In 1969, the historic Stonewall riots took place in Greenwich Village in response to a police raid on a gay bar. These violent demonstrations, which lasted six days, were a crucial turning point and set the foundations for modern LGBTQI movements around the nation and world. I vividly remember watching the riots unfold from the window of my apartment in Sheridan Square.
I was exhilarated that these protestors were fighting for their rights, but I was also scared because I understood the extent of the discrimination they would face if their employers, families, neighbors and friends found out about their involvement and sexualities.
For the first 40 years of my life, I kept my sexual orientation a secret. The homophobic environment I lived in fostered fears and forced most of the gay and lesbian community into silence. Growing up, my family never discussed homosexuality. In high school, classmates would make derisive comments. The media also fueled anti-gay sentiments. The brutal murder of my gay neighbor received almost no media coverage. When there was coverage of the gay community, it was frequently homophobic in nature.
I also witnessed homophobia while working to establish The Fortune Society then, a small, nascent nonprofit that was helping men and women who had just been released from prison. In 1968, some of Fortune's early members were invited to appear on The David Susskind Show to discuss their experiences behind bars. The first person to volunteer, one of Fortune's most important pioneers, was rejected because he was openly gay.
In 1973, six years after I founded Fortune, I decided that I was ready to come out.
Among the factors contributing to my decision was that, at the age of 39, I entered my first serious relationship with another man. I had never been in a gay relationship out of fear for being "discovered."
The real driving forces behind my choice, however, were the lessons I learned during my first six years at Fortune. The formerly incarcerated individuals whom I worked with and served were oppressed and ostracized because of their criminal records. Some lied about their criminal records and past mistakes in order to keep their jobs and homes. I soon realized that as a closeted gay man I was lying out of similar fears.
I developed a deep admiration for my colleagues -- including men like Kenny Jackson and Mel Rivers -- because they lived bold lives despite the stigmas of their criminal records. They inspired me to take the initiative to be bold about my own life.
Because of my prominent role in criminal justice reform, I needed to orchestrate my coming out. So, I called a producer at The David Susskind Show and asked whether she had ever hosted individuals who were not only gay, but also in the American mainstream and leading duplicitous lives. The answer was "no." Game on.
Of major concern was whether my coming out would jeopardize the future success at Fortune -- after all I was its executive director and founder. Would people stop supporting us? I decided that I did not want to put Fortune at risk because its mission and impact were too important.
With the intention of resigning, I gathered our staff -- men and women who had all served time -- and told them that I was gay, that I was going to open up about my sexuality on Susskind and that I would be resigning from Fortune.
Their responses stopped me in my tracks. Jackson asked, "Well, what are you gonna wear on TV?"
Rivers said, "You've stood by us for six years telling us to be honest about our lives. Give us the opportunity to stand by you."
Another suggested that we get back to work.
This meeting was one of the most emotional moments of my life because I realized that I did not have to walk away from Fortune. I was accepted for who I was.
Immediately following the Susskind episode, I felt cautiously liberated because I was no longer living a lie. The response to my coming out was overwhelming and positive.
I was soon invited to speak at universities and to join political groups and gay organizations. Community leaders asked me to be a marshal and spokesperson for the gay community at a demonstration that occurred in Times Square in response to the battering of a gay man. Additionally, I advocated for the City Council's gay rights bill, which passed in 1986.
I also became a founding member of the National Gay Task Force and was appointed to the New York City Commission on Human Rights. I was part of a group of openly gay executive directors who would meet to discuss issues they faced in operating gay rights organizations. We realized that despite the scope and seriousness of AIDS, it was not receiving enough political attention. We also knew that the gay community would have little political input on the AIDS crisis without someone in government to prioritize it on the city's political agenda.
Motivated by the rising death tolls and the impact AIDS was having on our community, I became the first openly gay man to run for New York City Council in 1985. I sought to represent the district covering Greenwich Village, Chelsea and a small portion of the East Side. The excitement was palpable. I received extensive media coverage. More than 250 campaign volunteers crammed into a tiny Village storefront working to get me elected.
When all the ballots were counted, I received the third largest number of votes of any candidate in all 38 Council races. Though I did not win, my campaign made important strides for the LGBTQI community and I was proud to have a supportive constituency of formerly incarcerated individuals who had reclaimed their lives.
Today, as Fortune readies to celebrate its 50 anniversary, it serves more than 6,500 clients a year, saving one life at a time -- an achievement that never would have been possible if this gay man had not had the encouragement of a bunch of "ex-cons" who helped him face the truth.
At age 83, my advocacy continues. All oppressed peoples, whether LGBTQI or people with criminal records, deserve better. We must stop minimizing their needs, diminishing their rights and ignoring them in the face of injustice -- because marginalized lives matter.