Once a one-man effort, the 30-year-old Wisconsin LGBTQ History Project is now an all-volunteer educational nonprofit led by a statewide board of directors, community advisor network, and a corps of storytellers.
Where does your story begin?
I was born in July 1952 and grew up in West Bend. I was one of five children: One older sister and three younger sisters. I always told people, “My parents had all girls” as a joke. We lived about a mile outside the eastern city limits, on a half-acre off Highway 33, surrounded by about a dozen houses. We had an old barn, a small creek, and wildflower fields in our backyard. It was really nice. We had the conveniences of a suburb and the comforts of the countryside. Paved streets, but well-pumped water.
I got to know all the other kids in my area. We lived on Sandy Acres Road, a dead-end street, and we’d ride bikes all over the neighborhood. There wasn’t really any traffic back then. West Bend wasn’t quite suburban yet, but it was on its way. Back then, all the families were very traditional: A mother, a father, two or three kids. It was about as Middle America as it gets!
Growing up, I don’t remember a single gay person on TV or in the movies. But I do remember a neighborhood boy my age who I just loved hanging around with. The more I think about it, I think that’s when I knew I was different. I was maybe 11 or 12 when I told my parents that I liked boys, not girls. They wanted to take me to our family doctor, but I knew there was nothing wrong with me, and I told them that.
When I started questioning myself, there was really nothing, nothing at all, to help guide any answers. You had to be so discrete. I couldn’t just walk up to librarians and ask them for recommendations. I had to flip through the card catalogs and hope nobody noticed what I was looking at. There was nothing useful in the high school library, and while the West Bend Public Library had resources, they were sparser than sparse. You were really on your own to figure it out.
Midnight Cowboy (1969) was a game-changer for me. I really loved that movie. This guy from the country hits New York City, meets all these different people, and some of them just happened to be gay. And I thought he was hot as heck! So that’s how it was, you’d find these movies that spoke to you, but you couldn’t always tell other people why.
They hoped I’d grow out of it, but when I was 17, I told them again, in stronger, more confident terms. They were actually quite accepting. My father took it a little harder, because I was the only boy, and back then it was so important to continue the family name. But in the end, they were truly supportive. They never expressed any regrets about who I was, or wished I could have been different. I couldn’t have asked for more supportive parents.
I’d always loved history and knew that history was a good guide for avoiding the mistakes of the past. When I was growing up, WWII was still a fresh experience. The neighborhood fathers had served in the War and had seen first-hand what happened within Nazi Germany. It’s true what they say: First they come for the Jews, and then they come for the gay people, and then the next minority they find undesirable. If people are willing to look, history can teach us.
Stonewall happened just before my 17th birthday. I still didn’t know any openly gay people, although I suspected one guy at school because he was feminine, even slightly flamboyant. And, you know, that was how gay people were seen in the media by the late ‘sixties, as “queens.” I didn’t really relate to that stereotype at all. I knew I was gay, but I didn’t feel I needed to be demonstrative. Don’t get me wrong, I knew who I was, and I didn’t care if people knew who I was. I just didn’t feel required to act in any way or another because I was gay. I wanted to be natural.
How did you find your community?
I started the Young Democrats of Washington County organization and started going to Democratic Party events. I met a lot of people during this time, and some were rumored to be gay, but I wasn’t sure how to approach them. I finally decided to go down to Milwaukee, and see what gay life looked like, because I wanted to get more involved.
So, I went to a Gay People’s Union meeting. Oh, my God, was I nervous. I drove around the block several times. Then I parked a block away and just watched who was going in. I was really concerned the police might raid the meeting. Finally, I worked up the courage to walk into this meeting—and there’s the guy I knew from the Young Democrats! He invited me to his place, took me out to the gay bars, and introduced me to gay people. It was such a happy discovery to have someone who could bring me out. It was a great introduction to gay life in Milwaukee.
Gay People’s Union was so intensely political back then. I know it had to be, because there was no one else fighting for the community, but it was a bit overwhelming. I wanted to understand the social side of gay life, and they were planning one protest after another after another. I attended a few meetings, but it just got to be too much. I wasn’t ready for that. And I know it frustrated a lot of those early organizers, that the community just wasn’t ready to step up like that.
