In the fall of 1975, Harvey Brownstone, 19, began his undergraduate studies at Queen’s. Brownstone went on to become Justice Harvey Brownstone, Law’80, Canada’s first openly gay judge. Now retired, Brownstone’s memoir, Without Prejudice: My Life as a Gay Judge, was published in May – detailing his professional and personal reflections. Candid with a touch of dark humour, Brownstone’s story will soon be a Hollywood movie starring David Arquette. To help us mark Pride Month, Brownstone has kindly shared an exclusive excerpt of the book, featuring an anecdote about how his journey of learning – about law and himself – began at Queen’s.
Several weeks after starting school, I noticed a tiny ad in the student newspaper announcing the weekly meeting of the “Queen’s Homophile Association.” I had no clue what “homophile” meant; looking it up in the dictionary, I discovered I was, indeed, a homophile. I was intrigued by such a group existing so openly, as well as more than a little curious and excited at the prospect of meeting other young men like me. Would they be effeminate and flamboyant like Liberace? Would any of them be masculine-acting, fit, and handsome? Would there be anyone who might be attracted to me?
So with some trepidation, not knowing what to expect, I decided to attend the meeting, which took place at a house on campus called “the Grey House” – condescendingly termed “the Gay House” – which was used as a social centre. Still very afraid of anyone discovering I was gay, I made sure no one saw me entering or leaving the building.
My first meeting at the was a lifechanging event. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t alone. There were about twenty people at the meeting, roughly equal numbers of women and men, who were seated in a circle and included students, faculty, and even some members of the general Kingston community. Everyone looked “normal,” and I remember thinking to myself, If I saw any of these people on the street, I wouldn’t have a clue any of them were gay. Certainly no one looked like Liberace. There were no “flaming queens” or “bull dykes” or any of the other queer stereotypes sometimes referred to by ignorant bigots. I’d never met a lesbian before and was impressed by how similar they were to so many of the other girls I’d known. The room felt warm and comforting, and it was obvious that everyone was happy to be there in the company of like-minded people.
The meeting began and everyone introduced themselves. All I could croak out was, “My name is Harvey. I’m a first-year student from Hamilton. And I think I might be gay.” I noticed everyone looking at each other with that knowing glance that only another gay person who’s gone through what I was experiencing could understand. I was one of a few people there for the first time, and I was the only one who’d never (knowingly) met another gay person.
The group was very welcoming. They explained terms like “coming out,” “gay liberation,” and “homophobia.” They told me about the 1969 Stonewall riots in New York City, led by the courageous Greenwich Village drag queens who’d had their fill of police brutality and discrimination and decided they were going to revolt. They spoke about the need to be more visible and stand up for our right to be treated with fairness, equality, and dignity in employment and housing.
Dan, the president of the group, spoke about the need to decriminalize gay sex. I wondered what he meant by “decriminalize” — was it illegal for two consenting adults of the same sex to have sex? I got my courage up and asked, “I haven’t even had sex yet, but when I do, does it mean I could go to jail?”
Dan replied, “That depends where you have it. Homosexuality was decriminalized in Canada in 1969, but it’s still illegal in many countries, including the USA. And even here in Canada, sex in gay bathhouses is illegal.”
And then I learned that “bathhouses” were places with facilities like showers, saunas, steam rooms, hot tubs, and swimming pools where gay men congregated to meet each other and, if they rented a private cubicle, have sex. (This conversation took place in 1975, six years before the notorious 1981 Toronto bathhouse raids that so viciously persecuted the gay community.)
Dan went on to explain that the Immigration Act prohibited homosexuals from entering Canada (a prohibition repealed in 1978). Gays and lesbians were prohibited from serving in the military (the ban was lifted in 1992), and no protection for gay people existed in the Canadian Bill of Rights or any of the provincial human rights acts. It was completely legal to fire an employee for being gay, eject a tenant for being gay, or refuse to provide goods or services to gay people. As Dan spoke, a feeling of dread and despair grew in the pit of my stomach as what it meant to be gay in 1975 sank in.
There was one burning question I wanted to ask everyone that night.
Had any of them told their parents they were gay, and if so, how had it gone? One by one, they told me their coming-out stories. Surprisingly, all of them had told their parents — not one had chosen to keep their sexuality a secret from their family. In some cases, the parents weren’t surprised, as they’d already figured out the truth and were relieved the issue was finally out in the open. And for some people, especially those from strict religious backgrounds, their parents had disowned them. I remember feeling relieved when I heard that, because my parents weren’t orthodox, so I didn’t think their religious convictions would be an obstacle to accepting my sexual orientation.
Everyone at the meeting was extremely warm and kind to me, and they knew from personal experience that I was in the midst of self-discovery and turmoil. I asked for advice about how to handle my parents. I explained that we had always been very close and that I’d always confided in them and hated the idea of keeping such a big secret from them. I was sure that, eventually, I’d have a boyfriend and other gay friends. My parents had always known who my friends were, and the idea of hiding such a huge part of my life from them was repugnant. And the entirely dishonest idea of finding a girlfriend, only so that I could pretend to be straight and ward off any suspicions that I might be gay, militated against every fibre of my being.
After listening carefully to everything I’d just said, one of the guys at the meeting responded, “Harvey, I think you’ve just answered your own question. You’ve explained why you’d find it impossible to live a lie and keep such a big secret from your folks.” I knew he was right and spent several days ruminating over the conversations I’d had that evening and all that I’d learned from those who’d shared their life experiences and perspectives. I made the difficult decision to go home that weekend and tell my parents the truth, that I was gay. I was going to “come out.”
It’s said that timing is everything in life. I learned that lesson the hard way. The fact that telling my parents I was gay was the right thing to do didn’t mean I had to tell them right away. But I’ve never been a procrastinator.
And I had absolutely no inkling that I was about to be confronted with a reaction and a series of consequences more negative, hostile, and devastating than I could ever have possibly imagined. My life was about to be turned upside down in every way.
Want to hear more of Harvey Brownstone’s story? Read all about his first job in the August issue of the Queen’s Alumni Review and, this fall, watch for a Hollywood film based on Brownstone’s memoir, starring David Arquette.
