It was dizzying. Everywhere I turned, there were more men, and when I twisted around to look behind us, I even saw a couple of girls. Lesbians, maybe, but I didn’t know how to tell. The news reporters only ever talk about gay men, but the girls I saw in the crowd tonight were chanting along with everyone else. Most of them had short hair, and two of them were riding along the edges of the crowd on motorcycles, gunning their engines even louder than the cops. I would’ve thought the sight of a girl on a motorcycle would be strange, but it was actually kind of cool.
“GAY RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS!” the girls chanted along with the rest of the crowd. “GAY RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS!”
When I glanced back at my brother, his eyes were alight, his smile wide. I wondered how it felt to be surrounded by people like him. Even for me, it was exhilarating. There were so many of us gathered, it felt like we could do anything. And the chanting crowd, the anger in the air… It was cool to be so surrounded by all that energy. All that ferocity and strength.
“It’s him!” Peter was grinning, jumping up on his toes to look over the crowd. “It’s Harvey!”
I strained to see until the guy in front of me stepped aside and I could glimpse the cluster of men at the front of the march. One man, taller than the others, was carrying a bullhorn, and as the crowd parted, he turned around.
Peter was right—I recognized him right away. Harvey Milk. His picture’s always in the newspaper about something or other.
“CIVIL RIGHTS OR CIVIL WAR!” Mr. Milk called into his bullhorn.
The crowd picked up the chant immediately. “GAY RIGHTS NOW!”
When I glanced at my brother again, he was absolutely beaming.
An hour earlier, he’d been sitting alone in the shadows outside a darkened grocery store. Now he was surrounded by people, grinning wider than he ever had.
I’ve never fit. Not at school. Not at church. Not anywhere, really.
But my brother fit here. Maybe I did, too.
The charge in the air, the power in all these voices… Maybe I’d finally found my place.
Up ahead, Mr. Milk changed the chant and this time, I joined in.
“WE’VE GOT THE POWER TO…FIGHT BACK!” I shouted, my voice ringing out into the crowd. “WE’VE GOT THE POWER TO…FIGHT BACK!”
An engine revved behind me, and I twisted around. A motorcycle zoomed past us with two girls sharing the seat. The girl in back had her arms wrapped around the other one’s waist. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was afraid of falling off or because they were lesbians. I guess it could’ve been both.
The chant changed again. “ANITA! YOU LIAR! WE’LL SET YOUR HAIR ON FIRE!”
Anita Bryant’s been on TV since I was a kid, selling orange juice and tissues and macaroni and cheese, singing and smiling and filling up the otherwise-silent living room while Mom and Peter and I sat on the couch waiting for M*A*S*H to come back on.
But now, her followers want to hurt my brother. They want to hurt those girls on the motorcycle, too, and Mr. Milk with his bullhorn, and all the people here chanting with us.
And I want to hurt them back.
“CIVIL RIGHTS OR CIVIL WAR! GAY RIGHTS NOW!”
I pumped my fist with Peter and the others, shutting my eyes and relishing the motion.
We marched for hours, past City Hall and up to Nob Hill. We wound up at Union Square, miles north of where we’d left Peter’s car, surrounded by thousands of people, all of us chanting on long after our voices had started to give out. Mr. Milk gave a speech about seizing our power and standing up to Anita and all the people like her, and even though it was the middle of the night, I felt more awake than I could ever remember feeling.
We had to make it home before Mom noticed we were gone, so with the chants echoing in our ears, Peter and I walked down to