“These are from the first gay protest outside the White House, in 1965. The papers didn’t cover it. No one paid attention. But there were queer rights organizations before Stonewall. The one that organized this protest was called the Mattachine Society. They were founded in the early fifties, so don’t let anyone tell you we haven’t been trying to get equal rights for very long, or that we’re a new thing.” She clicks and the PowerPoint cycles through more faces, and she talks about the history of the groups. My first year, I thought the history lessons felt a little out of place for a summer camp, but I’ve come to like them. I wish Mark gave them, instead of Joan, so they’d have a bit more flair, but Joan cares about this stuff, and she finds interesting little details—like today’s lecture. The Mattachine Society (which started as all men) and the Daughters of Bilitis, their sister organization, two “homophile” organizations, as they called themselves, that tried to campaign for queer rights with sip-ins, where they went to bars and asked for drinks and told the bartender they were queer—which, legally, meant they couldn’t even drink back then. They very politely would drink, and leave.
“The idea was that they would show everyone that queer people were normal and respectable, not terrifying sexual perverts like the newspapers often made them out to be. And to that end, they trained themselves to be ‘normal’—there’s one story of a meeting at the Daughters of Bilitis where a woman who had previously had a short haircut and dressed in jeans and a leather jacket showed up in a dress and walked in heels, and everyone applauded, so happy they’d changed her.”
I swallow and look at Hudson, who’s watching the screen. The light makes his skin pale. He nods slightly.
Joan continues her lecture, telling us all about pre-Stonewall gay liberation movements of the fifties and sixties. When she finishes, she takes questions, and Ashleigh raises her hand.
“Was she happy, though?” she asks. “The woman who changed from jeans to dresses?”
“I don’t know,” Joan says. “Probably she was harassed by police less, and fit in the straight society more, which would have made life a lot easier, and probably a lot safer from harassment and violence. But safer and happier don’t always go hand in hand. It’s a choice that a lot of us have to make—when to come out, who to come out to. You’ve all thought about it, I’m sure. As for her dress … I imagine it might have felt like a costume. You’re all at that age where you’re trying on identities anyway, so I don’t know if you understand what it’s like to be told there’s a right and wrong way to be queer, and the right way looks just like being straight, yet probably some of you do.”
“But there is no difference,” someone in front says. “That’s the whole point of what we’re fighting for—equal treatment because we’re all the same.”
Joan nods. “Well, we’re all people, deserving of respect and equal treatment. But straight people aren’t all identical. Some straight women do wear jeans.” The crowd chuckles. This is the closest Joan has ever gotten to a joke. “But it’s different for a lesbian to wear jeans than it is for a straight woman. So maybe the equality we’re fighting for isn’t just marriage or the ability to not be fired from our jobs for being queer—which is still perfectly legal in over twenty-five states, by the way—but the ability to be whoever we want, jeans, skirts, makeup, heels, beards, whatever, and still be treated like anyone else.”
“Is it possible the woman in jeans was trans?” asks someone else.
“Sure.” Joan nods. “Again, I don’t know. But I’d imagine that a lot of this idea of ‘fitting in’ hurt trans people who at the time identified as gay or lesbian because they didn’t have the language for it. Of course, trans people existed before Stonewall, too, but the terminology was different … and the subject of next week’s lesson, I think, since we’re out of time now.”
Joan flicks the lights on, causing momentary blindness in everyone as they flinch and wait for their eyes to readjust.
“Have a good night!” she calls out as we start to leave the cabin. “Sweet dreams.”
Hudson and I walk out together, hand in hand. I feel like I should ask him about what he thought of the lesson, but I’m also afraid of his answer. I don’t want him to say he thinks it was good that the woman could walk in heels. I don’t think he will. He’s not a bad guy. But I also don’t know. I’ve never thought to ask why he only likes masc guys. George says it’s a preference, like having a thing for blonds, or like Brad’s love of body hair. A fetish, kind of. And that’s okay. It’s normal to have things you’re into. But hearing about the way they treated that woman made me wonder if he would have clapped for her, too. ’Cause there’s a difference between being into something in a person and thinking a certain type of people are better.
“So,” he says, when we stop at my cabin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I had a really good time tonight. It was a good fifth date.”
I laugh. “Yeah. It was really good. I’m looking forward to dates six, seven, eight, and … nine? Tomorrow.”
“Nine. That’s awfully presumptuous.” He smiles at me, leaning back against the wall of my cabin.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. Want to hang out again tomorrow night, after dinner?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, smiling so widely, I swear his teeth are glowing. I lean forward and kiss him, and he wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer, his hands straying up the back of my shirt.
“Oh my god, are you two boyfriends yet?” Ashleigh asks, suddenly beside us. Hudson pulls back, looking a little sheepish.
“Yes,” I say. “I was giving my boyfriend a good-night kiss,” I say, raising my chin a little. Ashleigh rolls her eyes.
“That was more than one kiss,” George says. He’s next to her, fanning himself with a different fan, this one rainbow. “But if you want to keep going, I’m sure your audience wouldn’t mind.” He gestures with his fan at the campers walking around us, several of whom are staring at us. I feel my cheeks turning bright red and hope it’s dark enough it doesn’t show.
“Okay,” I say, turning to Hudson. “Good night.”
“Good night, babe,” he says, pecking me on the cheek before he walks away.
“You two have got to get it under control,” Ashleigh says as we walk into the cabin. “You’re going to end up screwing in front of the flagpole with everyone watching. Unless that’s your thing? No judgment if you’re an exhibitionist, but you should probably find some consenting voyeurs.”
“I’m not an exhibitionist,” I say, maybe louder than I should, as a few of our bunkmates turn to look at me. I flop down on my bed. “And I don’t think he is.”
“It wasn’t on his dating profile,” George says, slipping his shoes off and taking out his nightgown. He slips it over his clothes and with a few quick movements removes his T-shirt and shorts from underneath.
“Yeah,” I say. “What did it say, do you remember? Just, like, masc4masc, or … was it … worse than that?”