I remember how, as the night went on and the crowd grew, we were surrounded; as cops on horses, cops in riot gear, cops in cars and paddy wagons began to roll in behind and around Sheridan Square, with the firefighters and their trucks, and their hoses hooked up to hydrants and the hoses that would work. And Garland’s voice and that haunting song. I can remember thinking how glad I was that John Lindsay was the mayor, because without Lindsay holding the cops at bay and refusing to give them permission to move, there would have been a bloodbath. I mean there we were, a crowd of homosexuals, pansies, fairies, fags, and we were not letting New York’s finest trash a gay bar with impunity.

In the world before that night, we could not have done what we did. But that night we did. We finally stood up and said we have rights. To congregate. To dance. To mourn. To be left alone. Left alone to live, to love, to work, or just dance and listen to Garland sing.