Politics weren’t the basis of the community back then. For better or worse, it was the bars. The drinking age was 18, so I could go to bars, and that was my gateway to everything. That’s how I became aware of GAMMA. It was a sports-themed social group back then, and that led me to join other groups. The bars were kind of like a community center, where you’d meet people, learn about the things they did, and decide what you wanted to do. There was so much to do!
Some of my favorites were the River Queen, the Wreck Room, the Factory, and M&M. That triangle was just fantastic. I remember going back and forth between those bars in the Third Ward every weekend. It was a dead area of town at the time. After dark, the only people on the street were gay people. You’d meet more people outside the bars on the sidewalks than inside the bars. That’s all long gone now.
Bars weren’t trying to be found. They were somewhat anonymous. They weren’t always signed, you rarely used the front door, and there were no windows. There might be a light outside the door and the street address. That’s it. Once you were inside the bar, it was quiet, because there wasn’t really any street traffic. The Factory was different. That was a destination where everyone went to dance, and hang out, and see all the fabulous people. The Factory had a sign outside!
Even the customers were anonymous. You might exchange first names and phone numbers, but never last names. And sometimes, people might even say “that’s not my real name, but it’s what I go by in the gay bars.” Everyone had a nickname. People might share fake numbers if they really weren’t that into you. People were extremely cautious and extremely closeted. You never knew if your workplace would find out, and what they might do about it. The police in the 1970s were especially homophobic, and they were just out for the gay people. So, you were absolutely on guard all the time. Everywhere.
I don’t remember anyone ever asking why. This is just how it was and how it was always assumed to be.
Why do you think LGBTQ people don’t know their history?
Nobody ever talked about the past. This shouldn’t be a surprise. People weren’t always proud of the past. The past was often a source of anger, embarrassment, and shame. The present was so unpredictable and unstable. Gay liberation was all about the future.
You have to understand most gay people grew up believing they were alone in the world. Imagine finding this was untrue all along. What would your first reaction be? You’d be focused on making up for lost time for the rest of your life. The clock was ticking. There was no time to worry about what went before.
Nobody talked about the old bars. Sure, we got fragments here and there. People might mention things in passing, like a bar’s former address or owner, but there was no documentation. Different people would remember things differently and there wasn’t one source of truth. These conversations were maddening. Nobody knew anything for sure, even the people who thought they knew everything!
When the Factory closed, I was just devastated, because we lost this epic liberation landmark. That’s when I started thinking, someone should preserve these things. I never expected it to be me. I never wanted to draw attention to myself. I don’t consider myself a public speaker, and I hate doing interviews. And I was afraid to take cameras into bars because it was simply not done. Today, people are used to having every moment of their day photographed; back then, people worried that their photo would wind up in the newspapers.
Still, one of my greatest regrets ever was not getting photos inside The Factory, because I’ve never found any photos anywhere. I’m sure that Chuck Cicirello had photos, but he never shared any before he died, nor did any of the people he recommended to me. I always hope someone will step forward with an album of photos.
How did you start building your collection?
Without any documentation, we had no sense of who or what we were, only a few years earlier. It was left entirely to the interpretation of the few people who were there and willing to talk about it.
By the late 1970s, we started seeing gay periodicals, including Gay Milwaukee and Milwaukee Calendar, and I realized this was the documentation we’d been missing. So, I started collecting all the periodicals I could get my hands on. If even libraries weren’t going to chronicle our history, I decided I had to do it myself, and I just kept on collecting them. Eventually, I started scanning them for the website, and the rest is history. Today, we have the largest collection of LGBTQ multimedia in the state.
One of my biggest regrets was donating all my hard copies to the Cream City Foundation. When they moved from Walker’s Point to the Enterprise Center, they had a water main break, and everything was destroyed. From that point on, I didn’t really trust anyone with my hard copies, and certainly not any gay organizations. There wasn’t a whole lot of stability back then. Organizations would form, and then move from office to office, and to this day, many of them still don’t have permanent offices. I realized if I don’t save this stuff, nobody is going to do it for us, and I can’t really count on anyone else to keep the materials safe either. I had to step up and take responsibility.
