed their thinking and activism in their travels through different political moments and movements, though they came together to help found Queers for Economic Justice in New York City in 2003. They both agreed to talk to me for this essay, outlining their experience and vision as queer left leaders.

Veteran social justice organizer and educator Achebe (Betty) Powell is founder and director of Betty Powell Associates, a diversity awareness and multiracial/multicultural organizational development consulting company. She started her career in progressive pedagogy teaching at both the high school and college level after receiving her MA in French from Fordham University in 1964. She has served as a co-coordinator of the New York City Black and Jewish Women’s Dialogue Group and as a member of the Multicultural Advisory Committee of the New York City Board of Education. Powell has decades of civil and human rights experience and she is one of the most visible and visionary black lesbian organizers in the United States. Recently, she emphasized that her mantra throughout her years working for social change has been: “I cannot stand here and talk to you only about gay liberation. I have to talk about the linkages between the black civil rights movement, the lesbian/gay liberation struggle, and the women’s liberation movement, in this country and globally.”

Martin Duberman, distinguished professor emeritus at the City University of New York (CUNY), taught for many years at CUNY’s Lehman College and Graduate Center. An award-winning historian, Duberman in the early 1970s risked his academic career by publicly joining his passion for progressive politics with his personal struggles to embrace his same-sex desires. He is the author of nearly two dozen works of biography, history, and memoir including The Worlds of Lincoln Kirstein, for which he was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in 2008; Paul Robeson; Stonewall; Cures: A Gay Man’s Odyssey; Midlife Queer; the historical novel Haymarket; a collection of essays published from 1964 to 2002, Left Out: The Politics of Exclusion; and, in 2009, two books: Radical Acts, a compilation of four of his plays (including the groundbreaking In White America, produced on Broadway in 1963); and Waiting to Land: A (Mostly) Political Memoir (1985-2008). He has published essays and reviews in The Nation, the Gay & Lesbian Review, Liberation, New Politics, The New Republic, and the Village Voice, among others. In 1986, after two decades of gay activism and scholarship, he founded the Center for Lesbian and Gay Studies at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York. As organizer, teacher, and writer, he helped define the parameters of the queer left for post-Stonewall activists. When asked about how to improve LGBT communities today, Duberman replied, “I think of it more in terms of what all Americans need rather than just LGBT people.”[1]

Both Powell and Duberman emphasize the interconnectedness of struggles for social change, a perspective grounded in mid-twentieth century progressive organizing in the United States, while simultaneously acknowledging the challenges of incorporating same-sex sexuality into movements for racial and economic justice.

A Short Select History of the Queer Left

The early days of the post-World War II queer movement reflect the ongoing tension between a focus on gaining acceptance and equal rights with a more expansive agenda that upends the status quo. In any history of mid-twentieth century queer left organizing, the mantle of queen of queer left activists most often has been draped around the shoulders of Harry Hay. A member of the Communist Party USA in Los Angeles in the 1940s, he adapted the CPUSA model of educating recruits in small secret groups, or “cells,” for the first ongoing gay organization in the United States—the Mattachine Society, founded in 1950. Mattachine, which was the first of the “homophile” groups of the 1950s and 1960s, moved on from its CP beginnings rather quickly. In the hostile climate of the Cold War, Hay resigned from Mattachine within two years of its creation so that his CP affiliation would not harm the education and organizing work underway. By 1953, some Mattachine members had purged the group of its remaining left activists entirely.

