And Then I Danced Read online

  We sat in an empty restaurant called Bramwell’s one afternoon, looking over the previous gay pride proclamations and making changes and additions. When we finally completed our task, I grabbed her hand. “I think I know what you’re going to do, and you know he might fire you over this.”

  She smiled and said, “Over this small little thing?”

  June rolled around and, lo and behold, one morning I read in the newspaper that Governor Richard Thornburgh had become the first Republican governor ever to proclaim Gay Pride Month. That point had slipped both our minds. It created more of a dustup than we expected. A good deal of the media congratulated the governor on making a brave gesture and an opening to the LGBT community, but they didn’t know the real story.

  Each week, Ethel had a regularly scheduled meeting with the governor where she’d inform him of the various documents that needed his signature. The last item on the docket was usually proclamations. She read off a list of what they were, she put the pile in front of him, he’d sign, and she’d take them back to her office to issue.

  It seems at one of those meetings where she was reading off the list, she didn’t mention the Gay Pride Month proclamation that he was about to sign. Now, with the positive media editorials, he didn’t know what to do. As with all smart politicians, you wait for the clamor to die down before making a move, and that is exactly what he did. A couple of months later, Ethel was unceremoniously fired. The reason given: she abused her expense account by making too many long-distance calls.

  Soon after, she contacted me and suggested that we have a celebratory lunch at Bramwell’s. We met and chatted about other things before the subject came up. She told me there was no reason for me to say a word. She was proud of what she had done. It was her contribution to the struggle, and in her eyes it was worth the cost. She never regretted it, and I believe it was one of her proudest moments. While Thornburgh went on to be part of Reagan’s presidential cabinet, Ethel took a downward medical spiral. It has always been my belief that she knew her time was limited and she intended to make the most of it. She was a brave and dignified woman.

  And one last item: at that lunch she presented me with the signed proclamation from Governor Thornburgh that hangs on my office wall to this day.

  * * *

  It was a busy time. Beyond the media zaps, negotiations with the television networks, the groundbreaking surveys of police chiefs, and workplace nondiscrimination efforts, we issued a survey of all fifty state governors, which actually resulted in replies from half of them, including New Jersey’s Brendan T. Byrne, Tennessee’s Ray Blanton, and one from Massachusetts by Michael S. Dukakis stating, “If this [nondiscrimination] bill is passed by the General Court, I expect to sign it.” Alongside the countless speaking engagements and interviews, and my duties at home, at the end of 1975 I managed to do a press tour of eastern Ohio and western Pennsylvania at the behest of Jim Austin.

  Jim, a longtime newspaperman who had the knowledge to make a success of one of America’s first local LGBT publications, the Pittsburgh Gay News, was now branching out. He had decided to create the Ohio East Gay News. To launch his first issue, he thought a speaking tour with the nation’s most outrageous gay activist would generate good publicity. We did speaking dates in Cleveland, Youngstown, and Kent State University, and our last stop would be Pittsburgh.

  Jim made up posters for the tour, one of which still hangs on my office wall. There’s a picture of me in my youthful handsomeness with the line, Meet Mark Segal, Gay Activist Extraordinaire. The tour was a hit. A lot of people showed up when I spoke, and there was good press coverage, but it was Jim’s show and we always turned the message to the new Ohio East Gay News.

  On our way back to Pittsburgh, Jim asked why Philadelphia didn’t have a gay newspaper. I explained that we had a weekly mimeograph publication, the Gayzette. His reply was no, you need a newspaper on newsprint with stories on every issue affecting our community, a professional publication. Then, out of nowhere, he said, “Why don’t you do it?”

  I responded by sharing an account of a recent lobbying experience. I told him that while I never had the pleasure of meeting Princess Grace of Monaco, her brother Jack and I were acquaintances. Jack, a rower and member of the US Olympic Committee, was also a Philadelphia city councilman who at rare ambitious times had higher political dreams. I say rare since Jack was a fun-filled guy who worked to live, not lived to work in a political campaign.