People didn’t understand why it was important to keep all these old “bar rags,” and that’s what made it even more important for me.
Your community service wasn’t just limited to history and education. What roles have you played in Milwaukee LGBTQ non-profit groups?
In addition to my full-time career, I was on the board of Cream City Foundation for more than 10 years, including eight years as president. I was also on the board of GAMMA for eight years, with one year as president.
When the AIDS crisis struck, I was part of the team that spun off the Milwaukee AIDS Project from BESTD Clinic and founded the AIDS Resource Center of Wisconsin (now Vivent Health). I was ARCW’s first vice-president of the board of directors.
I worked in the cash room at PrideFest Milwaukee for over 20 years, as well as managing the festival’s History Exhibit. I ended that relationship in 2019.
In 2007, I helped launch Milwaukee Guerilla Gay Bar, which hosted First Friday bar takeovers for 10 years. I’ve also volunteered for the Milwaukee LGBT Community Center and BESTD Clinic.
Why was Stonewall25 such a turning point in LGBT history?
Stonewall25 brought more than one million people to New York City to celebrate the cultural impact of the 1969 uprising. Most people didn’t realize the Stonewall Inn closed in fall 1969, not to reopen until 1991. So, we had this tremendous reverence for “history,” without any real clarity or continuity. You started hearing these stories about who threw the first brick, who threw a shot glass, who was there and wasn’t there.
Meanwhile, AIDS became the leading cause of death for Americans 25–34 that year, and over 300,000 Americans had already died since 1981. It became apparent that gay people needed to get their stories straight and talk to the people who were part of the revolution before it was too late.
There was just this tremendous sense of continuous, never-ending loss, not just of loved ones, and community, but something greater. It felt like our entire way of life was at risk of extinction. And until this time, nobody had really made a significant effort to preserve our history and heritage, because we always felt we were still in the process of becoming, and not fully formed enough to be considered historic.
But that’s the year people started to realize how much history we’d already lost. We weren’t becoming anymore. We were unraveling. We were disappearing.
I’d never met Louis Stimac, one of the founders of Gay People’s Union, and a historian of his own merit. Louis, as incredible as it seems, taught a 10-part gay history course at the Milwaukee Free University and the GPU Farwell Center in the 1970s. I don’t know how he did it, considering the lack of access and appreciation for gay history, but he made national news headlines for his program. Unfortunately, many reporters found the idea of gay history ridiculous. A local reporter even asked, “How can gays have their own history when they’re not even legal citizens?”
At PrideFest 1994, Jamakaya and Steve Brandino collaborated on the first LGBTQ history timeline. The display was fantastic for the time, but by today’s standards, it might seem very sparse and skeletal. For example, they had a list of one hundred or so bar names, but there were no details: No addresses, no timeframes, no owners, no anecdotes. It was just a big, long list they’d crowdsourced. They weren’t documenting history across the decades. I wanted to tell people about the experiences people had in these spaces, and why these places came to be in the first place, and who were the ones who made them possible. But all we had were bar names, and people couldn’t even agree on the names!
The next year, they worked with Cream City Foundation to create and distribute an 11×17 pamphlet about LGBTQ history. However, they claimed full copyright control over the content, saying nobody could use that information. And then, they stopped working with PrideFest and wouldn’t surrender the copyright or the content. Even the big Pridefest displays were withheld.
To me, history is for sharing. History is no good when it’s sitting in someone’s back pocket. If you’ve heard of a historic event, person, or place, and you don’t share that with the world, it’s the same as doing nothing at all. History must be exposed for the world to see.
How did you build back better?
Without any access to the Stonewall25 exhibits, I had to start over from scratch. I started rummaging through GPU News for mentions, references, ads, photos, anything I could to build out a timeline. And I have to hand it to those early illustrators, because it was literally someone sitting down with a thick pen and hand-drawing an image for publication.
