Dear Friend and Reader,
THE OTHER NIGHT, I dreamt I was in front of a crowd listening to Joan Baez singing “Amazing Grace” on the steps of San Francisco’s City Hall. She still had her dark hair, and was bathed in a golden light. Behind me, thousands of people had gathered onto Civic Center Plaza, the park facing the Mayor’s Office side of City Hall. We were bathed in a sea of candlelight from the thousands taking part holding our own individual votives in the gathering on the plaza. The golden glow around Joan was from our fire.
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Rioters outside San Francisco City Hall the evening of May 21, 1979, reacting to the voluntary manslaughter verdict for Dan White, that ensured White would serve only five years for the double murders of Harvey Milk and George Moscone. Photo by Daniel Nicoletta.
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When I woke, it was as though I was being visited by my 23-year old self, who was there that very night, November 27, 1978, marching with thousands of other San Franciscans. That march started with a gathering on Castro Street, moving en masse and building steam block, by block, by block, collecting itself finally in front of City Hall.
That morning and all day, repeatedly over the radio and television, was the sound of Board of Supervisors President Dianne Feinstein’s voice, barely holding on and holding back emotion, haltingly reading her statement: “Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk have been shot…(an audible gasp)…and killed this morning at 10:30 am. The suspect is former Supervisor Dan White”.
San Francisco had already received an obscenely unfair share of national attention. The lurid visuals and details of the Jonestown Massacre had become a front cover on Time Magazine and was in the news cycle for over a week. The country had a new national fixation on religious cults. Jim Jones had become a household name for the dark side. And now a mayor and a city supervisor were shot and killed by another supervisor in what would be called an act of temporary insanity, also known as “the Twinkie defense.”
The killings came as an unwelcome eclipse to the horror in Guyana. During the day, San Franciscans walked in a state of stunned grief, needing release. At sunset, we walked with our candles, my boyfriend and I, unsure of who or what we’d find on that march. 30 years later, as I walk that path again, alone, I see the picture unfold.