Also reflecting the Cold War culture of the era, none of the leaders of the feminist and all-female Daughters of Bilitis (DOB) openly identified themselves as leftists at the group’s founding in San Francisco in 1955. DOB’s bread-and-butter organizing tactics—which relied on socializing as well as social action—consisted of small meetings in members’ homes, large public gatherings, local and national publications, and media visibility. Some DOB leaders took their organizing skills into the plethora of progressive movements of the late 1960s, 1970s, and beyond, especially women’s liberation and lesbian feminism. This oscillation and conflict between liberal assimilationist reform, and more expansive left-influenced social justice organizing, has marked the ongoing history of LGBT/queer organizing in the United States.[2]

The late Allan Berube’s book, Coming Out Under Fire, brilliantly describes how the homophile organizations grew out of the conditions of World War II, when single-sex military service and mass mobility helped to lay the groundwork for a self-conscious modern gay and lesbian American identity and a new urban sexual culture.[3] At the same time, influenced by the equal rights rhetoric and organizing of the black civil rights movement of the late 1940s, 1950s and early 1960s, queer people gained experience in the basics of activism. Those experiences created a foundation for the emerging homophile organizations and eventually for the upsurge in mass mobilizations in the decades to follow—mobilizations that often were led by and always included queers.

As the “new left” exploded onto the scene during the 1960s, many activists brought personal histories of working within liberal reform groups, while others came from the “old left,” with its range of communist, socialist, anarchist, anti-imperialist, antiracist, and other revolutionary ideologies and organizations. Whatever the mix of liberal and left influences in the new political insurgencies of the 1960s, one of the primary sources of disagreement was sexual politics. The flashpoint most often referenced is the Stonewall riot of 1969 in New York’s Greenwich Village, when queer outlaws, drag queens, underage hustlers, butch lesbians, and other denizens of the Stonewall Inn and the streets released years of bottled-up rage, resisting yet another instance of police brutality by fighting back for three consecutive nights, and made headlines.

Historian Ian Lekus challenges the popular tendency to isolate the sexual dissent that erupted during Stonewall from other new left issues and constituencies. Lekus explains that, “[t]hroughout the Sixties, LGBT people played critical roles in local and national student movements. Moreover, following the Stonewall riots, the gay liberation movement’s sweeping vision of democratic social transformation and ardent espousal of ‘coming out’ derived directly from its members’ experiences in the New Left….”[4] Challenging received wisdom and ways of behaving were the hallmarks of 1960s radicals, and many of them embraced calls for “free love” and sexual liberation, perhaps without realizing that they were echoing the ideas voiced by Oscar Wilde and Emma Goldman more than a half century earlier. The failure to grasp such connections also obscured the consequences of introducing sexual politics into social change movements; some organizers, well known in the 1940s and 1950s for their radical antiwar activism and civil rights organizing—Bayard Rustin, for example—were vilified when their sexual desires were made public.[5] Nonetheless, many leaders in the gay liberation and the women’s movement built on the concrete experiences they gained in earlier movements for social and economic justice. Achebe Powell and Martin Duberman are among these leaders.

Achebe Powell

MMG: When did you first see yourself as part of a political world? When did you need to take action?

AP: I’m sixteen years old, and I’m living in the Deep South. I use [the phrase] “Deep South” a lot in my racial justice trainings before I tell them it’s Miami, Florida. If I say Miami, people say, oh, South Beach! But the Miami I grew up in during the 1940s and 50s might as well have been Biloxi, Mississippi. I was reared in a very loving, wonderful, expansive black community, but it was very segregated and racism could rear its far-reaching, profoundly devastating head at will.

I’d returned from traveling and living in California, Germany, the Netherlands for over four years with my father, who was an officer in the Army post-World War II; I became conscious that I was going back into almost a cocoon. And then another kind of opening out to the world came one day over the PA [public address] system in Booker T. Washington High School: an announcement for any student who would like to become part of the National Conference of Christians and Jews (NCCJ) Youth Leadership Program. It was very unclear in my head what that could mean, but I was all for it. We had black students from the black high schools, and representatives from the white schools. This was 1956-58. We could not come together legally in any space at that time, except under the aegis of the NCCJ. We were mentored by the regional director, whose name was Max Karl—my first mentor in social justice activism. There was something of the Jewish notion of “tikkun olam,” which I didn’t fully understand at the time that permeated all of Max’s teachings … the idea that we are responsible for repairing the world.

