A White Horse

Summary

Summary of "A White Horse" Episode from The Memory Palace

Introduction

In the poignant episode titled "A White Horse," host Nate DiMeo delves into the rich history of the White Horse Inn, hailed as the oldest continuously operating gay bar in the United States. Released on June 12, 2016, and annually commemorated on the same date, this narrative serves as a tribute to the resilience and enduring spirit of the LGBTQ+ community through the lens of this iconic establishment.

Origins and Early Years

The White Horse Inn first opened its doors in Oakland around 1933, though the exact year remains a subject of debate among historians and past proprietors. Regardless of its inception date, the bar quickly became a sanctuary for individuals grappling with their identities in a society rife with prejudice.

Nate narrates:

"If you're not an academic, or if you don't have a personal financial stake in solidifying its claim as the oldest gay bar in the United States to operate continuously in one location, it doesn't really matter when the White Horse first opened its doors, just that it was soon enough..." ([04:01])

During the 1930s and onwards, the White Horse served as a clandestine meeting place where patrons could express themselves freely, away from the harsh judgments of the outside world. The establishment provided a rare sense of belonging for those who feared societal repercussions for their true selves.

A Sanctuary Amidst Adversity

Throughout the 1940s and 1950s, the White Horse Inn remained a beacon for the LGBTQ+ community. Nate describes the bar as a place where:

"Men held hands by the pool table like it was nothing, like it was in everything, knew that night for sure that this was the place he belonged..." ([04:01])

Despite the looming threats of raids, violence, and discriminatory laws that criminalized homosexual acts, the White Horse offered a reprieve. Patrons could momentarily shed the masks imposed by societal norms and embrace their authentic identities within its windowless rooms.

Embracing the Gay Liberation Movement

The late 1960s marked a turning point as the spirit of the hippie and radical movements infused the atmosphere around the White Horse. With Berkeley's activism and the Black Panthers' presence in Oakland, the bar became a hub for more overt expressions of gay liberation.

"The White Horse embraced gay liberation. And by then, it was just one of the many gay bars in the area where people could find each other..." ([04:01])

This era saw the bar actively supporting and nurturing the burgeoning civil rights movements, standing as a pillar of strength and unity for its patrons.

Enduring Tragedies and Milestones

Over the decades, the White Horse Inn weathered numerous tragedies and celebrated significant milestones alongside the LGBTQ+ community:

• Arson and Massacres: The bar remained open during harrowing events, such as the 1973 arson attack in New Orleans that killed 32 people and the Pulse nightclub massacre in 2016, symbolizing resilience in the face of violence.

• Legislative Changes: From Illinois decriminalizing homosexuality in 1962 to California's shifting stances on marriage equality, the White Horse witnessed and sometimes hosted pivotal moments in LGBTQ+ legislative history.

• Harassment and AIDS Crisis: The 1980s brought the devastating AIDS epidemic, claiming the lives of many, including eight bartenders in a single year. The bar served as a mourning ground and a place for solidarity during these dark times.

"It was open when Vermont passed its civil unions law, when Massachusetts passed its marriage law, and when San Francisco's mayor issued marriage licenses..." ([04:01])

Legacy and Continued Relevance

Today, the White Horse Inn stands as a testament to the enduring fight for LGBTQ+ rights and acceptance. Its continuous operation symbolizes hope, community, and the unyielding pursuit of equality. Nate emphasizes the bar's role in shaping and reflecting the community's journey:

"It was open on a Saturday in June when someone killed 49 people in Orlando, Florida. In a place like the White Horse, more people came to be who they were." ([04:01])

Conclusion

"A White Horse" is not merely a recounting of a bar's history but a tribute to the countless individuals who found solace, community, and courage within its walls. The episode underscores the significance of safe spaces in fostering identity and the relentless pursuit of acceptance and love amidst societal challenges.

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Notable Quotes:

• "If you're not an academic, or if you don't have a personal financial stake in solidifying its claim as the oldest gay bar in the United States to operate continuously in one location, it doesn't really matter when the White Horse first opened its doors..." — Nate DiMeo ([04:01])

• "Men held hands by the pool table like it was nothing, like it was in everything, knew that night for sure that this was the place he belonged..." — Nate DiMeo ([04:01])

• "The White Horse embraced gay liberation. And by then, it was just one of the many gay bars in the area where people could find each other..." — Nate DiMeo ([04:01])

• "It was open on a Saturday in June when someone killed 49 people in Orlando, Florida. In a place like the White Horse, more people came to be who they were." — Nate DiMeo ([04:01])

Final Thoughts

Nate DiMeo's "A White Horse" serves as a moving homage to a landmark that has been integral to the LGBTQ+ narrative in America. Through vivid storytelling and historical context, listeners gain a profound appreciation for the struggles and triumphs that have shaped the community's journey toward acceptance and equality.

