And Then I Danced Read online

  “You don’t know your Bible well,” I said. That sentence would become a trademark comment from me in religious discussions. I continued, “You use your Bible like you were ordering from a restaurant menu. I call that Bible a la carte. You choose what parts of the Bible you wish to obey and what others to ignore.” Then I looked her over and explained that all she was wearing that day made her an abomination according to that same Leviticus chapter, which condemns wearing clothing of two different fabrics. Polyester-cotton blend, anyone? I followed that up by asking the audience a quick succession of questions about shellfish, metals, pig skin, and all the rest, then asked, “Do all of you obey your husbands? While I know none of you would commit adultery, I’m sure you’re aware that in cases of adultery your husband has the right to kill you. So, if I’m going to hell, you’re all joining me. As the Good Book says, He who has not sinned should throw the first stone. Is there anyone in this audience who has not sinned?”

  As total silence fell over the room, I directed my next comment back to the lady with the Bible. “Oh, and one more thing. Remember the Ten Commandments? Gluttony. How many of you are joining me in hell now?” No LGBT person had ever challenged an entire TV audience in that manner before. This kept the Bible-toting crowd focused on issues like discrimination, hate crimes, and entrapment. It was this formula that I’d use whenever I found myself in Bible Belt communities. Take it head on, then move to the real issues at hand.

  The end of the show was a chance for Donahue to express his own thoughts and bring about peace in the studio. He started out by saying the obvious: “Don’t think there has ever been a discussion like this on television before.” And with what seemed to be a smirk on his face he added, “Some of our affiliates might not air this show, but we learned a lot about religious freedom and gay and lesbian people today.”

  Backstage he gushed and looked at his production team and said, “That’s what makes good TV,” asking to reschedule me as soon as possible. That would take awhile since I had other media obligations piled up, along with speaking engagements, surveys that we had initiated, my position as GAA political chair, and our work on a nondiscrimination bill. Additionally, I had to attend various legal trials due to the zaps, and I still had my duties at home. But eventually it did happen.

  * * *

  For my second appearance, Phil Donohue asked my parents and my partner Phillip to join me. When I told my parents about this request, Dad jumped at the chance, while Mom felt slightly apprehensive. On the flight over, she remained silent as Dad chatted about our engagement to the stewardesses and fellow passengers; I wondered how things would go.

  It was late at night when we landed, and a car picked us up at the airport and drove us to our hotel. Early the next morning we were taken to the studio and led into the green room. About twenty minutes before taping, Phil appeared in the room with his makeup bib on. Hollywood Squares was playing on a television in the background, and as Phil noticed us, he looked at me and said, “That’s the show I’d love to do.” At this point Joan Rivers was on screen making a joke about something and Phil commented, “She’s got raw talent.” He looked around at my parents and added, referring to Hollywood Squares, “I don’t think I can do that.” In quick order he then told us the run of the show we were about to tape. He treated me like we were old friends and realized that my parents had never done anything like this. He calmed their fears by chatting with them. My mother was almost instantly won over by his charm, while my father decided that this was his opportunity to be comedian Henny Youngman. He asked Donahue about stage setup, timing, and the line of questions. My father, the short, very pudgy cab driver from Philly, whose most exciting event in life to this point had been a full house at the weekly cousin’s club card game, was all in. My father had gone Hollywood and showed no sign of nerves. In fact, he was overly excited, which in turn made me nervous.

  The first part of the show was just me with Phil and the audience. We discussed the pioneering work I had just begun with Pennsylvania’s Governor Milton Shapp in order to find ways to end discrimination, as well as my other exploits as an activist. For the second half of the show Phil brought my parents and Phillip back onstage. No sooner had he introduced them when my father went into his routine: “You know Mark lives at home with us, and on weekends Phillip joins him. We enjoy each other’s company, but I know Phillip loves Sunday morning best of all. On Sundays, this nice Catholic boy comes downstairs to breakfast and enjoys lox, bagels, and whitefish.” Dad, in the best stage acting of his life, looked at Phillip lovingly and, expecting a drumroll after this statement, had now added religion into the discussion.