Ultimately, this vision of the politically-active, engaged human life became and remains a very singular driving force in my life. The primary skill I learned and role I took on (in high school) was that of speaker, the one who rallies people together. We would go to the psychological conferences of the day as Youth Speaks Against Prejudice—one white kid and one African American kid, or two of each. We would move around the state of Florida spreading the word. At some point, we decided to meet outside of the group, and we’d go to the then all-white neighborhood of Coral Gables and sit around some kid’s house discussing how we were going to make the world different. Or we’d meet at the home of one of my close friends, who lived in what was called Brown Sub, one of the black suburbs. We wanted to talk to more people about why things had to change; we wanted to volunteer to be of service to the community—together.

Then the schools got wind of the fact that we were meeting outside of the NCCJ. I remember the announcement: “All the students who are representatives to the National Conference of Christians and Jews, please come to the dean of students’ office.” We got there and the principal was there, the deans of students for boys and for girls was there, and they said to us: “We hear that you’ve been meeting at the homes of white kids, that they have been coming to your homes, and this has not been sanctioned by the Board of Ed.” We declared that we were free human beings and could do as we pleased! Whereupon they informed us that we must cease and desist, or we would all be barred from graduating from high school. That kicked the flame up more. We would meet earlier at the NCCJ, and we arranged for what we might now refer to as conference calls. There were about five or six white kids and five or six of us who arranged to be on the phone during a basketball game or a sock hop. We went across the street from the school to the [gasoline] filling station and made our phone calls. We kept talking about what we were going to do, and who’s going to which college, and could we organize things on this or that campus? We were going to University of Michigan, University of Florida, Howard University. I went to The College of St. Catherine in Minnesota. We just kept each other fired up about justice and “tikkun olam.” There was no doubt from that point on about what my work in the world had to be, no matter what my paid work or profession. The work of repairing the world was just a given.

The college that I went to, run by the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet, was the richest, most powerful experience that I could have had in continuing to shape this path of political engagement. There I found new mentors who were, to me, so totally beyond the realm of what one considered as “nuns.” With utmost respect, I’ve always said that I came to think of them as libertines in drag. The three most important things to them were the intellect, politics, and art and culture. We always were having political conferences and speakers on the campus; Kofi Annan [secretary general of the United Nations, 1997-2007] and I took courses together, because he was at Macalester College, at the time known for its international studies. I became very engaged with international politics. We’d go to the University of Minnesota and meet foreign students—many of them Palestinian students—who weren’t calling themselves Palestinians at that time, but instead: “I’m from Jordan, but my folks have migrated from Palestine.” I knew many who majored in refrigeration engineering because they were going back to make the desert bloom. They said, “We know we can work with the Israelis.” They had such hope then and a deep, almost desperate belief in the possibilities for peace in 1958, 1959, 1960.

It was in 1962 when I finally got to New York that I decided I absolutely had to get more deeply involved with the civil rights movement. We were organizing young people out of Abyssinian Baptist Church. I then went on to work summers with the Neighborhood Youth Corp, where we prepared kids not just for jobs and potentially college, but to be progressive political activists. It was not exactly what John Lindsay [then mayor of New York City] had in mind but the historical moment was so ripe for it! I finished my master’s degree at Fordham in 1964, and began teaching at Cathedral High School in Manhattan. The students were a wonderful mix of Latina, predominantly Puerto Rican, with a few Dominicans; African Americans and Afro Caribbeans; Asians; and white students. It was a regular United Nations and it’s there that a young nun who was teaching history and I started a black studies program. I took my kids on antiwar marches in New York City and went to Washington, DC, for the assault on the Pentagon in 1968. That time, we had a busload of kids with us: there we were, standing in front of frightened nineteen-year-olds with bayonets pointed in our stomachs trying to keep us all back from going up the hill to the Pentagon. I’m looking into their [the soldiers’] eyes, and their hands are trembling, and I’m saying, “honey, don’t shake your hands, please. You’ve got to get steady now.” It was a teaching moment: for me, for my students, and for the young soldiers. It was heartbreaking.