Transcript

[Nate DeMaio]

Hey, folks, it is Nate. Before we get started, I want to ask you to consider two things. I'm talking to you today at kind of a pivotal moment in the history of this history project that you know as the Memory Palace. Here's the first one. On November 19th, I have a book coming out, and I am delighted about that. For years, I have wanted to collect.

The sorts of stories that I do.

In this podcast in a book, like something that you can hold in your hands, give as a gift, and something that could live on your shelf. As a kid, I grew up loving these old paperback collections of Ripley's Believe it or not, also things like where the Sidewalk Ends, the poetry book by Shel Silverstein. It's collections of short pieces that you could turn to again and again. You could find new things every time you took it off the shelf and maybe find that they connect differently this time now that you're that little bit older or a little bit changed since last time you read it. And I want to make one of.

Those books, you know, but for adults.

That might have a little bit of that same magic. And I'm excited now to see that if that magic trick works. And so I am here today, days before its release on November 19, to encourage you to order the book, to help it jump out of the gate with some momentum so other readers might find it, especially people who don't listen to the show like you do. So that is thing one and thing two is deeply related. This show, book or no book, successful book or flop, will go on. And it will go on, thanks to listeners like you. Each year, we at Radio Utopia ask you directly to support the work that we do. We are one of the rarest, and I am more convinced all the time in this time of increased media consolidation and corporate nonsense and private equity raiders, that independent media is vital. I look around my industry and I see layoffs and cost cutting at big podcast companies. I see terrific shows getting worse because some corporate suit says they need to come out more often the episodes and more often that the people can make them or at least make them well. Or these shows are just shutting down because some investor needs someone to cut some bottom line to meet second quarter estimates. And that doesn't happen at Radiotopia. At Rodeotopia, what shows sound like, how often they come out, is up to people like me. The people make them. And whether those shows survive and thrive, it's up to you, honestly. Listener support provides the foundation of each of these shows, including mine. It allows me to keep the lights on at the Memory palace even in times like these when ad revenue is vanishing. It has allowed me in this last stretch, which has been fairly rough, honestly, to wait out the storm. It is thanks literally to listeners like you. So if you would like to join the tiny fraction, the select group, the elite squad who contributes, if you want to do it this time, in this moment, for this show and for the uncertain times here in these United States, it is a perfect time to join them and join us. You can donate to help this show and the work that Radiotopia is doing, the fight we are fighting in this very strange landscape. We are very proud of what we have built together and we would love you to be a part of it. So donate today if you can at Radiotopia fm. Donate and thank you so much.

This episode was originally released a few days after I woke up in the morning of June 12, 2016 to learn about the 49 people who were murdered at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida. I've re released it each year on June 12th ever since it is called A White Horse.