  Mom sat there totally frightened and silent while Dad was channeling a Johnny Carson monologue. Finally, Phil asked Mom, “How do you feel about all this?” Mom straightened up and said what I think was on the mind of every parent when they learned their child was gay: “I want Mark to be happy, I worry about him when he gets older, but most importantly I want him to find someone who he can love and spend the rest of his life with.” She looked at my partner Phillip and smiled and placed her hand on his knee.

  Donahue broke for a commercial, and when the sound was off he turned to my mother and said, “That was great, Mom.” She was thrilled and Dad, still believing himself to be Henny Youngman, asked, “And what am I, chopped liver?”

  After the taping Phil came over to tell us that it was a great show, and kissed Mom on the cheek. She smiled and blushed, and would never in her life miss another Phil Donahue show. The staff handed us a piece of paper with the airdates and we departed.

  Mom and Dad flew home, while Phillip and I headed to Provincetown on Cape Cod where I was the keynote speaker at the first New England Gay Conference. When I got home from the conference there was a bill in the mail from the Donahue people for eighty-six dollars for additional hotel expenses. Of course I couldn’t afford it and wrote back promising to pay it sometime in the future. In the same letter I requested a copy of the taping. I’d never asked for tapes before, but this show was with my parents, and I thought it would be a great keepsake. They wrote back explaining that the company that handled those requests charged more than a hundred dollars per copy. They gave me their phone number and mailing address. Since I didn’t have the money I didn’t respond until a couple of years later.

  Flash forward to 2013, at a meeting of Comcast’s Joint Diversity Council, on which I serve as the national LGBT representative. The council was formed by company chairman and CEO Brian Roberts and Senior Executive Vice President David L. Cohen, with the mission to transform Comcast NBCUniversal into one of the most diversified companies in the Fortune 100. We were having a discussion about the history of television talk shows, when someone asked me about Phil Donahue and that February 1973 taping, saying that as far as he knew it was one of the first depictions of a gay family on TV. He said it was historic. I explained that he was almost correct, but that we were preceded by An American Family on PBS, which aired a year and a half earlier.

  I’m still honored to have been a guest various times on Donahue’s show. In the early days of TV talk, there was no other American media person or company who had done as much to make Americans aware of the gay and lesbian community. Ditto for the issues surrounding AIDS. Not only did Donahue broadcast shows on the subject before it became popular, it was, in some cases, dangerous. And he handled them always with respect and care. He got into the AIDS battle early, giving of his time when other celebrities hid the issues from their audiences and themselves.

  * * *

  At the 1993 March on Washington for Lesbian, Gay, and Bi Equal Rights and Liberation, I left the crowd to take a walk to the Washington Monument. As I strolled I passed thousands of people, most of them gay or lesbian. Over the loudspeaker I heard a familiar voice—it was Phil Donahue. On this early Sunday morning, long before the crowd reached capacity, he was once again giving his time to support our community in our fight for equality. He read a speech in which he told a s
tory of discrimination, then paused and commanded America to get over it. Next, he shared a story of antigay violence. Again he said, “America, get over it.” This went on and on. It must have taken hours of research to draft the speech. This man, who had brought so many Americans face-to-face with the gay and lesbian community, was rightly an opening act at our march. As I walked back to my group listening to Phil’s voice, a chill ran down my back. I was so proud of him and his part in helping our movement progress.

