Larry Stone – Activism

“I’d like to do a fundraiser in Spokane.”

I’m kind of different than some. Some males come out and it’s like, “Wow, I’m going to have some fun times!” I came out and I wasn’t comfortable with anonymous sex. I wasn’t comfortable with one night stands. I just wasn’t comfortable. It just didn’t work for me. So I poured my energy—and I had a lot—I suddenly went from working 90 hours a week to 40. I could barely work 40 hours a week at the business, because it didn’t have any relevance. It didn’t mean anything all of a sudden to me anymore. I had this enormous reservoir of energy and I put it into gay activism. [In 1986] I joined a statewide board called the Privacy Fund, and I started doing fundraisers at my house. I bought this house in ’88. From then on, I started doing fundraisers.

They were big fundraisers. I’d have as many as 300 people here at this house and in the backyard. It was in the summertime. I had the governor here three different times. Twice I had Governor Lowry here and once I had Governor Locke. I had Senator Murray here, Patty Murray. Back then it was a very different time, so it was a brave step for the legislators to come here. I even got a Republican here once: John Moyer.

Lisa Brown: when she announced her candidacy, she announced it here, at our house, because she had heard about the gay thing—that this is the thing to come to. I met her [at my house] and I said, “Nice to meet you.” And she said, “Well, I’m running for [State] Senator.” I said, “You are?” She was running against John Moyer. I had actually supported John Moyer, but his caucus pushed him not to vote for the gay rights bill. We would’ve had the gay civil rights bill that year except that in his mind [he was] forced by his congress not to vote for it.[1] So it lost by one vote. He let us down.

I was really glad when Lisa Brown [announced her candidacy.] I supported her. She started her candidacy here. We had county commissioners here. We’d try and get everybody. We’d have the treasurer—Spokane County Treasurer. We’d have city council members.


It was always a brave thing for [politicians] to come [to the Privacy Fund event]. They were terribly afraid to even show up and be seen with homosexuals. At that time, in their mind, being associated with homosexuals was death for their candidacy. When they’d talk to me they’d say, “Make sure there was no press.” I’d would talk to them. “You’d be very safe,” I said, “This is a private residence. I will not allow the press on the property.” That was reassuring to them. To get people to come, I didn’t want the press—because that would scare them. I was very adamant that I wouldn’t allow it. That changed quickly as the years went by, because national trends were happening. But also [the candidates] discovered that [we] were normal people and we were raising substantial money.

I made a point of getting my friends to all write checks. For instance, I had Sheri Barnard here. She was running for mayor. I had them all gather around a table. We all wrote checks and handed it to her, because I wanted her to know that they were coming from homosexuals, not just, you know, Mo or Larry. They had to be homosexual Mo or homosexual Larry. [Laughs.] It was really important.


Getting [political candidates] to come to the first [fundraiser for the Privacy Fund] was very scary for me. I formed a little committee. I had probably, roughly equal, lesbians and gay men, The women were fantastic. Lesbians just were less afraid of being out than gay men, I think, in general. At that time, the AIDS was with gay men. So the moral turpitude associated with women was far less, I think, in society’s eyes. The old joke at that time was, “If God is punishing the gay men, well, then the lesbians must be “the Chosen People” because they never get AIDS.” That was the joke that we used to always say at the time.

This [one lesbian] friend was pretty brave—so she would do calls. I made several of the calls, but I have to tell you, I was very nervous making calls. She made some of the calls. We’d only [gotten] a few elected officials to come to first one, but I made it clear to them that there was a lot of money being raised. The word spread. Pretty soon, Democrats running for office would call me and say, “When’s the fundraiser? I’m planning my schedule,” because they didn’t want to miss it.

[During the fundraisers] I used to have all my acquaintances and friends who had fancy cars park in the driveway. The driveway would have Mercedes, Lincolns . . . Usually there was three or four Mercedes, because that was the status car. There was no Lexus at that time. We’d fill up the driveway with the most statusy cars we could, because I was trying to get a message to the people that, “We have money and you ought to pay attention to us.” I have to think it was very effective to them. Also, it broke down a fear of homosexuals. There was terrible ignorance of us and what we were like. I think it was a very educational thing for them. Some of the legislators told me later, “You know, even if it had nothing to do with politics, I loved it.” It really educated. Most had never met a real, live homosexual before.


