“No.” Cam turns and shows me a photograph of three men sculpted in bronze, slumping over. They’re in the exact same pose as the female figures from the drawing.
I shake my head. “Those are all the same shade, though.”
He sighs and points to the caption underneath. “They’re calledThe Three Shades, Ivy. It’s a sculpture in the Legion of Honor museum. It stands over a larger piece titledThe Gates of Hell.”
“Sounds cheerful,” I say, scrunching my nose. “What’s the connection to gay history?”
“I don’t know yet,” Cam answers. “Plus, the sculpture’s inside a building. And I’m pretty sure Gilbert Baker buried the final treasure outside. But maybe nearby…”
“The installation series.”
Both Cam and I nearly jump from the table. We swivel toward each other in unison, then turn and scan the room. The entire place is empty except for—
The librarian at the head of the room coughs and sets the newspaper down in front of him.
“There was a series of temporary art installations just outside the Legion of Honor museum,” he says gruffly. “Those have been over for a long time now, though.”
“How long?” Cam asks.
The old man shrugs and ponders, curling his fingers around his unruly beard.
“They lasted through the 1970s, maybe? Used to occur around the same time as the annual gay pride parades down Polk Street. June of each year—that was it. But they stopped around ’82 or ’83. So perhaps not what you’re looking for.”
I stand so quickly that the empty chair next to me tumbles sideways onto the floor. “That’s actually kind of exactly what we’re looking for,” I say, throwing a quick glance to Cam. “Do you happen to have any photos of those installations by chance?”
The librarian shakes his head. “You won’t find photos in the official archives. They were unauthorized installations—technically vandalism.” He offers us a devious little smile, then picks up his newspaper and rattles it like a breeze is wafting through the room. “But I’ll bet something comes up in theSanFrancisco Chroniclearchives. You’ll find all the reels for the issues printed before 2003 in the basement.”
It only takes five minutes for us to pack up all ten boxes and book it all the way down to the basement. We check out every reel of theSan Francisco Chronicleprinted between 1975 and 1983. Luckily, the library has two microfilm readers, and Cam and I sit side by side as we divide up years—he takes all the even ones, and I take the odds—and begin searching through.
“Are we sticking to June issues only?” Cam asks. He slides a reel into the reader.
“June and July,” I say. “Sometimes newspapers pick stories up late.”
We scroll through, trying not to get snagged in every article about the Pride marches or protests or Harvey’s trajectory to office. There’s so much that happened in such a short period of time. It really is like going back and seeing an entire revolution unfold.
“Listen to this,” Cam says after a while. “ ‘Gay people, we will not win our rights by staying quietly in our closets…We are coming out! We are coming out to fight the lies, the myths, the distortions. We are coming out to tell the truth about gays. For I am tired of the conspiracy of silence.’ ”
The last word manifests itself, stretching between us.
“It’s from Harvey’s speech at the 1978 parade,” Cam says softly. He shifts away from the microfilm reader. “Is that how you felt? When you came out to me?”
My entire body goes numb. Neither of us has mentioned that specific day since it happened. Secretly, I guess I sort ofhoped that in his weird, new surfer-guy phase, Cam had forgotten about it. That he might’ve looked back and figured we had simply grown apart as friends.
I go over Harvey’s speech in my head, mining it for an answer that sidesteps my and Cam’s personal history.
“I think it’s important to come out on a community level,” I say steadily. “I think Harvey’s talking about the fact that a lot of people are scared to come out because they think coming out will get them stereotyped or”—I spin my hand around, trying to remember Harvey’s exact wording—“distorted, in society. They stay in the closet because they’re not aspecifickind of gay person, you know? But being gay is a spectrum. It always has been.”
I realize I haven’t answered Cam’s question at all.
“If you’re asking if I came out for gay people’s rights,” I say finally, “then, I mean, yes! Obviously!”
“No, I’m not asking you that.”
Cam pushes even farther from the microfilm reader, shifting closer to me. He clears his throat. “Harvey said, ‘For I am tired of the conspiracy of silence.’ But what does that mean, the conspiracy of silence? It’s the idea that silence is telling a lie, right? Or, at the very least, that silence is covering up the truth.”
I make a face. “I’m not sure I’m following.”
“Forget the gay rights movement for one second,” Cam says. “I’m talking about us right now. You and me. I want to know: When you came out that day…was that your way of trying to tell me the truth?”
