As someone raised in an insular Italian neighborhood and educated for 18 years in Catholic school, I did not have a clue growing up about what gay meant, unless you were talking about the state some of my parents’ friends found themselves in after a few drinks. Eventually I figured it out when a dear friend’s father came out after the death of her mother and one of my cousin’s admitted that his roommate was much, much more and that they were, in fact, adopting two little boys.
When I nursed in Brooklyn in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the gay rights movement had barely begun. I would never have known about it were it not for the fact that I lived and worked right next to Brooklyn Heights. I don’t know what it’s like now, but back then it was very, very gay.
As I watched the jubilation on TV the other day when New York State legalized same-sex marriage, I thought back to those days and to some of my gay friends. In particular, I thought of Joe Kenny, who was an inseparable part of our four Musketeers — me, Annie, Barbara and Joe. We were young, employed, making more money than we’d ever had before and living in the greatest city on earth. It was a magical time.
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