t all started in late May 1970 when Morris Kight called my home and asked me if I'd read The Advocate's article about the 1969 Stonewall riots in New York City. He wanted us to meet up with the Reverend Bob Humphries to see if we could find a way to memorialize them in Los Angeles. Three nights later over coffee at my house we decided on a parade.
We went to the police commission to fill out an application for a permit. After about two hours of debate, then–chief of police Ed Davis said, "As far as I'm concerned, granting a permit to a group of homosexuals to parade down Hollywood Boulevard would be the same as giving a permit to a group of thieves and murderers!"
The commission would agree to a permit only if we took out liability insurance totaling $1.5 million and posted a $1,500 bond. With the help of the American Civil Liberties Union, we took our request for a permit to a county superior court judge, who not only granted it—without requiring a bond or insurance—but also required the police to provide us protection.
On Sunday afternoon, June 28, 1970, the first LGBT pride parade in Los Angeles began at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and McCadden Place. About 1,200 showed up to march or staff the floats; spectators numbered over 15,000.
The parade was incredible. We didn't get the bands we wanted, so my roommate, Willie Smith, drove the route in his VW bus playing World War II German marches from an amplification system he'd hooked up. Willie's thinking? Since the police enjoyed treating us like the oppressed of WWII, they might like the music and leave us alone. The Society of Anubis float started the parade. The pet-walking section was led by a young man with an Alaskan husky and a sign that read "We Don't All Walk Poodles." (A photo of that man and his dog ran in a Time article about the new gay militancy.) The Gay Liberation Front of Los Angeles shouted, "Two, four, six, eight—gay is just as good as straight." A pretty conservative gay group from conservative Orange County even brought a large sign that read "Homosexuals for Ronald Reagan." I heard a woman on the sidewalk say, "I can forgive them for being homosexual, but I will never forgive them for supporting Ronald Reagan."
After the parade passed, I sat at the corner of Hollywood and McCadden with Carole Shepherd, president of the L.A. chapter of the Daughters of Bilitis, and Kelly Weiser of Homophile Effort for Legal Protection. We announced that we'd sit there until someone from city government came and talked with us about gay rights—and I would fast until then.
Twenty minutes later the police came and arrested the three of us for "viciously and maliciously blocking a sidewalk to do harm." I ended up fasting for 16 days on the steps of the Federal Building in downtown L.A. until city councilman Robert Stevenson and his wife, Peggy—the first of many allies over the years—came to the defense of our community.
That first LGBT parade in Los Angeles gave us a political edge. Never again would the police or anyone who tried to stop our movement frighten us. We made up our minds that year to show our pride with parades and demonstrations. And we've never looked back.