When I started the History Project, there was no internet or social media. There was no on-demand access to anything. There were no digital documents. There weren’t even cell phones. When I first started the website, dial-up internet was so slow that our pages only had tiny thumbnail images. If you wanted full-sized photos or PDFs, you needed high-speed internet. Carousels, videos, and entire issue PDFs were completely out of the question. Technology has certainly made it easier to access our content, but it’s also increased expectations of what a website experience should look like. And when information can be presented in an immersive, engaging way, it only increases people’s interest in history. If you can capture someone’s interest with visuals, you can get them reading the content, and you can inspire them into getting involved.
Now, keep in mind, this was a passion project for me, but it was still a lot of work. I did all the research, writing, and scanning for the first 15 years. I personally hand-coded thousands of website pages for almost 30 years. I managed all hosting, security, domains, email, and servers myself. And I paid, out of pocket, for all expenses involved in these duties. While I asked for volunteers to assist me year after year after year, I didn’t really have any real volunteer support until 2006.
I have to be honest, though, I never really had a long-range plan for the History Project. Yes, I worked with the UWM Archives and other partners to preserve our physical content. But the “organization” was very loosely organized. It was a personal hobby. It was just this thing I did. I knew at some point I’d want to pass it on to somebody, so they could preserve the history. For the past 20 years, my will has outlined what happens to the collection when I’m gone. There’s always been someone in mind to take over the History Project when I left.
And now, there’s a clear organization that can carry this work forward. The project needs continual energy and a solid commitment. If we agree to something, we’ve got to show up and do it. That’s another reason this was a good time to let go. We have that energy now. We have those people now. So, I feel confident, in retiring from the day-to-day, knowing that my 30-year passion project is in great hands.
For decades, you were the only LGBTQ history project in Wisconsin. How does it feel watching new projects pop up around the state?
Listen, I applaud everyone who is doing the work to make our history stronger. We can’t go back. And knowing our history is one way to keep moving forward.
As more organizations emerge, I just hope we can avoid being territorial. I’ve reached out to some organizations seeking partnership and collaboration, only to be told no, we’re doing this all on our own. We don’t need you. We don’t want to work with you. We want the spotlight for ourselves.
And then, I see those replicating a lot of the research we’ve already done and acting like its new information. Why not supplement what already exists, instead of duplicating it? I hope the future brings more collaboration with history projects not just locally in Wisconsin, but regionally and even nationally. We can all learn so much from each other, and really amplify the work we’ve all done separately.
Can you imagine what we can accomplish working together? A “brotherhood of history projects” was one of my wild ideas that I just never had time to pursue, and I’m sure our board will make it happen eventually. They’re incredibly good at making the impossible possible.
How will you be spending your retirement years?
My number one mission in life is to wake up in the morning and do what I want to do. I don’t want to have any deadlines. I don’t want to have any assignments.
I love archaeology. I’ve subscribed to three archaeological magazines, and I spend a lot of time reading, watching cable TV shows, and learning about historical architecture. I could watch these shows for hours and hours on end. I have a library of 15,000 TV shows, movies, and documentaries I’ve accumulated since before streaming existed. I feel I’m finally exercising my brain beyond Wisconsin.
I’ve been a coin collector for more than 50 years, but that trailed off when I started getting involved with community organizations. In the past 15 years, I’ve picked that up again, and now I have a complete “type set” of all U.S. coins (1800 to date) as well as hundreds of other coins and medals, including Revolutionary War replicas!
While I’m fascinated with the past, I’m also excited about the future. My partner Josh bought me a VR headset a few years ago, and I occasionally do some world travel using VR/360 movies. So much less effort than air travel!
I don’t have any trips planned in the real world. Josh and I haven’t really traveled since the pandemic. We’d like to visit Washington, DC, Denver, maybe Phoenix. An old friend is moving to Phoenix, so we’ll probably head there first.
I’m sure this won’t surprise anyone at all, but I’ll never be able to quit the History Project completely. I will be working with Rockstar Design, our website agency, on the next phase of the redesign, while adding content here and there that I’ve accumulated over the years. I’ll always be responding to the ever-changing nightlife scene. When the Blue Lite closed recently in Sheboygan, we put a plan in action and quickly updated our site and social media with the latest photos. I like those just-in-time opportunities to capture history as it happens.