I can remember the first [fundraiser] that we did. Everybody was able to fit in [this living room]. I had [Denny Dellwo, a Democrat] speak in front of the fireplace. That’s how small the first one was. All the ones after that, we had a microphone, speakers up, and the whole backyard. The next day, it looked like a herd of cattle had been there. The lawn was just destroyed. [Laughs.] Ted [Clark] and Gene [Otto] often organized the catering for the party, and they did a great job. And gay men did the flowers. [Laughs.] Lesbians brought the lesbians.

The first [fundraiser] was great. A lot of people told me, “No, I won’t show up there.” The Republicans were pretty adamant about it. I bet we had only maybe six or eight elected officials or candidates the first time, but each year after that it was automatic. It would build. [I stopped doing the fundraiser in] about ’94. I just was losing energy. I had started a new business. I was losing money. I was doing the Stonewall. I didn’t mind losing money on Stonewall, but I was losing serious money in this one business I had started. I had gotten into [a] relationship, which takes a lot of energy. I always said I was a hard core activist for eight years. Then, all of a sudden, my energy just left me.


I was on the Privacy Fund Board of Directors from approximately ’86 to ’93 or ’94, and then I left the Board. [The Privacy Fund was started by] people in Western Washington. I was the only person in Eastern Washington associated with it for years. I went over [to Seattle] for a dinner and I was blown away because there was US Senator—Brock Adams was his name at the time—he was a US Senator of Washington State. I was blown away. Here’s these senators coming to see us. I wanted to do that for Spokane, because it was so empowering. It’s really empowering to a homosexual at that time to meet a governor, or a senator, and realize that they want to be with us. Not only are they not scared of us, they wanted to be with us. So, I made that my goal . . . that I would do the same thing here, and it was terribly successful.

They put me on the [Privacy Fund] Board. I asked to join the Board and they were thrilled to have somebody from Eastern Washington. They put me on the Board and I said, “Well, I’d like to do a fundraiser in Spokane. I want to get elected officials there.” As I said, I got the governor, [and US Senator] Patty Murray. I got different people here that would act as draws, you know. Cal Anderson was the only openly [gay] member of the [Washington State] House and Senate at that time. He came to every one of them here. I even did fundraisers for him here. On top of the Privacy Fund fundraiser, we’d do, in another part of the year, a fundraiser for Cal. I did a couple of those. He was a great guy. He was the only out elected official, period.


I had already put together a mailing list. I called all my friends and said, “Give me names.” I put together—as far as I know—the first gay mailing list in Spokane. It’s still on my computer, but it’s terribly outdated now. I probably had 1,000 names on it.

I got a computer. It was the first time I’d ever had an IBM PC. Remember, this is early times. I got a friend to get me a program, because there wasn’t any Outlook or contacts back in those days. I put all of the names on there and got a mailing list. The first [fundraiser] we did here, we had maybe 50 people. The last couple we did, we had over 300. I was pretty much a little Nazi. I told people to dress well. Not that I’m a particularly formal person. But I said, “We’ve got to show these politicians that we’re not, you know, whatever their stereotypes are. I want to be the total exact opposite of their stereotypes.”

You’ve probably seen the pictures of when the gays protested in front of Independence Hall in 1965? The women were all wearing skirts and dresses, and the men were all wearing white shirts and ties and coats. Their strategy was this, “Look, this is the first time the press is going to see homosexuals. Let’s look nice.” So, the women dressed beautifully and the men dressed beautifully, you know, by society’s standards.

In a way, I did the same thing. I printed these invitations—they were formal invitations. I printed at a printer, with engraved invitations, kind of like a wedding invitation. And I put in there . . . I forget what the word was . . . “Semi-formal” attire. “Formal” in those days for men meant a tuxedo, and “semi-formal” meant coat and tie. I put that right in my invitation. [Laughs.] We all, all us men and women, dressed nice. I asked everybody [to dress nicely]. A lot of lesbians, who wouldn’t otherwise wear a dress, wore a dress. I think a lot of us [men] wore ties the first few years. It was as hot as hell.

The party was always in August. It was right after [candidates had] all filed for office. You have to file by July 31. I’d had it typically the first week after that, and it was hot and terrible. A lot of my fellow gay people were probably very mad at me for telling them to wear a tie, but I wanted to give [politicians] no excuse to find anything wrong with us, at least the first few times. Then I softened that dress code as time went on. But putting expensive cars up front, having people wear ties . . . I wanted [candidates] to realize, “Hey, you better pay attention, because we have potential to be powerful. We have potential to give you money. Pay attention to us.” Because the reality is, a great deal of politics is money. I wanted them to know they didn’t need to be afraid of the image and they should be appreciating the money.


