Words flowed out of Amber, and her message was clear: “You have a right to be angry,” she shouted. “What happened was a miscarriage of justice. ... Let me see your rage!” The crowd began to explode. Windows in City Hall were smashed, and soon a row of police cars went up in flames. The rest of that night is a blur for me. I returned to the Castro. The police followed and the violence they unleashed was terrifying. But through it all, I remember thinking: “That woman was amazing. I want her in my life.” Our paths kept crossing. I visited Modern Times for snippets of conversation. The Lesbian and Gay History Project launched that summer, and we were both at several meetings. They organized a public forum on the history of the queer community’s relationship with police, and Amber and I were on the roster. The event’s title was “Spontaneous Combustion” and, when Amber spoke, it felt like the packed auditorium might act out the title! Finally, after many encounters in public settings, we planned a Saturday breakfast together. We ate and talked. Leaving the restaurant, we kept talking. Hours later, we were still talking as Amber walked backward down the hill, the physical distance growing, until we were finally out of earshot. Those ten hours of conversation launched a friendship that continued for over forty years. We overlapped in New York in the early 1980s and then again for two glorious years in the 2000s, when Amber Hollibaugh, Human Rights Activist JOHND’EMILIO IFIRST MET Amber Hollibaugh in 1979, when I spent several months in San Francisco doing research for what became Sexual Politics, Sexual Communities. My first weekend there I was on a panel on gay and lesbian history organized by the Radical History Network. Such events were rare in 1979. One of those in the audience was a tall, imposing blonde named Amber. She told me she worked at Modern Times, a bookstore run by a left-wing collective, and that I should come by. The bookstore was not far from the Castro, and a few days later, when I walked in, she was at the counter reading Jeffrey Weeks’ pioneering book Coming Out, one of the first LGBT narrative histories. We talked for a bit, but customers needed her attention, so I left. The following Monday, the verdict came down in the trial of Dan White for the assassination of Harvey Milk and George Moscone. He received the lightest possible sentence for two cold-blooded murders, and the call immediately went out to assemble at City Hall to protest. The plaza in front of it was packed when I arrived. Speakers addressed us—the two I remember were Harry Britt and Sally Gearhart—and all, without exception, urged us to stay calm. Harvey would want us to be peaceful, they said. And then this tall, imposing blonde came to the podium. IN MEMORIAM 8 TheG&LR
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