BY GUEST WRITER VINCENT POMILIO

On Saturday June 14th I took part in the No Kings rally in Hudson, NY.  Every small town in the
Hudson Valley had some sort of No Kings event.  Being Hudson, there was a strong LGBTQ
presence with very creative outfits and signage.  The feeling of change in the air was mixed with frustration, anger and fear.  A feeling of hopelessness pervaded. Yet with so many people gathered together to express these feelings, it also gave one hope that we can change things, make them better, topple the evil empire.  

There was the same feeling in these rallies as events in the 1970’s when I took part in anti-Vietnam War marches and early Gay Rights demonstrations. How little things have changed.  We made such progress and yet, here we are again.  The gains we have made over the last few decades now seem so fragile and tenuous.  

The rally in Hudson, NY reminded me of the first Gay Rights March I attended. It was 1973.
It was only four years after Stonewall, yet much had changed in those four years. I had just graduated college and had an art teaching job lined up at Conestoga Valley High School in
Lancaster, PA.  I had come out the previous summer while working as a cook in Cape May, NJ

My coming out was traumatic as I had been outed by a fellow student who saw me at a gay bar in Reading, PA called The Green Door.  She was a waitress at the restaurant attached to the bar.  Within days, news of my gayness spread on campus.  I was shunned by some fellow classmates and a couple of my roommates were forced to move out by their parents so as not to be associated with me.  

I soon had a boyfriend, Tim Riley, who lived in Philadelphia, my hometown.  It was Tim’s idea to go to the Gay Rights March in New York in 1973. One month before the march, I had been interviewed by the principal and another art teacher at the
high school in Lancaster.  Mr. Kennedy was the principal and Mr. Dreibelbis was the art teacher. Turns out, Mr. Dreibelbis was gay and really wanted me to get the job.  The principal appealed to me to get a haircut and lose my beard before he agreed to hire me. I refused but got the job anyway.

A month after getting hired for the job, with a big chunk of the summer still ahead, Tim and I headedto NYC for the Gay March.  That year it started at Columbus Circle and went down Fifth Ave to Washington Square Park.  As we were lining up, a small crowd gathered along the sidelines to see what was going on 

As we were waiting to start moving , I spotted Principal Kennedy with his wife and another couple watching with looks of horror on their faces at all of these freakish homos.  I tried my best to be inconspicuous and to this day never knew whether or not he saw me with the other gay marchers. The march was so amazing.  It was homespun and incredibly upbeat and we all felt so proud to be a part of it.  I couldn’t believe how many people took part.  There were people as far as you could see up and down Fifth Avenue.  Washington Square was a giant block party with great music and dancing and a collective feeling that were doing something important and that it might make a difference.  

In 1976, I moved to NYC to do graduate work in painting at NYU.  I loved my new life in New York
City; it was a great time to be young and gay in NY.  Tim and had broken up but remained close friends.  Tim and I took part in the Pride March each year until his death from AIDS in 1988.   In 1978 I met a guy who I had been lusting after for the last couple of years, Tom Hinckley.  Tom and I hit it off, fell in love and began a life together.  Tom was handsome and brilliant. Tom was seven years older and came from Massachusetts Mayflower stock.  The Hinckleys spent summers in Maine; I was an Italian American kid who spent summers at the Jersey Shore.

I am recalling Tom here along with the Gay Pride Parades for many reasons.  We spent 16 years
together until his death from AIDS in 1994. Tom had been very involved with ACTUP.  He wrote for the Treatment and Data Digest, a bi-monthly publication that presented news of HIV drug treatments and research from the CDC.  His work here was very important as he was great at translating medical information into laymen’s terms so we could all understand it.  Tom’s death was the Friday before the 25th anniversary of Stonewall and the big Pride March was to be held on the last Sunday of June 1994.

That whole week I had been going back and forth with Tom’s family to Saint Vincent’s
Hospital. They had left before he died.  He slipped into unconsciousness and died right after I had left the hospital for a few hours to try and get some sleep.  I was able to return to the hospital and be with him along with a few friends to say our goodbyes. I have never felt so alone.  

While walking back to my apartment on Morton Street, there were huge crowds of gay people fromall over the world gathering for the 25th anniversary of Stonewall. Celebrations were happening all around me which made my grief that much harder to bear.  I took refuge in my apartment but could hear music and partying going on all over the West Village. I got through the night and on Saturday joined friends to watch a movie at their apartment and try to cheer up.  Tom would have wanted me to go out and join in all the partying going on.  I just couldn’t get into it.  His death wasn’t sudden. It was a year of pain and suffering and adjusting to each tragic stage of Tom’s physical decline.  The worst stage was when he could no longer walk.  Yet Tom was so emotionally strong through all of this and was determined not to make my plight worse than it already was.  

There was one incident that is so painful to recall.  We were going to the M and O market on the corner of Thompson and Prince Streets. Tom was in a wheelchair.  A car load of thugs with Jersey plates rolled down their windows and hollered, “I hope you all die of AIDS, faggots.”  Tom hollered obscenities back at them, never backing down.

The Sunday of the Pride Parade was a gorgeous late June day.  I was not sleeping well and didn’t know what to do with myself and my profound sadness.  There was also some sense of relief knowing Toms suffering was over and my caretaking responsibilities were also over.   I got a call from my friend Art McGuire inviting me to attend the parade with them.  It felt inappropriate, but what else was I going to do that day?  Sit in the apartment and be horribly depressed?  

 I met Arthur, his partner Alistair and our friend Steven Weinstock for breakfast at LeBonboniere, a greasy spoon diner on Hudson Street. The March met downtown and moved up to Central Park that year.  It turned out to be a great idea to be around friends and take part in this major event.  Tom was there in spirit. The mood of the crowd was jubilant with streets packed with onlookers cheering and dancing.

We reached the

park and there was a pause before entering the park for the big after party.  One of the speakers
announced that there would be a moment of silent meditation to honor those that died of AIDS.  My friends all gathered around me and gave me a big collective hug.  There was never a more moving, heart breaking and deafening silence.   Never was silence more meaningful. So many of our friends had died in the last four or five years.  I remember the feeling of despair turning into hope during that moment of silence.    You could hear many people crying.  The silence seemed to last an eternity.  In the end there was a feeling of love, community and collective grief.  We had all been touched by this. It brought us closer together.
 
Over the years, the parade has changed. It has become a big block party with corporate sponsors.  It’s a great opportunity to have fun, but don’t let your guard down. Times are changing. Many battles have been fought and won but there are many forces that are working hard to take it away.

my husband Bob Bohan, my cousin Heather Brown, her girlfriend, and me. This is at the Parade on 6th avenue.