  * * *

  While in the early 1970s the Phil Donahue Show was the leader in talk shows, I appeared on most of the others as well. The shows would fly me out to their studio, pay my travel expenses, and pick up the cost of meals and my hotel room. In each city, the night before the show, I’d invite a few members of the LGBT community to the hotel, order food and drinks, put it on the tab of the show, and mostly just listen to their stories. The talk shows were, in a sense, paying for me to witness LGBT America. Sometimes when I got a little downtime, the community would surprise me in some way. Yes, despite my upbeat disposition, I would occasionally get discouraged. In Detroit, for the Joe Pyne Show, some members of the community took me to the Cow Palace to see a traveling edition of Peter Pan. While I was in Chicago for the Irv Kupcinet Show, an incredible dinner party was given in my honor by Chuck Renslow, at his mansion that at one time had belonged to Al Capone. (It had a speakeasy in the basement.)

  In between the talk shows I gave speeches, many of which have been long forgotten, or so I thought. In March 2014, the Gazette, which bills itself as the Eastern Iowa newspaper of record for over 125 years, published a report on the gay rights movement in Iowa. It chronicled the growth of the community and mentioned that in 1974 I became the first out gay person to speak publicly on the subject in Iowa. When I read the article, those memories washed back to shore.

  It had started with Iowa State University sending me an invitation, one that included paying for my expenses and giving me a small honorarium. Honorarium? Progress for sure. At that point, the only thing stopping me from accepting an invitation was if I had dialysis duty. I always asked my parents if they could do without me for a few days before making a decision. They said that they’d be all right for this one.

  When I told friends where I was going, their reactions were always the same. Iowa, they’ll kill you out there. I’d like to believe my speech actually inspired a few in the audience. One guy there that night, Ken Bunch, would move to San Francisco and become one of the founders of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, a beloved group of men dressing in outrageous nun drag while fighting the AIDS epidemic. His name became Sister Vicious Power Hungry Bitch. What a brilliant man.

  On the homefront, Mom’s kidney condition had deteriorated so much that she was now on the transplant list. Each family member was tested, and when only Uncle Stan was a match, my grandmother, who had been a free spirit her entire life, began to look shell-shocked. The emotional turmoil that she felt over the possibility that her daughter and her son could die on the operating table finally broke her spirit. Uncle Stan soon became her caregiver, and they moved into our house on Fayette Street. At the time it seemed very natural. There were three bedrooms. Mom and Dad had one, I had one, and Grandmom had one; Uncle Stan made good with the couch. Our family life became doctor appointments for Grandmom, dialysis for Mom, and demonstrations and zaps for me. I always told Mom and Grandmom as I left the house that they shouldn’t worry; the worst that would happen is that I’d get arrested.

  There were no complaints from them. At the time, they never told me about the numerous calls from relatives complaining about my activities. Most were about how I was embarrassing the family. Mom also never told me that she’d stopped going to the cousins club, one of the few outings she looked forward to, because some of her relatives had said derogatory things about my actions. Dad never said anything about the fights he got into until years later. Thanks to his time in the Army Air Force during which he competed as an amateur boxer, which had earned him the nickname Little Atlas, he always won. Years later, he boasted how proud he was of my actions and said, “We love you no matter what.” He never lost an opportunity to let me know that I had made him proud. I cried every time.

  Dad and Uncle Stan always held down the fort while my “career” without a salary continued. The press in Philly coined me “Supergay” and even the establishment wanted a piece of the action. The Junior Chamber of Commerce announced that I was one of their men of the year. The Jewish Community Relations Council voted me onto their board of directors, a gesture more symbolic than practical since my attendance was rare.

  Meanwhile, Grandmom’s condition grew steadily worse. My Auntie Mame, my muse, started to drift off into a world of her own. I liked to think that world was the one she loved, strolling on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, chatting with all her friends, and sashaying from one avenue to the next. She did listen to each word that we spoke to her, and always with a smile on her face. We never knew if she understood or not, and her speech slowly disappeared. Each night when I wasn’t on the road, I’d go to the living room to sit with her and tell her about my day and future plans. She listened, reacted with that smile, and occasionally uttered a reassuring word. At times she’d perk up at the mention of some new success, but she wasn’t that perpetual shining light anymore. I suppose those chats were more for me than her. I needed Grandmom and my family. They kept me grounded while I was becoming a public figure.

