One thing that’s been made readily apparent in recent years is that history is not static. In an era of “alternative facts” and politicians meddling with educational curricula, the past stories of a time, place or person can be controlled to align with a particular narrative.
This isn’t entirely new. As a boy living in Canada, I often heard it said that America’s first president never told a lie. It was part of the ongoing effort to enshrine him as a legend, a hero and a symbol of goodness. George Washington being the first president was not enough. If only America still valued truthfulness. What will the “legend” of Trump be?
History has long been his-story, told by men, mostly white, presumably straight. The subject matter went down smoothly with clear heroes and villains. Now that women and minorities are diving deeper into history and insisting that their roles be included in the telling, it’s causing resistance. It’s becoming more uncomfortable. Statues of revered white men get toppled. Extra perspectives clutter long-established accounts of The Way We Were. It’s so inconvenient.
I find new accounts fascinating. I’ve always enjoyed history. It was one of my majors in university. I especially liked when a professor or a resource offered stray bits that muddied standard accounts. My eyes glazed over when lectures centered on battle scenes, but I leaned forward every time key moments in history were analyzed in terms of societal impacts. Blemishes in a nation’s history were not to be suppressed. Weren’t we supposed to learn from our mistakes? Alas, we’re in a period of time when many want to avoid discussing mistakes, much less learning from them.
MY GOVERNMENT MEANS TO KILL ME: A NOVEL
By Rasheed Newson
(Flatiron Books, 2022)
A few months ago, I read a historical gay novel set during the AIDS crisis of the 1980s, Rasheed Newson’s My Government Means to Kill Me: A Novel. The tacked on “A Novel” is important because Newson’s story is heavily footnoted, a practice lending a scholarly quality to the telling. (I think it’s the history geek in me that adores footnotes. They are the equivalent to DVD extras—little anecdotes and explanations that often spur me to exploring online rabbit holes.) Most of Newson’s footnoted references were already familiar to me, having lived through the ’80s and reading my share of both Black history and gay history. It pleased me to know that much of Newson’s extras would offer new learning for others. However, this footnoting, while refreshing and offering something unique in gay fiction, became a hindrance at times. It made the story gimmicky, as the author had, Trey Singleton, his Black gay main character, stumbling into too many historical moments like a queer Forrest Gump. A good idea, taken too far.
And one of the things that felt far too far was the author’s inclusion of Baynard Rustin, a real life Black gay civil rights leader, who becomes a guru for Trey, Rustin’s perch not on top of a Himalayan peak but in a New York bathhouse, a simple white towel around the waist serving as an apparel modification from the draped white cloth worn by cartoon gurus. In Newson’s account, Rustin spends A LOT of time in the bathhouse. I recall at least one scene with him having sex. In a footnote, Newson explains that there is no evidence that Rustin frequented bathhouses. This is when I sighed. I may love footnotes, but I’m aware that many readers skip them. An important clarification will be missed.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
and Bayard Rustin
To some readers, and likely the author himself, this portrayal may come across as humorous, even enlightened. While the novel states this is a pure fictionalization, it feels like an unnecessary stunt. Rustin is credited with being an early mentor of Martin Luther King, Jr. and helping organize the 1963 March on Washington. No doubt, Rustin was as flawed as any human and entitled to a sex life, but this feels like an offensive twist. Call me a prude.
Still, credit that novel with making me seek out more about the actual life of Bayard Rustin, a name I’d vaguely recognized and associated with the civil rights movement without anything more substantive. I read the Wikipedia blurb and clicked on a few of the footnotes. And then I stumbled upon a picture book about him, A Song for the Unsung: Bayard Rustin, the Man Behind the 1963 March on Washington. I was pleased to find four copies in the Vancouver Public Library system.
A SONG FOR THE UNSUNG: BAYARD RUSTIN, THE MAN BEHIND THE 1963 MARCH ON WASHINGTON
By Carole Boston Weatherford & Rob Sanders
Illustrated by Byron McCray
(Henry Holt and Company, 2022)
A Song for the Unsung is a fitting title for a book about Rustin. Music was an integral part of Rustin’s life. Raised as a Quaker, Rustin attended university with support from a music scholarship and at one point recorded an album of spiritual songs. (All this makes his fictionalized bathhouse presence more of an affront.) In many ways, he was an unsung civil rights leader due, in part, to being an openly gay man. His activism took place behind the scenes since his homosexuality was considered a distraction and a way to disparage not only Rustin but civil rights activism. How far we’ve come to have a picture book celebrate the life of Bayard Rustin and, in particular, his leadership in organizing the March of Washington, an event attended by 250,000 and the occasion when Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his “I Have a Dream” speech. The book doesn’t focus on Rustin being gay, offering only a passing reference: “As a young Black gay man, Bayard Rustin was also learning about another kind of inequality and injustice.”
Rustin during his later years, skirted any attempts to cast him as someone who fought for gay rights. In his own words:
I was not involved in the struggle for gay rights as a
youth ... I did not "come out of the closet" voluntarily
—circumstances forced me out. While I have no
problem with being publicly identified as homosexual,
it would be dishonest of me to present myself as one
who was in the forefront of the struggle for gay rights.
While Rustin was open with peers about being gay, the matter became public knowledge due to an arrest in Pasadena in 1953 for allegedly have sex with two other men in a parked car. He pleaded guilty to “sex perversion” and served sixty days in jail. Rustin received a posthumous pardon from California Governor Gavin Newsom in 2020.
In My Government Means to Kill Me, Rasheed Newson portrays Rustin as a wise advisor to Trey and Rustin’s social activism is referenced. I have no idea how Rustin would react to the portrayal of him being a regular presence at a bathhouse. Maybe he’d shrug, maybe he’d roll his eyes, maybe he’d pick up present-day lingo and say, “WTF?” It seems as dignified of a response as warranted.
Rustin wasn’t a saint. As well, some of his political leanings and his motivations may be questionable. All that is worth of research and scores of footnotes. To make him a bathhouse fixture comes off as trivializing and downright rude.
I shall close this post, recasting Bayard Rustin in a more accurate, reverential regard, quoting from Barack Obama in 2013 when Rustin was posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom:
Bayard Rustin was an
unyielding activist for
civil rights, dignity,
and equality for all.
An advisor to
the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., he promoted nonviolent resistance, participated in one of the first Freedom Rides, organized the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, and fought tirelessly for marginalized communities at home and abroad. As an openly gay African American, Mr. Rustin stood at the intersection of several of the fights for equal rights.
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