“I never thought I’d live here. I didn’t think gay men could live in such a small city, at least I thought they couldn’t live a happy life. A small city like Portland would be for the closet,” wrote John Preston in his essay “Portland, Maine: Life’s Good Here” in 1993.
But, oh, was he wrong.
I remember thinking similar things about Portland when I first moved here as a budding transsexual. I thought: “This will be a stepping stone. I’ll get my footing and leave in a few years.” I was enamored with the number of Pride flags I could find waving in the sun on a September day, far after Pride Month was long gone. In other somewhat larger cities I’d live in in upstate New York, I’d never seen that.
There was something different but appealing about Portland that both Preston and I saw. I can’t say it was as blatant as a rainbow flag for Preston as it was for me, but I like to think we stood at the same corner of Congress Street and High Street, looked westward towards a setting sun and just knew it was where we were meant to be.
Preston was a pioneer in the city’s gay rights movement during the AIDS crisis. Born in Massachusetts, he lived in many gay metropolises over the years before landing in Portland in 1979. He quickly became one of Portland’s most famous gay activists and made huge advances in antidiscrimination law and queer life before dying of AIDS in 1994.
From Boston to Minneapolis, Philadelphia to New York, Los Angeles to San Francisco, then back to New York, Preston found gay community. He wrote: “I didn’t put down any roots. Having a hometown wasn’t the point. Being gay was our geographical location.” Preston’s found family is what made a home – not a location or a city, but the opportunity to deepen queer relationships with neighbors, friends and lovers.
I almost left Maine this past year. I was feeling irritated with so many things – my career as a theater artist, landlords pricing me out, politics at large – but I was drawn back in by the community. The vibrant color of my life was found in the rich tapestry of queer and trans people who I’ve come to tell I love every day. I looked at my queer family with such fondness and really questioned what I would be leaving behind if I left out of frustration with things that I could change.
“These are people who take their lives seriously, who want to learn about their history and want to change the world they live in. Just being together and not hiding … allows them to create a vision for their life in this small city,” Preston wrote. Though he’s talking about gays and lesbians in this essay, I can’t help but feel a deep connection to this quote. As a queer transsexual myself, I’m drawn to Preston’s writing like a moth to flame. His writing gives us a glimpse into the history of queer life in Portland that would have surely been lost to the Great Plague of that time.
Just as there was then, there is now an ever-transforming community of trans and queer people who yearn for a better life and will fight like hell for it. In the face of fascism, bomb threats, even death, we are demanding a new world. I’ve found that the most energized and disciplined activists and organizers are trans and queer.
Now more than ever, I see these writings from history as a road map for our futures. I encourage everyone reading, but especially my fellow queers, to study the life of John Preston and other queer elders who have left behind well-worn trails we may walk down with bold strides. I hope, with our determined organizing, we can make our ancestors proud.
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