#Pride #LGBTQI+ #HarveyMilk
On May 21, 1979, now forever known as the White Night Riot, thousands of members of San Francisco's predominantly gay Castro District community had marched that very route but in the opposite direction. They marched downtown to Civic Center, where they soon had the mayor, the chief of police, the city council, and three hundred cops holed up in the courthouse, surrounded by a pissed off mob, much broken glass, and a line of burning police cars. It was a glorious sight, especially the burning police cars. I'm sorry I got there late (long story) and missed the part where the mob first encountered the cops who had been sent out to stop them. The cops were severely outnumbered. They panicked, broke and ran for their lives. It was a total rout. I'll regret till the day I die having arrived too late to see that.
I got there in time for some arson, though. That was gratifying. The trick with the arson was to first expropriate handfuls of newspapers out of the municipal trashcans. I'm old enough to remember municipal trashcans on every corner in the neighborhood. I'm even old enough to remember the newspapers themselves. They were common then and easy to find. Newspapers are seldom inflammatory, but as long as they're dry, they're always inflammable. Certain comrades (I'll spare you the names) crumbled up wads of said newspapers, set them alight, and shoved them underneath the back ends of said police cars. That's where the gas tank is located. It didn't take much flame, or very much time, for the flame to set off the gasoline. A safe distance was only a short sprint away. A mighty whump was followed by an orange fireball ascending to heaven. This happened over and over, one after another. It felt transcendental. It was as if I'd led a good life and then died and this was my reward in the afterlife, which of course was absurd as reality is totally lacking in afterlife. But that's how it felt. Feelings and reality sometimes diverge. It's part of the human condition.
Little was accomplished except for the symbolism, but we all felt good about that because symbolism matters. That's not just us being subjective. That's Semiotics 101, first semester. Not just the concept of symbolism, but the symbols themselves matter, especially around here. We're a symbol-minded people. Make of that what you will. For years after White Night a popular T-shirt sold at Bound Together showed a burning police car from a photo taken that night, with the caption, "No Apologies: May 21, 1979, San Francisco". The same image became a popular wall poster in dorm rooms, squats, and collective living arrangements. It was even seen wheat pasted on unguarded public walls. An uncropped version graced the front cover of a Dead Kennedys record. It became a meme, years before social media learned what the word meme meant.
My favorite part of the riot wasn't watching all those black and whites ablaze. It was a couple of twinks with a Polaroid camera who asked me to photograph them posing in front of a charred, still smoldering, police motorcycle. They intended to mail it to their friends back east to show them the real San Francisco because, "They think all we ever do out here is take drugs, have sex, and eat Rice-A-Roni." I obliged their wishes. That's the kind of thing that happens once in a lifetime at most. Mostly it happens less often than that.
James Huff 
Mediathekperlen
089chris
Columbus - Feeds
Carolleisa
KSev 🇳🇴🌻🚲 
Levka
mem_somerville