by Will Roscoe, Ph.D.
That the movement for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender rights (queer liberation, if you will) began in the McCarthy era is the single most striking fact of its history. An organization calling for the rights of sexual minorities, formed in 1950 and in three years reaching out to thousands through its activities and literature? How could that have happened?
Indeed, America’s pogrom against queer folks, promoted on a national level by moral pundits and pseudo-professionals and implemented locally by policy and police practice, was not effectively challenged until the Stonewall Riots of 1969. And while the activism that subsequently spread across the country took on the trappings of the counterculture, it remained grounded in this reality: angry men and women fed up with police abuse and legal persecution, with constant denigration and condemnation, with therapies and treatments tantamount to torture, with violence and extortion and fear thereof, deciding, in the face of all that, they had little to lose by fighting back. It had gotten that bad.
These new activists dismissed the small organizations that still bore the name Mattachine. But these were only pale remnants of the movement Harry Hay and his cohorts launched over six decades ago. Once the dust had settled, the tactics and aims of the new activists were precisely those pursued or envisioned by the original Mattachine group: using the legal system to assert rights, circulating petitions and passing out leaflets, educating officeholders and questioning candidates, creating institutions and providing services.
In short, Harry got it right—and this brings us to the second singular fact of queer liberation. Not only was it founded in the midst of an anti-left purge, its founder was himself a Communist; and some of those who worked with him shared those leanings. How does one get from Marx and Lenin to same-sex marriage and Castro Street? That is: how does one get from “queer”—deviant, depraved, affected at best in one’s own view, defective in the view of all others—to queer community? If we’re not nature’s practical joke or the bad dream of some deity: what are we?
This question, as Stuart Timmons shows, had to be answered first for the rest to follow. That is what Harry did.
What follows here is pure adventure, a lusty life that ranks Harry among the great American rebels. Within a few paragraphs you will find yourself thoroughly engaged in the complex character of this man, whose path to gay liberation traversed a dizzying cross-section of avant-garde politics and culture in Twentieth century America. Here one finds the dates and places, who did what and when, the conflicting stories, but above all the intellectual quest leading to the proclamation that we were a people whose time had come. Thoroughly documented, vividly told, The Trouble with Harry Hay is all one could ask of a serious biography of a major figure.
But above all, you will find here the real Harry Hay—the man I knew and loved and fought and laughed with—the sweet friend, the challenging mentor, the inventive agitator, who, in 1950, was no less frightened than I was growing up in the 1960s or, indeed, any of the countless queer folks he helped free.
I was in close contact with Stuart during the years he labored on this book. I watched him wrestle with the mixed emotions Harry provoked, the doubts raised by the very grandiloquence of his style, the conflicting views among those who loved him and those who did not. Stuart and I argued over points small and large, and I wondered how he could fully convey the context and the complexity of Harry’s thoughts.
Now, reading the book again, over two decades later, I see how well Stuart succeeded. I knew it was a good book; now I see that it is great. The Trouble with Harry Hay is an indispensable resource for understanding LGBT history in America—indeed, the history of America in its fullness.
I appreciate now, as well, how much Stuart himself grew in the course of the project. By the time all the t’s had been crossed and i’s dotted, he had become more self-confident, his judgments more nuanced, his spirit more generous. But working with Harry did that to you. It was never enough to agree or disagree with him; you had to understand his ideas and show that you knew how to use them correctly in a sentence.
And if you couldn’t make sense of them or agree, articulating your reasons why made you think hard and find the strength of your own convictions. Approval-seekers never lasted with him; nor did those uncomfortable with contradiction, dissonance, or leaps of faith. I never felt I had to consent with Harry to be his friend, but I did have to use my mind and be prepared to have my thinking questioned.
Stuart Timmons’s own story is no less dramatic. In 2008, barely 51, he suffered a massive stroke. After years of heartbreaking struggles, Stuart is courageously learning to walk and talk…and write again. And how we look forward to reading words from that pen once more!
Thank you, Stuart! Thank you for telling the amazing story of how our freedom was won, for not giving up on Harry in all his difficulties, for not giving up on yourself. We are so proud of you, as Harry would be. Our old friend is blowing Faerie kisses on you even now, from the heavens above this world he gave us, this new “Planet of Faerie Vision.”
—San Francisco, September, 2011