The Mayor of Castro Street (18 page)

Scott Smith had his hands full as Harvey's campaign manager. Somebody had to take care of the store, so Harvey and Scott almost casually turned over the shop to a youthful twenty-year-old art student who had drifted to San Francisco from upstate New York. Danny Nicoletta had the right combination of hippie idealism and naiveté to guarantee trust—and the slight build Harvey found so attractive in young men. That Harvey often turned over major responsibilities so casually worried some friends. The entrenched gay leaders, they noted, got their power by entrusting important decisions only to proven allies with experience and track records. Milk insisted that his campaigns could train a new corps of activists. A committed novice from the streets was worth a dozen old-timers, he said.

*   *   *

“I'm very disappointed in you, Michael,” Jim Foster told Michael Wong when he learned Wong was working in the Milk campaign. An angry Duke Smith, a close ally of the Foster-Goodstein clique, chided Wong further. “All of you will realize what a nut he is if, God forbid, he should ever get elected.”

The antipathy gay moderates had held in the 1973 election turned into open hostility in 1975 when it looked like Harvey Milk actually had a shot at capturing a supervisorial seat. To all politicos who would listen—and many, impressed by the burgeoning numbers of gays, did—the Toklas activists fretted about the bad image that the maverick camera store owner would give all the city's gays. The fact that Milk had taken the politically suicidal route of bucking the anti-labor tide by chumming up with rednecks like teamsters and hard hats was in itself proof of Milk's naiveté, if not outright insanity. Once again, the Toklas club and most of the gay leadership shunned Milk's candidacy, backing incumbents. As was the case in virtually all of Milk's campaigns, Harvey drew little support from lesbians, who distrusted his alliances with drag queens and also noted that Harvey had few, if any, close lesbian friends. A few people, like Jim Foster, publicly endorsed Milk but privately derided enthusiastic supporters like Wong.

The gay moderates' extolling of liberal friends' virtues made Milk's blood boil, and he compared the Toklas club to the homosexual groupies who had once idolized Judy Garland. For all the liberal friends, gays still had not received a single city commission appointment or gotten a comprehensive civil rights law that banned discrimination beyond the handful of city contractors. “To hear those who are already working for a particular candidate praise that person, one would think that the gay community has already achieved gay rights,” Milk wrote. “But we haven't. There is no reason why any gay should go to any candidate. Let them come to us. The time of being political groupies has ended. The time to become strong has begun.”

Milk's battles with moderate gays were no less virulent than his fights with the radical left-wing gays who had coalesced in the wake of the Castro 14 controversy. The radicals' chief organization, Bay Area Gay Liberation (BAGL), reflected the more Marxist gay groups that had flourished in the post-Stonewall days of New York, but had rarely gotten off the ground in San Francisco, where political energies were directed toward reformist Democratic Party politics. Once established, however, BAGL meetings spent endless hours splitting hairs over issues of the politically correct, worrying not so much about gays' disenfranchisement, but about such abstruse issues as “looksism,” the penchant of gay men to want to go home with men to whom they were physically attracted. Milk first raised these activists' ire when they started to organize a contingent to march with Cesar Chavez' farm workers. Influenced by the strong anti-gay teachings of the Catholic Church, Chavez and his United Farm Workers union had long refused to take a stand in support of gay rights. Milk argued that gays should not man the picket lines for Chavez until he was willing to issue at least a one-sentence statement in support of gays. The stance earned Milk the hoots, jeers, and long enmity of the gay radicals.

Besides, they confided to each other, Milk
was
a small businessman. Some took to scolding Scott Smith, saying if Castro Camera really cared about the people, they would give away free film and offer developing services gratis. That Milk even involved himself in electoral politics was further evidence that Harvey was part of the System, which, they were convinced, was going to crumble any day.

Harvey saw little more than traditional homosexual defeatism in the views of both the reformers and radicals. One side would pay any price to be accepted by liberal friends, even if it meant having no gay public officials themselves. The other showed the same deference to the heterosexual radical left, prostrating themselves before the causes of Chicanos and socialism, even if those causes rejected gays as much as the political establishment.