I’m a Democrat, most of the time. But, I say, “You can’t judge. There’s some very bad Democrats out there towards us, and there are a few very good Republicans.” So, one shouldn’t judge. [Laughs.]

Since [George H. W.] Bush came in office [in 1989], it’s pretty hard to find a gay Republican. What Bush has done has made it very, very hard to be a gay Republican. There were some great, progressive Republicans way back: our governor [from 1965-77], Dan Evans, who’s very pro-gay. He was the governor. He was a Republican governor and very progressive guy. These are all people way [back]. Like Nelson Rockefeller was a very progressive Republican. There was some good Republicans. It’s very sad that the Republican Party has gotten so . . .

It’ll come back though, because they can’t go on [in this manner]. I remember when I was doing my fundraisers here. On the Privacy Fund board, we had three Republicans. But see that was, back before Republicans got completely crazy. When I did the [Privacy Fund], I could remember a guy—we had these little committees to put together these dinners—he also was Republican and wanted to bring Republicans. He couldn’t get any to come.


I testified [in Olympia in favor of the civil rights bill. Opponents testifying against the bill] were the best thing for us, you know? They were so awful that they switched votes for us!

I remember the [Spokane] Councilwoman, Roberta Greene . . . She came as kind of a free enterprise Republican. She wasn’t going to vote [in favor of the city ordinance prohibiting discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. Her attitude was,] “For what do we need government involved in this?” After she heard those people [testify against the measure] she said something to the effect of, “Now I know there’s discrimination.” [Laughs.]


[The Swan newsletter] only came out for a short time [in the late 1980s]. It was a mimeographed sheet of paper. It was very crude. But it was good. That’s how I met the Urbaneks,[2] I’m sure. Their daughter, Rebecca Sinclair, was a psychologist. Through The Swan I found her name and started going to see her to get some [counseling]. The coming out was difficult. Falling in love was difficult, and all that stuff. So I needed a little help. She was pretty great. The Swan was a great thing, but it terminated not long after I came out.

Then there was [no gay publication in Spokane] until the Stonewall. Ever since I had come out in ’85, I had wanted to [publish a gay newspaper in Spokane]. But I didn’t get around to it. Then I tried to buy a business, a major business acquisition, and then that owner flubbed on me. It was like, “Oh,” [sigh] because I was so psyched about his business, put all this work into it, and he flubbed on me.

Then I looked at myself in the mirror, and I said, “Now I finally have time. I don’t have any excuse anymore, so now I can do it.” So, I decided to start the Stonewall and I rented the office. I put an ad in [the Spokesman Review] for editors; I put an ad in the paper for business managers. At that time, if you put an ad in, [the Spokesman] allowed the word “gay” in the ad, but they wouldn’t allow the word “lesbian.” I put “gay/lesbian editor needed for a new gay paper.” They wouldn’t allow the word “lesbian.”

You know, in 1985, the New York Times would not allow the word “gay” in their paper. New York Times did not allow the word “gay” in their paper until several years after I came out. Society was changing. [In 1992,] the Spokesman Review would allow “gay” but they wouldn’t allow “lesbian.” It was probably a year or two after that they allowed “lesbian.” It was a time that these things were changing. The only reason that “gay” probably was acceptable for the Spokesman Review was there was so much AIDS reporting going on. It was the “gay cancer,” the “gay disease,” and that type of thing. That’s why they had become acclimated to the word “gay.” But lesbians were not thought of. They just didn’t think about lesbians. They didn’t want to think about gays, but they had to, because they were dying of AIDS.

I was traveling of course all the time on business. I would go into gay bars, and I would pick up the gay paper in every city. The Seattle Gay News was just an awful paper. Not only was it full of gay sex ads, but like the headline would say “Nazi Police Arrest Gays.” Well, “Nazi Police” in a headline on the front page . . . ? You call them “Nazis” maybe in the editorial section, but you don’t call them “Nazi” on the front page. That was Seattle Gay News.