  At home, my social world consisted of Phillip, my high school friend Randy Miller, and Randy’s friends Jan Sergienko and Debbie Dunn. In the evenings we hung out and they’d help me come up with the next great idea. Except for Phillip, they were all non-gays, but today you’d call them LGBT allies. One initiative in particular comes to mind. We were still doing stunts in Philly every few weeks. Someone suggested that we paint a large sign with the words Gay Power and place it on the City Hall tower during rush hour. Soon we discovered what it would take to make a six-story “statement.” We bought white sheets and began to do the lettering in Jan’s parent’s basement. Somehow we all agreed on this crazy project. It would be simple: white material, black lettering. It would be carried into the building in stages and Velcroed together.

  We transported it to City Hall and found a friendly office where I stayed overnight. I awoke at seven a.m. and took the banner up to the tower but the doors were locked. I ventured to the top of the north side of the building and found an open window. I tied down the top of the banner and Velcroed the pieces together. Finally, I hung it out the window facing the traffic on Broad Street coming into the city center. It caused a huge traffic problem. The all-news radio stations began reporting on it every ten minutes. For some reason it took the powers-that-be about an hour to hoist the banner back inside. In the meantime I was across the street watching and kicking myself for not taking into consideration the wind, which at times made the words almost unreadable.

  There was also Chicago’s first gay pride celebration. The Reverend Troy Perry and I were to be the featured speakers in Lincoln Park. We agreed to arrive in Chicago days in advance to promote the event. Troy was fighting the religious establishment and I was off fighting the networks and elected officials, and both of us wondered when our community would begin to help us with building our vision. Troy not only struggled with mainstream religion, but also the antireligious sentiment in the LGBT community. My fight was with those who felt my actions put too much attention on the community and pigeonholed us all as radical.

  The schism in the gay rights movement was hitting a fever pitch. Gay Liberation Front had disbanded in New York and the Gay Activist Alliance would see its last day soon thereafter, succeeded by the National Gay Task Force. The 1972 and 1973 Gay Pride Days at times seemed like war zones. In addition to the rivalries of the remainder of the GLF and GAA members, there was still infighting about whether the movement should be a diverse, inclusive civil rights movement or have a gay rights–only policy.

  G
AA had taken up roots in an old firehouse on Wooster Street in Soho in New York City. At that time, under the leadership of Morty Manford, it became the focal point of the movement. But a rift between Morty and Bruce Voeller resulted in the formation of the National Gay Task Force. The Task Force put several of the pre-Stonewallers on their board since by this point Voeller was in need of credibility. Barbara Gittings and Frank Kameny were brought in, but all that did was reopen the wounds of a past battle in 1970 over whether the community would march in New York to mark the first anniversary of Stonewall or continue the July 4 Philadelphia marches for equality. GLF members at the time unfortunately labeled Barbara and Frank, and all those associated with the Philadelphia marches, as the Uncle Toms of our movement. Most of the younger activists thought of them as dinosaurs. To further complicate matters, Bruce Voeller assumed the role as the first employee of a gay organization with a professional staff. This was the beginning of what we now call Gay Inc., the incorporation and branding of the gay rights movement. Previously, GAA had created what they hoped would be the symbol of our struggle, the Greek lambda icon, yellow on a blue background. But the Task Force took things a few steps too far on policy. No drag queens need apply; no care was given to street kids. Zaps or actions were discouraged; the primary activities were lobbying for issues within government, talking in moderate tones, and always wearing a suit when talking to the media. And then there was the constant stream of fundraising at upper-crust LGBT cocktail parties. To my mind they were complacent and afraid to really fight. They wanted to change laws, but not create community.

  Bruce Voeller was as unpopular as a figurehead could get, not only among New York activists but nationally as well. My only relationship with the Task Force was to call and complain when they took credit for my work. Any time a story on the LGBT community would break, NGTF was always there to issue a statement and explain how they were involved.