It poured and poured cold rain as the crowd waited for the Presidential candidate. And then he finally showed up, hours late. Based on the response of the waiting people, it had all been worth the pain.
The last rally of the Rev. Jesse Jackson's 1988 run for the Democratic presidential nomination took place in San Francisco's Castro District in front of the AIDS Hospice called Coming Home. We knew Jackson wasn't going to win the big prize -- this had become obvious weeks previously, though he kept winning more of the vote than orthodox commentators expected.
That spring, wearing a Jackson button had brought knowing smiles from strangers on the street. It felt as if one had joined a secret society. He did come in first in the San Francisco vote; Michael Dukakis did not inspire.
But we all knew that last rally was an end of one phase of struggle. (Struggle never ends, after all.)
And somebody had to do the physical advance work for the event -- set up volunteers, place barricades, ensure traffic flow, alerts to neighbors about parking, etc., etc. etc. Somehow Erudite Partner and I ended up the site coordinators tasked with making sure all that worked. And that's a tale.
Because it was already obvious that the Jackson campaign was not going to lead to political jobs or perhaps anywhere, the infighting between various little lefty sects who had glommed on to the campaign only became more acute in the last days. They all wanted a piece. They generated position papers. Their idea of political heft was to ensure that their slogans or banners were front and center; not for them the question of how many and where there should be porta potties!
However at least one or two of this fractious bunch who had constituted themselves the local Jackson campaign knew that somebody was going to have to do the menial work of making the rally actually happen -- so they did something smart: they deputized a couple of lesbians (not left-sectarian affiliated, I should mention). There we were, a week before the event, drawing site plans and wondering where we could get enough folding chairs for VIPs in attendance.
We rapidly ran into an unexpected obstacle. Reverend Jackson was a legit presidential candidate, so he came with Secret Service protection. As site coordinators, we had to be vetted. And we'd just returned from a trip to Castro's Cuba with the Venceremos Brigade, back in the day when that was at least somewhat radical. We wondered ... but by this time in the Jackson campaign, the Secret Service had gotten used to non-standard resumes among campaign workers. And they were very competent and professional to work with; they were not going to let anyone kill Reverend Jackson!
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And so, we prepped as best we could and finally the big day came. A crowd of perhaps 1000 gathered in Collingwood Street, behind our barricade. Reverend Jackson had broken with the entire political establishment by speaking compassionately about AIDS/HIV. The LGBT+ community was coming out of six years in which science and medicine had no answer for "the gay plague." Hundreds sickened and died; no one really knew why for years. Far too much of straight society thought queers had brought this on themselves. Ronald Reagan, to his eternal shame, wouldn't speak the disease's name when his friend Rock Hudson succumbed in 1985. Eventually the disease got a name, but the first palliative drug, AZT, only became available in March 1988.
Only such a traumatized community would have thought to hold a political rally outside a hospice where their people were dying.
On the day, it rained some more. As is typical of political candidates, Reverend Jackson was hours late. When he finally arrived, he was rushed inside to meet patients and those local pols who had enough pull to get away from the rain. Outside, the crowd waited. Then, finally, he came out the front door.
My friend Kathleen Duffy who served as the sign-language interpreter that day has been kind enough to share the San Francisco Chronicle's photo of Jackson's gesture to the crowd. His very appearance at such a place and time spoke his message to all those who found themselves involuntary outsiders to their own country: "Keep hope alive!"
The crowd roared. Jackson caught the wave of emotion. And then he did exactly what the Secret Service had hoped to prevent. He charged down the stairs of Coming Home, started gripping hands along the barricade -- and then threw his 6'3" body over the low fence and plunged into the crowd, grasping hands and giving hugs.
The Secret Service patiently pulled him back; the people screamed.
The queers had been seen. And given their hearts ...
When it was all over, we made sure the porta potties were returned.