The nuns at Cathedral—I can’t say they were radical, but they bent towards the liberal. Two examples: when the students wanted to bring the Black Panthers into the school, the principal was nervous. I said “these kids want the whole school to hear the truth about what the Black Panthers are doing and you can only know that from the Black Panthers themselves. They will not burn down the school, I guarantee you.” And so they came. Also, I was the (faculty) sponsor of the students’ Care Club, a group consisting primarily of our Asian students—these young people were my early mentors in global injustice and human rights. At one point, we wanted to raise 5,000 dollars for our three amazing projects that year: building a clinic in Guatemala, providing school kits for two or three hundred school children in Hong Kong, and helping women organize a farming collective in a village in Nigeria. We wanted a teenage rock-and-roll band to play, and also to have a fashion show. Sister C. said, “I don’t know about the rock and roll band Ms. Powell, the dancing gets so homosexual.” By “homosexual” she meant people didn’t dance partner to partner anymore, everybody would dance by themselves. It was the first time I had ever heard the term used in that way. So this was all rather risqué in her mind but the show went on and we raised the money, which was quite a lot in those days.

Afterward, when I went on to teach French and linguistics at Brooklyn College, I was immediately thrown into the swirl of political activity and engagement on campus in the 1970s. Open admissions had just been initiated throughout the City University of New York. Race issues were huge. I strategized my way on to the Faculty Council, where we were fighting for a women’s center and women’s studies. We were fighting for black studies and for Puerto Rican studies. And really everything demanded, in those days, demonstrations at the president’s office, sit-ins and constant political education about why things had to change. I was totally engaged in all of it. This was also when I came out to myself and to my family and the world as a proud black lesbian feminist. I landed on this terrain and was stunned by what it is to be lesbian in an intensely homophobic and compulsory heterosexual society. The feeling and understanding of “Other” was familiar. I immediately climbed up on this new and different soapbox, and at least ninety percent of my speeches began with the fact that I could not stand there and talk only about gay liberation. I had to talk about the linkages between the black civil rights movement, the gay liberation struggle, and the women’s movement. I spoke on behalf of the interconnectedness of all of these struggles. At the same time, I felt a deep and abiding anguish that the lesbian/gay movement wasn’t always organizing from the same place.

We had to work very hard on the National Gay Task Force at that time. The women’s caucus of the task force board really had to plead and advocate and insist over a long period of time: where’s the L? For them it was: we’re all gay. No! [For] lesbians, our woman identities bring with them very different but equally compelling life experiences. When I do racial justice work, we have a thing called “treasure hunt” with twenty or thirty items on a list. Someone knows what Umoja, Ujamaa, and Imani are, someone else knows what TTY means. One of the questions is: does anybody know the difference between a black and a pink triangle? The Nazis had nine different symbols and patches in order to identify people who were to be taken away to the concentration camps. We know the Star of David was meant for our Jewish sisters and brothers, but not all know that, for example, the violet patch was for Jehovah’s Witnesses and the dark blue for the Roma culture. The pink triangle was for gay males, but there was a black triangle that identified lesbians who were also taken to their deaths. However, it is the pink triangle that has become the symbol of the LGBT movement. So sexism is happening in the very context of seeking moral authority and people haven’t a clue. It’s unintentional, it’s unconscious. And it’s totally unacceptable.

In this moment, we just facilitated the 2007 Desiring Change conference, which focused on the deep importance of sexuality as a terrain of the political and organizing always at the crossroads of oppressions. At any given time, one might be focused on labor organizing but that activism always has to be done at the intersection of economics and class along with race, gender, sexual orientation, ability, and religion. There is such joy for me in working with folks coming from around the country whose organizing is done not just out of some abstract analysis, but with a deep understanding that there is no way that we are actually going to have the impact that we need to have, achieve the structural and institutional changes needed at the very core of our society, without understanding these connections.