I felt there was a huge need for a gay paper in Spokane. At that time, all the gay papers were about sex and really all about sex. For lesbians there wasn’t much in them, because it was all about gay sex. How to get phone sex, and how to get this sex, and that kind of sex. It was before the internet, you know. I desperately wanted to have a gay paper that was not something you’d be ashamed to show a straight friend. I desperately wanted one that could help prevent AIDS, because a lot of the men were going to the dirty bookstore at that time to get sex. I wanted them to pick it up and see there is an alternative way of living. I wanted young people to pick it up. I had it at the bookstores downtown, because I wanted young people to pick it up and be able to say there is a community out there. I had these reasons for doing it. I wanted it to be really nice.


I started the Stonewall News [in] April of 1992. If you look at even the first issue, it’s very conservative. [Laughs.] If you look at any other gay paper at that time, [Stonewall] is so conservative. It was professionally done. I had a lesbian editor and I wouldn’t allow sex ads. I just wouldn’t do it. Fortunately I was in a financial position where I didn’t have to. They were where all the money was. The 900 ads and all that stuff.

I got [Stonewall] to a lot of places. I’d have mailing parties. First of all, I sent a letter out to my mailing list. Remember: I had this huge mailing list. So, I sent one out, put the first issue in there and then had a subscription form. I immediately got 150 subscriptions. People paid. All those people knew me. [They] knew I was trustworthy and dependable, I would keep their names private, and that the paper wouldn’t cease publishing and they’d lose their 12 dollars. So I got lots of subscriptions.

Then I started calling and finding places to distribute it. One of my reasons for doing the paper was to reach people, young and old, in places where it was very difficult to come out. Now, because I’d been to [college in] Walla Walla, I found three or four locations in Walla Walla: Whitman College, Blue Mountain AIDS, . . . There was a bookstore there.[3] I went down to Walla Walla to promote the paper.

Once a month Walla Walla had a dance with Tri-Cities. There’s some lesbians and gays [there]. Tri-Cities got together with lesbians and gays in Walla Walla and they had a little dance. It was just when it was in Bridgetown Hall in Touchet, Washington—kind of halfway between Walla Walla and the Tri-Cities. I had some friends from Walla Walla that I’d known. They went to the dance with me. It was kind of a very quaint type of thing because here’s this [question in my mind], “What’s the population?” It was kind of hiding, you know, because they came out to this place once a month. When I was there, I had the papers on a table. I sat at the little table to distribute the papers.

I got it to the Moscow [Food] Co-op [in Idaho]. I got it to . . . It’s been so long, I don’t remember [all the distribution points], but they are all probably listed in the issue. [The Stonewall] had some [distribution points] in Missoula. We had it in Tri-Cities. There was a gay bookstore we put it in in Richland. A lot of these places I went to personally to talk them into it, because they were skeptical. [We had the Stonewall at] Pullman, at WSU. I would show it to them, because the [unintelligible] seen these awful 900 ad ones and they didn’t want those. I didn’t blame them, you know. It was hard enough to take down the gay community paper without a bunch of sex ads. It just made it that much harder for them. I found all these places and I would send them by UPS.

And then I got somebody—various different people—for a while I had a lesbian . . . I can’t remember her name, but she would take it around town to all the dirty bookstores. I thought that was one of the most important places to get it, because that’s where these married men and these people that were hiding were going. I got all the dirty bookstores and put it in there for free. [I] put it of course into the gay bars. Auntie’s [Books] was really nice about it. And there was a bookstore at the corner of Riverside and . . . anyway it was a national chain . . . B. Dalton’s I think it was. Put it at Beads and Things.[4] They had a retail store at that time. I got it all over the place.

Lots [of businesses wouldn’t distribute the paper]. Lots. But the biggest anti-gay remarks were from the gay community. I mailed it to businesses and said, “Would you be interested in advertising?” Straight businesses—a lot of them advertised. They were actually my best advertisers. I never had one straight business be nasty about it. But I can remember a woman, a podiatrist in Post Falls, just wrote me the meanest, nastiest letter. All I did was send it to her—I didn’t call her a “lesbian” or “homosexual.” All I said was, “You’re a business. Would you like to advertise?” That’s all I did. She wrote me a mean, nasty letter that I was outing her. Well, that’s how, apparently, people were at that time, in ’92, because I’d send it to straight people—and they didn’t write me any mean letters saying, “You’re accusing me of being gay,” you know?

So, I had the occasional bad experience, but very few bad experiences, really. I was expecting a lot. I was expecting horrible experiences. I got an office in the Peyton Building downtown. It was kind of an outing experience really, because a kid I went to high school with, his family owned the Peyton Building. So I had to rent from him. [I] expected to come back and hear a lot of bad [phone] messages. But I didn’t. I had very few bad messages.