*   *   *

A fine frozen Alaskan salmon arrived midway in the campaign, a birthday gift from Milk's old Wall Street friend Jim Bruton, who was now working in Anchorage. The salmon gave Milk the chance to fix a gargantuan feast, a delight that had become rarer as the campaign gobbled up all his time and money. Harvey could not mask his air of melancholy when he called Jim to thank him for the gift.

“Here I am, out campaigning sixteen hours a day,” he complained. “And what for? A bunch of people who don't want to stand up for themselves, who don't even seem to know that
they're
the ones who are going to have to stand up if we're ever going to win this thing.”

“Don't worry, Harvey, you're so goddamned bullheaded you're going to end up winning even if it takes you until you're ninety years old,” Jim said.

Milk's tone changed slightly. “You've got to remember,” he said quietly. “I don't have until I'm ninety. I don't have that much time. I've got to get it done sooner.”

*   *   *

If gay moderates needed to prove the power of liberal friends, they had to point no further than the California legislative session in which the powerful legislators of San Francisco's Democratic machine—mindful of the 1975 mayoral race—produced results of national significance. Assemblyman Willie Brown, a close ally of George Moscone's, had pushed for years to strike down the 1872 statute which prescribed felony penalties for “crimes against nature.” The bill was defeated repeatedly in the legislature. Governor Ronald Reagan had indicated he would veto the reform even if it did pass.

By 1975, Reagan was no longer governor and the new Governor Jerry Brown had privately assured gay leaders he would sign a repeal, though, fearful of stirring up questions about his perennial bachelorhood, he would not publicly campaign for it. Rick Stokes's tireless lobbying among lawyers' groups had won the reform an impressive list of endorsements, many from conservative law enforcement organizations. The most important factor boding for passage, however, was that Senate Majority Leader George Moscone was running for mayor of San Francisco. The city's legislative delegation could have pushed the bill to passage years before, some gay lobbyists thought, but it was not necessary. The gay leaders were not a demanding lot. The politicians got the support of the gay moderates whether they produced or not, and there was no reason to give gays such an important victory until the gay gratitude could be exploited for a cause dearer to the politicians' hearts. The election of Moscone was just such a cause.

Moscone shepherded the measure through committees, jawboned reluctant moderate Democrats from rural California, and pulled in every outstanding I.O.U. in the capitol. The bill passed the assembly. The day the measure came up for its final senate vote, a gallery packed with reporters and anxious gay activists sat aghast when the chamber came to a 20-20 tie vote. With a dramatic flourish, Senator Moscone asked that the senate president invoke a little-used rule that allowed the president to literally lock the senate chamber's doors, so that no legislator could leave the room. In Denver, meanwhile, Lieutenant Governor Mervyn Dymally boarded a jet for Sacramento. For the first time in decades, a California lieutenant governor entered the ornate state senate chambers to cast a tie-breaking vote. Saying his vote would take California “one step farther from 1984,” Dymally voted to abolish the law that had for over a century made homosexuals de facto felons in California.

The demise of the anti-sodomy statutes had far-reaching implications for gays' legal status around the country. California had long been a leader in criminal justice law; the fact that the nation's largest state legalized all sex between consenting adults gave the libertarian posture new credibility. By the end of the year, fifteen more state legislatures took up the issue. Four struck down sodomy laws, some of which dated back to the Colonial era. These legislative successes gave gays more clout in court when they argued for an end to the myriad forms of anti-gay discrimination, especially state-imposed bias against gays in licensing and civil service jobs.

