Change Over Time

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Figure 1.

Participants of the Stonewall uprising in front of the bar, June 29, 1969. (Photo Estate of Fred W. McDarrah. Used with permission)

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This issue of Change Over Time, focused on LGBTQ heritage, is published to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of the Stonewall uprising, a key turning point in the LGBTQ rights movement.¹ It is ironic that Stonewall, a seedy, Mafia-run bar in New York City that had a brief run from 1967 to 1969, is now the most officially recognized LGBTQ historic site in the country, if not the world, given that twenty-five years ago the first attempt to secure federal recognition was rebuffed due to "lack of context."² Today, its significance, stemming from a police raid and its aftermath, is not in question, nor is the fact that it was popular with a diverse cross-section of the LGBTQ community in spite of the general oppressive climate of the era. What is not widely known is that the site's significance is derived from events that occurred outside the bar on the un-gridded streets of Greenwich Village and not inside the space itself (Figure 1). Another aspect of importance, and of some confusion, is that the Stonewall Inn, which closed soon after the uprising, had occupied two architecturally undistinguished buildings at Fifty-One and Fifty-Three Christopher Street. In 1930 these two buildings were combined at the ground floor into one commercial space and were unified with a single façade. Soon after the Stonewall uprising, the buildings were divided into two distinct spaces, and since then have been leased to various commercial businesses. Today, apart from the removal of the iconic "Stonewall Inn" sign, the two façades remain intact.³ Fifty-One Christopher Street, the site of the main historic bar, is now vacant and for lease and Fifty-Three Christopher Street houses the current Stonewall bar. The Stonewall bar of today has no association with the historic bar and was opened in the early 1990s. Its current owners have become important stewards of the Stonewall legacy.

While the above facts provide context, they also lay bare the complexities associated with the identification, documentation, evaluation, and interpretation of LGBTQ place-based sites. The official recognition and interpretation of Stonewall exemplifies myriad conservation challenges: the recognition and regulation of a historically and culturally important site without architectural significance as the primary determination; the exploration of changing values from a place of oppression to a place of celebration; the need to document multiple narratives to reflect the diversity of the LGBTQ community; and the impact of alterations and changes in use on authenticity. I often question if the site would be so revered and appreciated without the current Stonewall bar as a tenant.

Yet Stonewall has become a symbol and easy-to-understand—albeit limited—calling [End Page 137]

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Figure 2.

Participants at one of the earliest known demonstrations in support of LGBTQ civil rights at The Black Cat in Los Angeles, CA, Feb. 11, 1967. (Courtesy of ONE Archives at the USC Libraries)

card for what defines an LGBTQ historic site while simultaneously conveying the importance of LGBTQ place-based heritage. Unfortunately, the focus on Stonewall perpetuates the myth that the first act of American LGBTQ resistance erupted in June of 1969 in New York City and minimizes similar occurrences that preceded it at Cooper Do-Nut in Los Angeles in 1959, Compton's Cafeteria in San Francisco in 1966, and the Black Cat Tavern in Los Angeles in 1967 (Figure 2).⁴ It overshadows the much older, richer, and geographically diverse LGBTQ past that can be documented centuries earlier.

The emphasis on a bar also limits public understanding of the various categories of LGBTQ historic properties—a catchall term for sites, buildings, structures, objects, landscapes, and historic districts. These can be sites that are self-referential, emphasizing LGBTQ history, as well as those sites that illustrate the community's broad cultural influence and impact. Such examples include community centers, religious institutions, residences of notable individuals, performance venues, works of architecture, and sites tied to [End Page 138] fields such as the arts, literature, and social justice (to name a few). No matter how expansive the definition of historic property types, using the built environment has limitations. The policies, businesses, and individuals associated with many LGBTQ sites excluded or discriminated against underrepresented communities within the LGBTQ and gender non-conforming umbrella. For many, their stories are missing due to the absence of an historic physical space with no discernable trail to research.⁵

The study of LGBTQ place-based heritage is a relatively new field of inquiry dating from the early 1990s.⁶ For some, the concept of embedding LGBTQ history within a physical space remains elusive and limited, but great strides have been made over the past twenty-five years. Many writers, historians, and scholars of LGBTQ history—an area of study that dates from the early 1970s—are not primarily focused on documenting the specific addresses, periods of significance, and physical characteristics of sites related to their research. I struggled with this deficit in 1991 as a graduate student in the Columbia University Historic Preservation Program. I became part of the first wave of historic preservationists who advocated that the documentation of LGBTQ history through the built environment had the potential to "connect lesbians and gay men to their own past and allow for a richer sense of themselves and the community."⁷ At the time, I was moved by the work of sociologist Robert N. Bellah, who in Habits of the Heart wrote: "Communities… have a history—in an important sense they are constituted by their past—and for this reason we can speak of a real community as a 'community of memory,' one that does not forget its past."⁸ Building upon Bellah, I reasoned that historic preservation could be used to create a community of memory for the LGBTQ community by establishing a collective physical connection to LGBTQ history and culture. This desire—to make an undocumented and invisible history visible—developed into my 1993 thesis, which explored the intersection of historic preservation and LGBTQ history in Greenwich Village. I never could have imagined that, decades later, the issues and questions raised in my thesis proposal and subsequent research would be relevant to a new generation of students, enthusiasts, historians, geographers, and academics as more projects, institutions, organizations, and municipalities now rigorously explore the complexities of LGBTQ place-based heritage.