[Gay newspapers usually got their] money came from the 900 ads. The way the 900 ads work was if you put in the ad with a 900 number, they would pay you—again I don’t remember—but say “x” percent of all the revenue that came in; they’d send you an itemization at the end of the month. There was big money in it. They’d send you a check for your cut. They’d have a [certain] 900 number just for your newspaper. This was before the internet. The 900 numbers were the internet, you might say. Primarily men would call for sex on the 900 lines. And they would charge—I don’t remember—three dollars a minute or something, and you had to give your Visa card. I never called one, but you had to give your Visa card and then they would give a percentage of their take to the paper. That was a huge business for gay papers.

I remember, I was in Washington DC. I had just started the newspaper and I interviewed the owner of the Washington Blade. He said, “I’m trying to get the sex out of it.” He said, “I realize that we do have two sections: one is the sex ads, and one is the regular [newspaper].” He was trying to get [the sex ads] more and more remote. Now, of course, it’s all gone because of the internet.


I got 30 applications [when I advertised for an editor for Stonewall]. I actually held interviews. Ted Clark and I interviewed [people], because I knew that he had journalistic background. We interviewed and hired a lesbian. We had two or three other candidates that would’ve been excellent. We hired a lesbian. Her name was Shelly Hines; she was then the editor. She knew how to do all the typesetting. She knew how to do everything. She did not use her [legal] name [in the paper]. Anyway, she did essentially all the journalistic work for the first three years and three months, until John Deen took over. I recommended to John Deen that he keep her. He kept her for one issue and fired her. They were like oil and water. They didn’t mix. She was a challenge for me, but she got the job done.

I also put this ad in for the business manager, [an] ad sales person. I got three applications, and two of them were from people from prison. Nobody wanted to sell ads. So I had to sell all the ads myself. [Realtor] Bob Cooke bought an ad. Michael Loundagin, who owned a gas station where you could buy “gay gas” on Division, bought an ad.

Then there were the gay bars. The gay bars were awful to me. They just were so flaky. You know, there is a lot of alcoholism in the bars that I didn’t realize. I would go to see the woman that owned J. S. Pumps. I would get off work at 5:00 and drive in there to see her, and she would say, “Come back tomorrow.” Night after night she did that to me, and never bought an ad. The bars were horrible. Sharon [Wilson]—that was her name—who owned J. S. Pumps. To this day, I would have say, I harbor some bitterness towards her: not a horrible bitterness, but I mean she treated me terrible. If she just told me, “I’ll never buy an ad,” that would’ve been fine. But to put me through that, “Come back tomorrow. Come back tomorrow.” She was just playing games with me and just treated me terrible. That was an unpleasant part.

I thought the most important people would be the gay bars; they were just terrible to me. They really treated me awful. I ended up having to take [another bar] to court because they hadn’t paid for eleven issues. I had to take them to small claims court to collect. But they did place ads. [Laughs.] Then, [another bar owner] would buy ads, but very small ads. And he would lecture me about, you know, “You need to write more articles on me,” or something like that. [Laughs.] It was miserable. So, I did sell every ad myself. Every ad that was in that publication, I sold myself. It was hard work.

I finally got a fellow named Keith [Wolter]. He started selling ads for me. He had a masters in divinity. He was a true Lutheran minister who had come out. He sold ads for me and did very well. Mostly his success was with straight businesses.

[Gay establishments] were afraid to have their name in [Stonewall]. Isn’t that amazing? That’s why I admired Bob Cooke, to this day. Bob Cooke put in an ad. He said, “I’ll put an ad in the very first issue.” I said, “Well, Bob, I want you to know, I’m not going to have those sex ads, you know, all those half naked men and stuff.” He goes, “Why not?! I love looking at those ads.” [Laughs.] He liked to joke with me. You know, there was a few people who were supportive, but overall the gay community was not very supportive to me. In the ad business, you either buy an ad or you don’t. They were not supportive.

But I got wonderful response from people who were reading it, and the people like the Woods—all those people were wonderful to me.[5] So there was good and the bad.


We covered the police brutality issue—the fag bashing and that type of thing. I was in the mayor’s office with the Chief of Police for Spokane and we had a yelling match. [Chief Magnan] and I got in a yelling match right in front of the mayor, Mayor Barnard [1990-94].