The biggest political plum, however, fell in the lap of mayoral candidate Moscone. The gay bandwagon of support for the state senator even worried activists like Milk, who thought gays should hold out on their endorsements until the last moment, so they could cut better deals from desperate candidates. The arguments were to no avail. Moscone clinched virtually all the major gay support, earning a constituency that would remain in his camp for the rest of his life. The gay swing for Moscone was pushed further when, in the waning days of the Alioto administration, gays were reminded of the political consequences that any continuation of the status quo would bring. A reporter offhandedly asked the police chiefs public relations man what he thought about having gay cops on the force. “We feel they are emotionally unstable and unsuited for police work,” Captain William O'Connor huffed.

Was the captain aware of any gay police officers?

“No,” he said. “But I'd sure like to have a list of them.”

The ensuing flap pushed even moderates' tempers to their limit and gave Senator Moscone the chance to talk of how he would wipe away any vestiges of anti-gay prejudices. “I will only be satisfied,” he said, “if in four—or hopefully eight—years, I can not only change the face of San Francisco, but change the soul of San Francisco, and, with its extraordinary international authority, become a catalyst for conversion for the rest of the country, if not the world.”

*   *   *

The marijuana supermarket closed its doors for the 1975 election night.
Downstairs in the Island restaurant, Harvey's diverse throng of supporters drank their non-Coors beer and cheered as Senator Moscone surged into an early lead in the mayor's race. Few got depressed when Supervisor Feinstein disappointed all the prognosticators and fell into a third-place finish behind Moscone and Supervisor John Barbagelata, the mecurial conservative who, according to the pundits, never had a chance. Moscone would have to face Barbagelata in a runoff four weeks later.

The good news for gays came from all quarters. Sheriff Hongisto surged to a better than 3-1 victory over his conservative opponent. In the district attorney's race, the two liberal gay allies, Joe Freitas and Carol Ruth Silver, left the anti-gay incumbent in the dust. When the final returns on the tight race came in, D.A.-elect Freitas promised to end the prosecution of victimless crimes that had haunted San Francisco gays for decades.

The liberal voting trend, however, did not extend to the races for supervisor. Harvey made an initial strong showing, but as more returns trickled in, it became obvious that all six incumbents would be reelected, with Harvey finishing the race in seventh place, just one slot away from victory. The finish startled many political observers, however, since few believed a gay candidate could really be a serious contender. In his concession speech, Harvey left no doubt that he would try again. “We established a great amount of contacts,” he said. “We will build upon those basics in the next two years.”

Most of the speech, however, was a paean to his lover Scott Smith, who had worked so hard as Milk's campaign manager. “When people thank me for what I'm doing, they really are thanking Scott, the man I love,” Harvey told the crowd. “He's the one who puts up with me. The world may one day be a little bit better because Scott was there.”

A roar rose from the crowd when a beaming George Moscone swept into the restaurant on a surprise visit. Harvey Milk may have lost the supervisorial race, but the liberal political establishment was now ready to embrace him. Moscone quickly sought out Milk. Dennis Peron did his best to look nonchalant as he eavesdropped on the two politicians.

“Y'know you're going to have to make some appointments of gay people to commissions if you get elected mayor.” Harvey grinned.

“I think we should set up an appointment to talk in my office.” Moscone smiled back.

Both knew who the first gay commissioner would be. Harvey introduced Moscone as “the next mayor of San Francisco.” Moscone designated Castro Camera as one of his neighborhood campaign headquarters.

*   *   *

It was not until Jim Rivaldo grabbed a handful of magic markers and started charting Harvey's precinct totals that the depth of Milk's support became apparent. Milk was no also-ran who finished in seventh place because of soft support. Instead, Rivaldo found that Milk had beat out all incumbents in one-ninth of the city's precincts, losing his seat only because of his poor showing on the conservative west side of town. Harvey carried the Castro and the Haight by landslide proportions and swept aside all contenders in the brown rice belt. The better heeled liberals of Pacific Heights also backed the maverick in high numbers. Rivaldo's neatly color-coded map showed that Milk had a solid constituency in the city, hard support even if it wasn't wide enough yet to win a citywide election. The map delighted Harvey, who wasted no time in calling a host of the city's politicians to casually invite them to drop by Castro Camera because he had something they might want to see.