I’m terrified, Harvey. It’s not that I’m scared about someone finding these letters to you…although if that happened, it would be the end of my life as I know it. More than that, though, I’m afraid they’ll see what’s inside my head.
I think Aunt Mandy already has. You probably think I’m joking, but I’m not. She can see right through people.
But I bet she couldn’t see through you. How could she? You don’t hide anything. You are who you are, and you don’t care if other people don’t like it.
I don’t know how you do that, Harvey.
I’ve read every article I could get my hands on about you. Well, I read anything I can find about homosexuals, but I love it when they quote you most of all. You’re always talking about how everyone deserves to have hope. I’ve never heard anyone say that before.
Do you have a volunteer campaign office full of people working against Anita Bryant? Do you and your friends put together mailings, too?
Maybe I can pretend that’s what I’m doing next time I’m folding up the letters from my aunt. Maybe that way I can keep going without feeling like I’m about to puke.
Sometimes I can’t believe you’re real, Harvey. You’re like something out of a fairy tale. A gay man, reviled by most of society, managing to rise above. When everyone I know hates your guts.
I despise living in Orange County, Harvey. So much. If Aunt Mandy knew I was writing to you, she’d probably tie me to a chair and bring in my whole family to pray the gay out of me.
Fuck, I’m about to cry. Maybe if I hide this notebook and go blow up some balloons that’ll keep my tear ducts occupied.
More later.
Peace, Tammy
Wednesday, June 8, 1977
Dear Diary,
Well, it’s still Tuesday night—technically Wednesday morning, I guess—but I can’t sleep, so here I am, writing again. As long as I’m awake, I might as well tell you what happened tonight after my brother and I left our neighborhood.
We parked on Liberty Street, a few blocks from Castro. It was dark out, but the streets up there were far from deserted. Our neighborhood might as well have been a million miles away instead of a twenty-minute drive.
“Is something going on?” I tugged my sleeves down over my hands as Peter and I climbed out of the car. The sidewalk was crowded with people, most of them youngish men, talking and moving fast. Everyone was heading north, and as we got closer to Castro, we could hear shouting ahead. Car horns kept honking, too. In the din, I couldn’t understand what all the voices were saying. “I mean, besides this Miami vote?”
“Nah, I bet this is all Anita.” Peter stretched up onto his toes, the leather in his boots flexing as he tried to see up to the next block. The area around Castro Street used to be just another Irish-Catholic neighborhood, but according to the news, it’s been completely taken over by gay people. The nuns at school are always saying the city’s on the brink of moral ruin, and it all starts with Castro Street.
“How do you know?” I asked, but I got my answer before my brother could say any more.
“GAY RIGHTS NOW!” A guy in a flannel shirt jogged past us, pumping his fist and shouting. Another guy next to him joined in.
Neither of the guys looked much older than Peter and me, and one of them had kind of long hair. I wondered if they were both gay, or if one of them was only there to support his friend, the way I was there to support Peter.
Then I saw the cardboard sign the shorter-haired guy was holding. The thick black letters were crooked and haphazard, as though he’d just made the sign minutes before with a marker he’d found lying in a drawer. It said WE ARE YOUR CHILDREN.
Peter tugged my sleeve, silently motioning for us to follow them. I sped up to a trot, turning the words over in my