Where do you hope the history project will go next?
We’ve had a semi-permanent exhibit on display at This Is It since their 50th anniversary in 2018. I’d love to see the History Project find a permanent home, somewhere in old gay Milwaukee, and I have some very firm ideas where it should be.
At one time, I would have been happy just to see the collection preserved. Now, I want to see it expanded upon in all sorts of new directions. Our Community Advisors have created inroads for us that I simply could not have created for myself. We now have volunteers in every corner of Wisconsin, as well as relationships with pride and support organizations throughout Wisconsin. People have really stepped up and volunteered not only their time and skills, but their connections and communities. We simply could not reflect the true diversity of Wisconsin without them.
So, when people ask, why don’t you have more ____ on the website, why don’t you have more _______ in your archives? I have to remind people that participation matters. We’ve been an all-volunteer organization for our entire existence. We’ve been entirely dependent on people willing to not only be interviewed but conduct the interviews. We are not funded by sponsors, nor sustaining grants, nor do we have a single person focused on this work as a full-time job. We’ve had to be resourceful and strategic to get the content we have. I’m grateful that we’ve built out these long-needed branches of history.
Truth be told, we need more stories about Black, brown and Asian LGBTQ people. We need more documentation about the leather scene, the pageant scene, and the trans community. We need more bisexual representation. We need more of everything, frankly. But it’s easy to come with wishlists, it’s another thing to dig in and do the work.
So that’s why I am stepping away. While I have the knowledge, I just no longer have the time or energy. Our Board and Community Advisors are moving in so many directions, with so many new and diverse ideas, and so many new skills and talents. They are going to propel this group for the next 20–30 years. Who am I to stand in the way of that?
What was your proudest moment of the past 30 years?
There are so many little moments. Getting the rainbow crosswalks built in Milwaukee. Collaborating with Dick Wagner on his books. Joining forces with Milwaukee Preservation Alliance to save the Wreck Room Saloon from demolition.
But, without a doubt, nothing beats the state historical marker for the Black Nite Brawl. What a moment in time. Three years ago, when we hosted the 60th anniversary, it seemed like it was going to be such an uphill battle to get a historic marker. We were actually denied the first time we applied. So, to see the Mayor, the County Executive, the Wisconsin Historical Society, and so many community members come together for such a big day. That was really humbling. Truly, truly humbling.
It was the first LGBTQ and trans-inclusive historic marker out of 600+ in the state marker program. That just tells you how important it was that we did this work. I came out a decade after the Black Nite. It was already hidden history by that time. There’s absolutely no way this story would have survived Josie Carter’s passing if not for our research.
After you do something this big, there really is no encore, but somehow, I believe the History Project will outdo themselves before we know it.
If you could go back in time to any Wisconsin gay bar, what bar would you go to, and why?
You know, that’s a good question. I’ve always been curious about the Seaway Inn (744 N. Jefferson). It was such a unique little space, this little stone cottage sitting on the corner of Jefferson and Mason, and it was probably the first gay bar in Milwaukee owned by an openly gay person (Otto Schuller, and his myna bird) that welcomed gay people. Can you imagine walking in there in 1959? What could we learn?
You’ve spent the past three decades studying the gay bars of the past. What do the gay bars of the future look like?
I honestly hope there are always gay bars. I think the days of Milwaukee having 20–30 gay bars are long behind us, but I certainly hope we don’t lose any more. There’s such a thing as feeling at home with your people. I don’t think gay people can ever truly feel at home in a straight bar. There’s something about walking into a bar, thinking, “Everyone here is a potential interest,” that I think both men and women appreciate. They may not be community centers anymore, like they once were, but they are certainly comfort centers.
I think the closing of the Blue Lite really brought this back home for me. The owners’ closing announcement on Facebook said that after 32 years, they didn’t think Sheboygan needed a gay bar anymore. And the Facebook audience responded, over and over, that they do still need the Blue Lite, because they will always need their own gay space in history.
I think that’s an important message for us all to hear.
Thank you, Don, for sharing your own personal history, and Michael, for documenting that history so it will never be lost.