In my younger days I was not formally conscious of myself as organizing from the left, though I’ve always known where I stand. I’m left of wherever the powers of the universe center themselves and then begin to inequitably dole out bits and pieces of the fairness, justice, and inclusion to which we’re all entitled. The question is: how do we all gain access to the opportunities, resources, and benefits of our society? How do we ensure that every aspect of lived life reflects affirmation of the inherent human dignity of my proud queer self—and of everyone else? And none of this is abstract. We’re talking access to meaningful and fairly compensated work, quality education and healthcare, substantive participation in the political process, quality access to mobility—and I’m talking about my physical mobility, my psychic mobility through the universe. Folks on the right—conservatives—are trying to conserve what they think they own. On the other side—we’ve called it the left—we’re looking at full access, full equity, and nothing less, whatever it takes to get there. In the opening scene of seventeenth-century playwright [Pierre] Corneille’s play Le Cid, the main character bounds onto the stage and declares, “Je me plains au monde,” [which means] “I stand in complaint before the world.” That’s my left. I stand in complaint on all of these issues.

What I want to see in a progressive LGBTSTI [Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Two-Spirit, Transgender, Intersex] gender non-conforming movement is an ever-deepening understanding of the interconnection of all of our righteous complaints before the world. I cannot subscribe to the school, and I beg you not to subscribe to the school of “I have it made in everyway except I’m gay.”

Martin Duberman

MMG: I want to start by asking your thoughts on what a queer left agenda must include.

MD: We’re talking about restructuring the whole society. We’re talking also about two hundred or so years of debate. I’ve gone back and forth in my own history between devotion to anarchist thought and socialist thought. Or you can always be an anarcho-syndicalist, which is probably the closest thing. In my younger days I would certainly have said I was that, though I don’t want to go back to the Diggers and get rid of all the technological improvements.

I’ve long argued, though, that there should be a fixed minimum income for everybody. At one point, I was saying 25,000 dollars per year. Now it would have to be higher. The reaction has always been outrage, “What! For people doing nothing at all you would just give them 30,000 a year?” And my answer has always been, “Yes, because they will then do something.” Human beings are innately inventive and creative. Most people simply lack the time and opportunities to indulge or explore any of that side of themselves. So god knows what they would do if freed up a bit. But they’re not going to just sit on the couch and stare at the wall. In the meantime, people wouldn’t have to suffer all those anxieties—“Will I be able to put food on the table?” I would also put a cap on how much an individual could make. I have no idea what I would put. But everybody would also get free education, free college and graduate school, free health care. I think all this is obvious. Basically, I don’t believe that an economic incentive is the absolute incentive. I think the creative incentive would surface soon enough if people weren’t so constantly worried about material things.

I think of it more in terms of what all Americans need rather than just LGBT people. I think what we suffer most from is the atomization of everyday life, which is true of so many people regardless of their sexual orientation. It used to be that people were isolated in suburbia. Now it doesn’t matter even if you are living in the heart of Manhattan. Because work is so repetitive, boring, and draining, people just want to be alone when they get home. We need to change the nature of work itself.

I think the capacity for intimacy, for friendship, is lost. Not entirely, but so much of social life is made up of superficial, glancing connections in which you exchange surface information about what your activities have been since you last saw each other. The actual exchange, the deep feelings, the deep issues are neglected. Go to a hospital and see how many people get no visitors. And these are heterosexual people who are married and have families, but nobody has any time if the patient happens to be over 65 or 70. Or they drop in for ten minutes. Walk down the street and you see all these people attached to their gadgets. They’re talking on their cell phones and listening to their iPods. They’re oblivious of their surroundings, and that includes other human beings. They’re these isolated boxes of sound that are moving down the street.

I’m not sure it’s finally easier to write books, or easier to write good books, with all this technology. In the old days when I did interviews, I took notes. The person and I were constantly interacting, just getting impressions of each other visually. You couldn’t rely on all this machinery; you had to rely on your own senses, on what you were picking up. Is this person a reliable witness? Is this person as wacky as I initially thought? We started to talk. You had to connect. You could be wrong in whatever impressions you came away with, but at least you came away with earned impressions of who the other person was. Here all you got are the remnants, the voice. I think voices are very deceptive.

MMG: So, intimacy. That would be on your new queer agenda?