  We became acquainted while I was lobbying for a gay-rights bill. On our first meeting he invited me into his inner office to ask some questions. None of them concerned anything to do with the law, rather he asked about what it was like to be gay and about gay relationships. After several visits with Jack we were on a first-name basis and I felt comfortable enough to ask him to be a cosponsor of the gay-rights bill. He replied, “Mark, I’d like to assist, but Mother wouldn’t understand.”

  Our relationship remained that of councilman and lobbyist until an item appeared in the Philadelphia Daily News, in a column by a mutual friend of ours. Larry Fields’s personality (a.k.a. gossip) column kept tabs on the who’s who of Philadelphia society and visiting celebrities. Larry was also a friend to Mayor Frank Rizzo. It was in Larry’s column that the Rizzo camp would send up trial balloons or political warnings. Rizzo, nearing the end of his first term in office, didn’t want any problem in his reelection bid. There was disgruntlement among Philadelphia Democrats over the manner in which Rizzo had governed both the city and the party political machine; many thought that he was acting more policeman-like than mayoral.

  In an unusual mood, Jack had let it be known that he might be interested in challenging Rizzo in the Democratic primary for mayor. It was in this atmosphere that I entered City Hall one morning to do my regular check-in with city council members. At each corner of City Hall there are circular staircases. On various occasions, when feeling that I hadn’t gotten my exercise or just wanting to marvel at the magnificent building, I’d take the staircase to Jack’s office.

  On this day, as I made my way up, I noticed Jack sitting on the stairs holding his head in his hands. I called up to him, “How’s it going?”

  He looked distressed and, picking up the Philadelphia Daily News, said, “Have you seen this yet?” He told me to check out Larry Fields’s column. Then he began to cry.

  There we were, the gay activist and Princess Grace’s brother, sitting on a staircase in the middle of City Hall as the latter started to sob. I turned to the column and read the tidbit, which began by stating that Jack was thinking about challenging Frank Rizzo for mayor. It then stated that if he did so, several members of Rizzo inner circle would rent a billboard with a picture of Harlow, a well-known transsexual in the city, with the caption, How would you like her as your next first lady?

  As I read the threat, Jack moaned, “I only went out with her on one date.” (Harlow, an incredible beauty, insists to this day that it was more than once.) He continued, “Can you imagine what this will do to my mother?” Jack’s mother, though sickly, still controlled his life at this point. As he continued to sob and mumble, I stood him up, put my arm around his waist, and walked him back to his office. He got control of himself and thanked me, saying, “I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this.” How sad I felt for him.

  That evening Jack called me at home, thanking me again and asking me not to talk to anyone about his “breakdown.” He said that he was feeling better, and if there was anything he could do for me, I should just ask. To get a laugh out of him I said that he could arrange a date for me with his nephew, Prince Albert. He chuckled, and thanked me once more. I told him that I was always available to talk. Days later it was reported that Jack would not be running against Frank Rizzo. The Rizzo team’s dirty work did what it was supposed to.

  When I ran into Jack from that point on, I’d always say quietly, “You still owe me that date.” He knew that just like everyone else, I really wanted to meet his sister, Princess Grace of Monaco,
but I was aware that this was unlikely. One day while sitting at my desk the phone rang and it was Jack on the line. “Mark,” he said, “I have someone here in my office I want you to meet. Do you think you can come over immediately?”

  My office was only a ten-minute walk from City Hall. When I arrived it was apparent that something was up because there were police everywhere. Since City Hall also served as a courthouse I thought there was trouble with one of the courts or an inmate. As I got to Jack’s office, the crowd was overwhelming. I made my way to the door and was stopped. After telling the police officer that I was expected, I was allowed to enter. I was then ushered into Jack’s inner office. Several people who I didn’t recognize were there, but Jack saw me and said, “Mark, I want to introduce you to my nephew.”

  There sat Prince Albert of Monaco. He rose and said in a soft voice, “My uncle has told me how helpful you’ve been to him.”