This is the Memory Palace. Hi, I'm Nate DeMaio. The Whitehorse Inn on Telegraph in Oakland opened in 1933 or thereabouts. No one's been able to nail down the date. Historians have tried, as have some of its various owners, it seems, over the years. But if you're not an academic, or if you don't have a personal financial stake in solidifying its claim as the oldest gay bar in the United States to operate continuously in one location, it doesn't really matter when the White Horse first opened its doors, just that it was soon enough for a man to walk in on just the right night in 1936, or 46, or 54, and see the most beautiful man he'd ever seen in his life and just be done for soon enough. For another man who'd heard of this place, heard of places like it, whispered about or mocked by the fellows in the assembly line or in the office or in his usual joint across town, heard the cracks about pansies and perverts and queers and feared what they might mean, feared why the words seemed to cut right through, sit strange in his belly and tighten his throat. But who fought through that fear to make his way there to the White Horse, who may have circled the block, all butterflies before working up the courage to park, who may have walked right past it rather than be seen walking in by some stranger. Or maybe he pulled his collar up and tipped his fedora low and pushed through the door as fast as he could. And who may have learned that night in that bar where men talked to men by the fireplace in the back, where women flirted with women in the light of the jukebox, men held hands by the pool table like it was nothing, like it was in everything, knew that night for sure that this was the place he belonged, that this might be the only place he belonged. Like it was for other women and men, those who were identified correctly as such at birth and those who weren't people who needed their lives to change, to make sense, to be less lonely, to be less scary, to be more fun, to be saved. In the 40s and 50s and later, men and women, friends from the neighborhood or the bus or church, friends who knew the truth about each other, would walk arm in arm up Telegraph Road to the White Horse, would play at being people they were not, and then walk through the door into that windowless room and become who they were. They'd go their separate ways, he to a boyfriend and she to a girlfriend. And they'd spend a few hours in a place where so much of what they'd been taught all their lives about what life was supposed to be, but who they had to be to be happy or responsible or good or saved, just fell apart, just put the light of the whole thing, the laws of the universe themselves just torn up and tossed like confetti to swirl in the bar light and flit in the laughter and the dance songs, alight on the eyelashes of some pretty man and float on the surface of a martini glass. And then they'd say goodnight to their boyfriend and girlfriend, to the people there who understood, who helped them understand, and they'd link arms and go back out into the world, have no illusions about the world. The world did not want that man and that woman to be who they were. Gay sex was a felony. Cross dressing was a crime. People risked imprisonment, forced sterilization, institutionalization, lobotomization for acting on who they were. If the cops, armed with laws that let them raid bars, if they suspected women were dancing with women or men were holding hands or speaking in high pitched voices. In some cities, if the cops came and threw you into the paddy wagon, if not threw you up against a wall, your name would wind up in the paper along with your address. You could be fired, kicked out of your apartment, lose your car loan, get beat up or worse by people in your own home or by people who now knew where your home was. The laws would change, attitudes would change, sometimes for the better and sometimes not. The war Seemed to change everything for a while, especially there in the Bay Area. All these soldiers and sailors and nurses flitting in away from home for the first time discovering who they were for the first time discovering whole worlds in windowless rooms like the White horse. In the 60s, a straight couple bought the bar, and they were so worried about raids, it seems, and some speculate, so skeeved out by their own clientele that they instated a strict no touching policy. No more slow dances, no kissing, no nothing. It was like that for years, but still, people came to the White Horse because it was their place. But then the late 60s came, and the hippies came and the radicals came. Berkeley was just down the road. The Black Panthers were on patrol right there in Oakland. And gay men and lesbians and transgender people started staking more radical claims, started living more radical lives. And the White Horse embraced gay liberation. And by then, it was just one of the many gay bars in the area where people could find each other, could find out who they were and who they wanted to be, where they figured out what was possible to ask from this life, where they asked for it together, as they'd done in the White horse Inn since 1933 or thereabouts. The White Horse Inn was opened the night in 1966 when transgender women fought back against police harassment in Compton's cafeteria across the bay in San Francisco and rioted. It was still open two years later when the Stonewall Inn was raided across the country and people protested for three days. It never really stopped. It was open on the night in 1973 when an arsonist set fire to a gay bar in New Orleans, locked the door and killed 32 people. The white Horse was there for people who needed to mourn. It was open for people who wanted to celebrate 1962, when Illinois became the first state to decriminalize homosexuality. And 13 years later, when California joined it, and 28 years later when the Supreme Court forced 14 states to do the same. It was open in 1977 when San Francisco elected Harvey Milk to its Board of city supervisors, in 1978, when he was assassinated. It was opened in 1979 when 75,000 people marched in Washington for their civil rights. And it was open all throughout the 1980s, when its customers started dying, when its employees started dying. In one year alone, eight bartenders, eight died of AIDS related illnesses. And the White Horse Inn stayed open, as it has been again and again when men and women and boys and girls, transgendered people were murdered for who they were. So many since 1933 or thereabouts, mourned by what people now call the LGBTQ community, a community built year by year, night by night, in windowless rooms like the White Horse. It was open when Vermont passed its civil unions law, when Massachusetts passed its marriage law, when San Francisco's mayor issued marriage licenses, and when the California Supreme Court annulled those unions, annulled the marriage of the manager of the White Horse, too. It was open when the California voters rejected gay marriage, and it was open for dancing when the Supreme Court threw that vote out. It was open on a Saturday in June when someone killed 49 people in Orlando, Florida. In a place like the White Horse, more people came to be who they were. And it was open on Sunday and it's open tonight and it'll be open tomorrow.

This episode was written and produced by me, Nate Demaux in June of 2016. It was produced with research assistance from Andrea Milne and production assistance from Cathy Tew. The show currently gets research assistance from Eliza McGraw.

It is a proud member of Radiotopia.

A network of independent artist owned listener supported podcasts from prx, a not for profit public media company. If you want to drop me a line, you can do so at Nate Themory palace. You can follow me on Twitter and Facebook TheMemory palace on Instagram and Threads which I occasionally remember to post on thememorypalacepodcast. I also recently launched a newsletter which you can sign up [e-mail] that is thememorypalacepodcast. Substack.com I will from here on out be writing up a bit about each new episode as it comes out out as it will be shortly about this old episode that you've just listened to. I will also be writing about the process of writing and promoting and this November releasing my book which is also called the Memory palace from Random House. This November again, that is the Memory palace podcast.substack.com if you want to subscribe. Thank you for listening and take care of each other.

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