Sheri Barnard was wonderful. I was wonderful to her and probably helped to her get elected. She was always wonderful to me and helped. She was wonderful to the gay community. Heart of gold. She’s a fabulous person. She was vilified by a lot of people. She’s a very bright, capable person, without a doubt, and was fantastic to the gay community at a time when it was very scary. I admire her enormously. I brought to her attention the fag bashing was going on, and so she arranged a meeting in her office with myself and Police Chief Mangan.

People were being beat up outside bars. [The police] weren’t taking it seriously. She reached me. I was there, Police Chief Mangan, and the city manager. Back then it was not a powerful [mayor] form of government, like it is now. It was the city manager—[Roger] Crum was his name—the city manager. I can remember it to this day. I said, “People are being beat up outside bars; gays are being beat up all these places. We need to do something about it.” I remember Crum said, “Oh, people always get in fights at bars. It has nothing to do with being gay.” I remember him saying that. I said, “Well, it has a lot to do with being gay and when you’re being called ‘faggot.’” I can remember Mangan just saying, “You [i.e., Larry Stone] stay out of it. This is none of your business,” and stuff. I remember getting in a yelling match [laughs] with him in front of Sheri Barnard. That was a long time ago, of course. We did cover that quite a bit in the early Stonewall issues, because there was a lot of fag bashing going on then.


I had a business to run. So, in ’95 I just said, “We’ve got to find somebody to buy this [paper],” to one of the guys I worked with. We found John Deen[, who] was retired. He was a godsend. He had been a longtime employee of the City of Tacoma; he did their publications there. He was bored in his retirement. He and his partner moved to someplace on the coast, one of those places right on the coast of Washington state, a little town there, and worked for a newspaper. And his boyfriend said, “I want to get home. Can you sell him Stonewall? Please sell him the Stonewall.” So I said, “Okay, I’m ready to sell it.” It was really nice. But later, his boyfriend left him because John worked [all the time]. Later on, his boyfriend said, “I hate Stonewall, because it took away my boyfriend.” [Laughs.] It became John’s life.

[John Deen] pissed a lot of people off, and he was nasty, and all those things. You’ve heard that, I’m sure. But he lived to be the Stonewall. He went to every event in the community and covered everything that was going on all the time. He was an incredibly devoted man.

You know, if one person is really putting their energy into something, it’s hard to find somebody to take their place. I was just incredibly fortunate when John Deen took over the paper. Oh! I’m so thankful to this day! When John Deen took over, it was like a miracle, because he just lived and breathed the Stonewall—and lived and breathed local news.

I’m very sad [that the Stonewall is being shut down now]. I offered to help financially, but it does take somebody that lives and breathes a passion for journalism.


[I helped to start] Business Lunch Out, BLO [around 1985]. With the “Out” having double meaning. I did a mailing. I had my mailing list [from organizing Privacy Fund parties]. I did a mailing for BLO and it got to be a pretty large group. I got 40 or 50 people to lunch. I didn’t do much there. INBA was already going. So, the two of them merged. That’s where I met Marvo [Marvin Reguindin] because Marvo was involved in INBA.

Marvo deserves an award. I mean he’s just been tremendous for the gay and lesbian community. He’s been fabulous. He’s just . . . in everything. Everything about him has been good. He’s donated work. He’s been an organizer. He’s done the work of sending out emails for INBA and he’s done an enormous amount. He’s a very sweet guy on top of it.

I have chosen not to sit on the [INBA] board. At the time that we started that, I said, “I’m not going to sit on the board, because I don’t want to be too strong of an influence [in the Spokane community]. It’s time for other people to step forward.” I purposefully didn’t do it. They’ve done a great job without me. [Laughs] What I do now is I contribute money to causes—that’s what I’m doing now.



[1]A gay rights bill died, without a formal vote, in the Washington State Senate in 1994. Brown became a State Representative in 1992; after defeating Moyer, she moved to the State Senate in 1996.

[2]Katie and Harry Urbanek, founders of PFLAG in Spokane.

[3]Earthlight Books.

[4]Rings & Things.

[5]Ann and Charles Wood, activists in Spokane’s PFLAG.

Two Thirds Column


Source: Interview with Maureen Nickerson on 8 May 2007; held in the Northwest Museum of Arts and Culture. Transcribed by J. Zander; edited by Laura S. Hodgman.