Photo of Berkeley Tribe cover below (March, 1970)
lower right, c'est moi; next to me is Bobolink;
lying in all his splendor is Ivan, RIP
Young people get clear, positive sex-ed at school. Heroin and marijuana are treated distinctly differently, instead of the Just Say No stupidity across the pond.
During the 70's I had two major awakenings about my identity as a gay man. The first came in 1976 when I decided to apply for Dutch citizenship. I'd earned an advanced degree in performance and theater arts education and was working steadily, both on stage and in the classroom. By becoming a European Union citizen I would be better positioned to ply my trade anywhere in Europe and would no longer need work permits for my many freelance jobs.
I went to an immigration lawyer for advice. She asked if I was married or in a longterm relationship? Yes, my partner was a Dutchman. Excellent, she said. My next step, she assured me, was to write a letter to the Queen asking for citizenship, making sure to include the fact that my life partner was a Dutchman. Wow. They really made me feel like the good citizen I've always aspired to be.
Ironically, shortly after the American Consulate in Amsterdam was informed that I'd obtained citizenship in The Netherlands, they demanded my presence and I was to bring my American passport. Only years later did I learn that the Consul and his staff knowingly mislead me, giving me to believe that by gaining my EU passport I was thereby forfeiting "the most valuable document a person can have in this world, a U.S. passport." I mean, really! They actually said that. They wanted me to sign a form stating that I had become Dutch in order to renounce my American citizenship. They had a hard time hearing me when I said that I would not sign this statement as it wasn't true. So I rewrote the statement substantially before signing it. The upshot was that they used a giant tool to invalidate my US passport and sent me on my way.
In the Fall of 1979 the U.S.Embassy in The Netherlands came to regret the Consul's actions three years previously. I'd been blissfully unaware of all things political as I traveled to Nepal for seven weeks, all on my own. (Look for an upcoming post about that fantastic voyage.) I returned to my flat in the heart of Amsterdam toward the end of December. My kitty sitter had left the Volkskrant (Netherlands newspaper) open to an article about how Cyrus Vance, then Secretary of State under Carter, had sent out notices to all American Embassies and Consulates as well as to the Immigration & Naturalization Service to draw to their attention the fact that the law passed in 1953 barring foreign homosexuals from obtaining an entry visa to the US was still in force and should be enforced.
The ghosts of the reactionary McCarthy era were stirring up dust again. The news was shocking to me, but, I fear, most of my Dutch friends just shook their heads and said, Typical American weirdness. When I read in the gay press about how men had been turned away at the border because they admitted to the border guard that they were gay, my shock turned to anger. The Mexican fashion designer coming into LA to consult with his high end clients didn't make it past the Mexican border. The closeted Filipino man who'd saved for years to visit "the land of the free" and who'd put in his little gold earring on the flight to California. He responded with a smile when asked by a border guard if he was gay, at last he could say it, Yes, I'm gay. The flight attendants narrowly succeeded at stopping this man's suicide on the flight back to Manila he was ordered to take. No queers allowed or aloud! And yes, every man they carried out this terrible, shameful law on was a man of color.
I went in to see the American Consul. We sat in his lavish office. I told him that I had read in the papers about this law and needed to know whether the visa to visit America I had right there stamped into my Netherlands passport was actually legal? Because I'm gay. He went red. He stuttered. Then he came with, "But you don't have to declare that now, do you?" I just did declare that. Discombobulated, the Consul asked if he might hold onto my passport while he telexed the State Department for instructions. Could I come back later? Of course.
Then I got in touch with an excellent reporter I knew. I gave him the whole backstory, including my research on how selectively this law was being applied. While I had presented myself at the Consulate as simply a man with a conscience, my press friend understood that I aimed to be a troublemaker. He asked me to call him the moment my plan began to bloom.
A week later, knowing that Pamela and I had to travel to Germany for a gig, I returned to the Consulate and asked for my passport back. The lady behind the inch-thick bulletproof glass went somewhere to consult with her boss. Twenty minutes later she returned with my passport. She could not make eye contact. She slid the passport under the glass and, yep, all over my American visa was stamped CANCELED CANCELED CANCELED.
Back on my trusty bike, I zipped home to Molenpad and called the press. Late that evening my Volkskrant pal called to say that the Americans denying entry to a Dutch citizen who was openly gay would be a front page story the next morning. As I was falling asleep, I heard the story already breaking on the radio. I arose before the sun that day in early January, 1980, and began to call all the news organizations, including a number of TV broadcasters. "Good morning, this is Bear Capron. There's a front page story about my plight in the Volkskrant this morning. I will be holding a one-man demonstration at the American Consulate in Amsterdam at 10:30 this morning. See you."
Then I took a piece of posterboard and made a sign. At 10:20 I hopped on my bike with my sign rolled under one arm and minutes later pulled up at the Consulate. Television and radio trucks galore, reporters, photographers. Excellent.
Positioning myself artfully by the gate with the shiny brass sign of the Consulate just up over my shoulder, I unfurled my sign and stood winsomely in my little jacket and my boyish curls, declaring DEAR MOM AND DAD - I CAN'T COME HOME ANYMORE.
[when my archives cough up my immigration clippings, I will gladly post this photo]
The photo was a hit and meant that the story hit papers all over Western Europe by the next day. The American diplomats were apoplectic. In an audience with the American Ambassador to Holland, I was asked why I wouldn't accept a waiver. This waiver was an INS code that officially meant "psychopathic personality, limited access." I told the Ambassador that if I accepted that waiver I would be accepting a pink triangle in my passport, labeling me as gay wherever I might travel. She looked at me blankly. "What do you mean, 'pink triangle'??" While stunned that she knew nothing about the extermination of gays during WWII, I was able to give her a succinct history lesson.
The Dutch Parliament wrote a serious letter of reproof to the US Congress, calling out this law as being in violation of the Helsinki Accord. European gay rights organizations rallied. We had a mass protest in The Hague.
And my dear, stalwart parents took on the home front. Ted Kennedy got on board. My folks appeared on TV. Our country won't let our gay son come see us! This law is a disgrace! A letter to Congress they initiated was signed by a number of the great minds across the country who either knew them or heard the story and felt compelled to speak up.
And, dear reader, it took eleven years before that statute was removed from the Immigration laws by Congress. This brings us to The Eighties ...