  I nodded, speechless, and after a very short while I made my way to the door. Jack noticed me leaving and said with a smile, “I guess I’m off the hook now for that date,” then added, “He doesn’t bat for your team.”

  * * *

  After relating this story to Jim Austin, he looked at me and asked, “What does Princess Grace have to do with you publishing a newspaper?” My response was that I was an activist, what did I know about publishing or business? He remarked, “Mark, someday you’ll need to earn a living—this is that way, and it will allow you to remain an activist, just in another form.”

  We shook hands and became partners on the spot, and my life was about to change yet again. Meet publisher Mark Segal.

  Chapter 6

  Talking Sex with the Wall Street Journal

  Philadelphia Gay News was among the first local newspapers for the LGBT community. Like the others, we were building a network where one had never existed before. Until being catapulted into my position as publisher, my knowledge of journalism was limited to school yearbooks, the Gay Youth Journal, and a few freelance articles I’d written for Gay Sunshine and other small publications. Actually publishing a forty-page newspaper each month was a daunting task.

  Jim would do the lion’s share of the work in Pittsburgh. Jim now had three newspapers, and this made him the owner of the first-ever chain of publications for the LGBT community. He was smart and knew the networking I had done as an activist would pay off.

  Like all that I have done in my life, my newspapering was learned from on-the-job experience and a thirst to give our community the best. I had gotten to know numerous mainstream journalists in my travels and I utilized many of them to help guide us in those early days. Among them were Pulitzer Prize–winning writers such as Richard Aregood, Michael Pakenham, and even Walter Cronkite, who had quietly befriended me after we ran into each other in Miami in 1976 at a debate before the Florida primary he was moderating among Democrat candidates for president, and then later in the year in Philadelphia where he was moderating a CBS-TV bicentennial salute to the 1776 American Revolution.

  When he’d spotted me in the wings in Miami, he walked over with a smile and asked, “Mark, what brings you here?” I was really surprised that he recognized me. I explained that I was helping one of the candidates, Pennsylvania Governor Milton Shapp, who had a strong record on gay rights. Walter wrote a note and asked if he could use that in his introduction since all he had about Shapp related to a threatened national independent truckers strike. Governor Shapp had stepped into the negotiations and won praise from the truckers for settling the dispute without a national strike. That night Walter’s introduction of the man was, “Governor Shapp of Pennsylvania hopes to bring a coalition of truck drivers and homosexuals together to win the nomination,” spoken with that Cronkite air of assurance.

  By late 1975, we were laying out the first edition of the paper, which was to be issued in January 1976. Never did I expect the battles that would follow over journalism. Our vending boxes would be bombed, and we would clean them up, repaint them, and put them back. People would run over them with their cars, and we would, again, clean them up, repaint them, and put them back out. People threw bricks into our windows and sprayed graffiti all over our building. The death threats were something we got used to. Me being put on the American Nazi Party’s hit list in their magazine was a little more unique.

  Another person put on the hit list was the publisher of the Advocate; both of us were “Jewish fag publishers.” Philadelphia Gay News covered myriad gay bashings and murders, crimes that most of the population didn’t seem to care about. Many times we were the sole voice yelling out in the darkness of a silent press. We covered the issues of transgender people from day one, while many in LGBT media tried to ignore that part of our community. We were one of the first to publish Alison Bechdel’s wonderful and funny cartoon strip Dykes to Watch Out For. And she was always thankful that she got paid. (Alison’s career blossomed along the way, and she was a recipient of the MacArthur Genius Grant in 2014; her life story was made into a Broadway musical Fun Home.) In those early days of LGBT media, many freelancers were never paid. PGN got a reputation for not just paying our freelancers but paying them on time.