While research on the topic has progressed, the body of published scholarship remains relatively small, with many of the known academics, historians, and cultural geographers of LGBTQ heritage referenced in this issue.⁹ Perhaps it is indicative of the state of the field that no literature review has been completed on the topic. To date, the most comprehensive and definitive publication on LGBTQ heritage in the United States is the National Park Service's LGBTQ America: A Theme Study of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer History, edited by Megan E. Springate and published online in 2016. In addition to this thematic LGBTQ heritage issue of Change Over Time, The Public Historian, the official journal of the National Council on Public History, published by the University of California Press, is publishing "Queering Public History: The State of the Field" in May 2019.¹⁰ Guest edited by Melinda Marie Jette, the issue, like this one, is timed to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Stonewall. Over the past five years, there have been a [End Page 139] number of LGBTQ historic context statements prepared by municipalities and preservation initiatives for the cities of Los Angeles, San Francisco, Louisville, and New York City that provide historic information by theme with practical evaluative tools. Equally encouraging is the growing body of research found in unpublished papers and theses, along with the emergence of new methods for collecting and disseminating content through LGBTQ mapping projects, website initiatives, blogs, and social media accounts.¹¹

In the United States, the LGBTQ community remains among the least represented in national, state, and local designation programs. In spite of the immense historic and cultural contributions of LGBTQ Americans, to date only 19 of the more than 93,500 sites on the National Register of Historic Places have been listed for their primary association with LGBTQ history.¹² This deficit has prevented effective advocacy and educational opportunities, leaving potentially significant sites and histories unappreciated, uncelebrated, and potentially endangered. In the United States, there are hundreds of already-listed sites that could be reinterpreted with LGBTQ associations, let alone new sites that could be identified and nominated.

Since the majority of extant LGBTQ historic properties are not architecturally distinguished and are often altered, official recognition must depend on their historical and cultural significance. This type of documentation is challenging, especially with LGBTQ properties. The uses and activities in many spaces were often transient and covert, contributing to the difficulty of identifying specific locations, addresses, and narratives. Many LGBTQ-identified individuals and organizations were historically disenfranchised or underground and forced to relocate numerous times, often due to harassment. Others, such as writers and artists, occupied multiple residences or studios over their lives, making it difficult to identify the most appropriate and significant of many possible associated sites. The limited documentation and record-keeping of the LGBTQ community's own history and the lack of value attributed to private photographs and ephemera are additional complicating factors. Another challenge is the changing understanding and context of the concepts of gender and sexuality over time, as well as terminology associated with the LGBTQ community.¹³

The increase in federally recognized LGBTQ sites over the past few years is encouraging. These achievements are part of the trajectory for equality that legitimizes LGBTQ history as American history; however, traditional evaluative methods and tools could pose challenges. Stakeholders and agencies may not be familiar with LGBTQ history and thus lack the ability to properly contextualize and evaluate a site. For listing on the National Registers of Historic Places, fifty years must have passed from the period of significance (unless a property is of extraordinary national significance, such as Stonewall), which could limit listing of many LGBTQ sites. Other challenges to listing include the possible requirement, even for historic and cultural sites, to evaluate the interior and exterior architectural integrity from the period of significance and the need for owner consent.

This issue of Change Over Time contributes to the recent body of work, both published and unpublished, by exploring issues related to the documentation and conservation of LGBTQ cultural heritage. The call for papers elicited a diverse range of abstract topics, [End Page 140] including many with limited or no emphasis on the built environment. While the general topics were diverse, the majority focused on white, middle-class, gay, male, urban experiences and histories, which is reflected in the final selection included in this issue. I am hopeful that the representation of diverse heritage narratives will emerge as interest and understanding of LGBTQ place-based heritage evolves.¹⁴

As a collection, the following papers, ranging from practical planning recommendations to explorations of historic LGBTQ landscapes to artists' reflections, provide insights into the current state of the field. Susan Ferentinos illustrates the diverse and expansive classifications of LGBTQ place-based properties beyond bars. James Michael Buckley, Donna Graves, and Gail Dubrow provide recommendations about new initiatives and policies in San Francisco to address the retention and preservation of LGBTQ-related businesses and cultural districts. A photo essay by Karen Lowe and artist Gwen Shockey addresses the transient, and often covert, nature of historic lesbian and queer women's spaces in New York City. In his study of London's Rainbow Jews Heritage Project, James Lesh reveals the complexities of documenting LGBTQ geographies and site-based preservation of an underrepresented group. Two additional essays study gay male cruising and the appropriation of space in public landscapes. David C. White explores the history and interpretation of cruising and violence in two of Boston's parks, the Charles River Esplanade and Back Bay Fens. Mark Robbins revisits TellTale, his 1996 art installation in Adelaide, Australia, which commemorated a well-known cruising area with a temporary, site-specific landscape intervention.

Although twenty-five years have passed since my days as a graduate student, my personal and professional interest in documenting and interpreting LGBTQ place-based heritage has grown. I remain committed to the belief that recognizing the historic and cultural contributions of LGBTQ people through the built environment is a powerful and necessary means to create a sense of place. Historic properties can convey past LGBTQ struggles, achievements, contributions, and acts of resistance, which can build a consciousness and identity about a collective past and reduce isolation and shame. Although there have been great strides in the advancement of LGBTQ rights since the Stonewall uprising in 1969, there is much work to be done to eradicate homophobia and sustain a political, social, and cultural movement. LGBTQ heritage is one tool that can assist by being at the intersection of historic preservation and social justice. With the recent pushback against LGBTQ rights, the histories embedded in place-based heritage can help inform how personal and political decisions are made. By pulling this history out of the so-called closet, tangible, place-based LGBTQ heritage has the power to provide both a visceral connection to what is often an unknown and invisible past and the intangible benefits of pride, memory, identity, continuity, and community.¹⁵