MD: I think that follows from almost everything else. You can’t create intimacy. You have to create the kind of environment where human contact flourishes. If you look around at the humans that we are producing these days, in this society, I think we are a more adolescent culture than most. We don’t have many adults wandering around the United States. We have a lot of outsized children. You would have to change so much in order to produce a different kind of person that it’s very close to unthinkable. Earlier, during the 1960s, a lot of us didn’t think it was unthinkable at all, because the technological world hadn’t settled in to the degree it currently has. It’s not like I don’t admire some of the features of the new culture, but we now have people sitting in a railroad car talking at the top of their lungs on their cell phone as if they’re the only creatures on the planet. It’s like they’re almost unaware of what level you need to address another human being because they’re basically spending their lives talking into machines of one kind or another.

Everything we’re talking about relates to being alive on the planet today, and has very little to do with sexual orientation. In terms of LGBT issues, every time I see a public opinion poll it’s the 18-25 year-old group that gives grounds for hope. That’s the group that favors gay and lesbian marriage by the biggest margin. The higher you go in the age brackets, the less approval there is. So I find hope that the upcoming generation seems more progressive in its politics than any that has recently preceded it. Some of this is due, I think, to the fact that more and more people are coming out and being seen. There’s a growing awareness that the LGBT communities in fact represent a far wider group of human beings than the standard stereotypes that existed 50 years ago. The movement deserves some credit for this.

But the movement down to the present day has not been that welcoming to people of color. All kinds of subtle racism are omnipresent still. Not just in the gay communities; racism is everywhere. And sometimes I wonder why we are all saying LGBT when an awful lot of Gs and Ls can’t stand transgender people or think they’re sick, just as the general population does. Bisexuals in our G and L communities seem to be invisible, yet books are coming out by bisexual people. This fictional unity of putting these four letters together doesn’t make for a true understanding among the different communities that make up the queer world.

And now with queer theory, nobody is just gay or just straight. We’re all a wild mix. Just pay attention to your dreams and you’ll see how available we all are for all kinds of activity, and individuals. Though right now I think the binary is powerfully strong. I think it’s very puzzling. It’s very hard to grapple with because, on the one hand, those of us who are lefties want to claim we’re not “just folks:” we have a different historical experience and therefore a different perspective, a different set of values. But, on the other hand, we want to be making the argument that everybody is queer. Nobody is gay or straight. We’re all this wild bundle and mix of fantasies and possibilities and that’s what we have to explore. Saying the most important thing about you is that you’re gay or you’re lesbian puts you in a little box and prevents you from looking at any other aspects of who you are.

With decades of progressive activism between them, both Achebe Powell and Martin Duberman exemplify progressive queer thinking and organizing in the latter part of the twentieth century and the first years of the twenty-first. Their individual perspectives are grounded in their personal experiences of oppression as well as privilege, and they both insist on wide-ranging, even ecumenical, analyses of social justice that go well beyond questions of sexuality and gender. They offer us valuable historical perspectives while helping us imagine and create a new queer agenda for the future.

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  1. All quotations are from the author’s interviews with Achebe Powell and Martin Duberman, fall 2007. The interviews are excerpted and edited for brevity and clarity. For copies of the interview transcripts, please contact Queers for Economic Justice. [Return to text]
  2. Marcia M. Gallo, Different Daughters: A History of the Daughters of Bilitis and the Rise of the Lesbian Rights Movement (New York: Carroll & Graf, 2006). [Return to text]
  3. Allan Berube, Coming Out Under Fire (New York: The Free Press, 1990). See also John D’Emilio, Sexual Politics, Sexual Communities: The Making of a Homosexual Minority in the United States, 1940-1970 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983); Martin Duberman, Stonewall (New York: Penguin Books, 1993). [Return to text]
  4. Ian Lekus, “The Long Sixties,” OAH Magazine of History (Mar. 2006): 32-38. [Return to text]
  5. See John D’Emilio, Lost Prophet: The Life and Times of Bayard Rustin (New York: The Free Press, 2003). [Return to text]