  The news could be emotionally nerve-wracking. One week’s story continues to haunt me: the murder of Anthony Milano. His death was covered by our then-editor Tommi Avicolli Mecca. Milano’s throat was cut dozens of times, and he died by drowning in his own blood. Then there were other murders that only the Philadelphia Gay News seemed to care about. In reporting Nizah Morris’s story we hounded the police department and district attorney, and requested assistance from the US attorney general. We even took the city to court to release records. The potential for physical intimidation and harm that Tim Cwiek, the reporter on that story, put himself through was akin to any top-notch crime reporter for any major newspaper.

  After twelve years of reporting on a single case—that of transwoman Nizah Morris, who was given a late-night courtesy ride home by the police and later found dead—in June 2014 Philadelphia Gay News staff writer Tim Cwiek, editor Jen Colletta, and I found ourselves at the Society of Professional Journalist’s awards dinner at the National Press Club in Washington, DC. Our table partners were staffers for the Wall Street Journal, who were, like Tim, receiving the award in investigative journalism. As we were preparing to accept the highest journalistic honor that any LGBT media had ever received, we found ourselves in conversation with our tablemates about three things: the murder of a transwoman, the business of pornography, and gay for pay. We explained what we knew about the trans community’s relationship with the police and why there might have been physical intimidation. The Wall Street Journal people looked like they had entered an alternate universe. We all chatted until it was time for our award to be announced. Everyone in the room heard about the twelve-year struggle PGN had waged to answer questions surrounding the death of Nizah Morris. And just like any professional publication, we continue to follow up on the story.

  When we started in the mid-1970s, we often covered police raids on gay bars and their wholesale blackmailing of gay men. Philadelphia Gay News took on organizations such as the American Red Cross, Blue Cross and Blue Shield, and even the United Way.

  I once asked Tommi Avicolli Mecca, an early PGN staffer and later editor, what his most memorable story was, and he replied, “The police district that was keeping a list of people with AIDS so that it wouldn’t respond to calls from those addresses”—the police chief had to denounce that after the dailies picked it up from us—“and the investigation of the murders of several black transgender women that the police weren’t even bothering to investigate.”

  Al Patrick recalls investigating the AIDS Ride fundraisers that took place in Philadelphia, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, among other cities, and unveiling how lucrative they were for the organizers and how little they did for AIDS organizations who received only a pittance from them. After that report, the group threatened to sue us from their Los Angeles offices and we wrote back explaining we’d
be happy to meet them in court in our state. They never took us up on this. Eventually the New York Times did a series about them and in a matter of time they were out of business.

  Our community was not always pleased with us. We pushed every envelope; from that very first issue we were defining ourselves as a real paper with hard news. In those first two years we published many features that no other LGBT media would touch. We hit a major nerve nationally with the first-ever feature on lesbian nuns by Victoria Brownworth, which made Victoria the national expert on the subject. We reported on the poor and homeless in our community, the countless “thrown away” gay and lesbian youth; we went to Rikers Island prison in New York City to visit their new experiment with a gay men’s wing; we wrote about the perils of Susan Saxe, a lesbian who was accused of robbing a bank; and we led a major investigation into aversion therapy.

  Aversion therapy was used in an attempt to change a gay man or lesbian’s sexual orientation through the use of drugs or electroconvulsive treatment. The latter was done mostly with electrodes strapped to the genitals. Psychiatrists and other health professionals practiced it nationally, since up until 1973 homosexuality was still considered a mental illness. It was also widely used in prisons—the most notable being Atascadero State Hospital in California, on which writer and activist David Mixner reported extensively.

  In Philadelphia, aversion therapy was being conducted at Eastern Pennsylvania Psychiatric Institute, which was part of Temple University and got its funding from the state of Pennsylvania. The paper investigated the institute and was able to have the practice ended, one of our first major victories.

  In previous years, doctors had one other treatment to use if the “illness” persisted: lobotomy. And yes, there was a method known as the ice-pick lobotomy popularized by Dr. Walter J. Freeman. It is estimated that Dr. Freeman submitted over a thousand gay men and lesbians to this torture. When you factor in other doctors who employed the practice as well as the prison systems that used it, this figure increases to the tens of thousands. LGBT media has hardly touched on this dark time in our history.