Introduction

It was just past 1 a.m., and the air outside the Stonewall Inn was sticky with summer heat. Christopher Street hummed with a strange energy, a mix of nerves and laughter, as a crowd began to gather on the cracked sidewalks. At first, there wasn’t much more than confusion. A few cops had gone into the bar, as they’d done many times before, and a couple of plainclothes officers stood by the door, blocking anyone from getting in.

Inside, the lights—usually kept low and murky—were glaring now, throwing every corner into harsh detail. Police barked orders as they shoved people up against the walls, demanding IDs, separating the men from the women, the drag queens from the butch lesbians. A young man in a tight T-shirt kept his head down as he emptied his pockets for an officer, biting his lip to keep from saying something that might get him dragged out the door in handcuffs. Around him, others were already being pushed outside one by one, some shielding their eyes from the flashing bulbs of a photographer who’d appeared on the street.

People leaving the bar didn’t go far. They milled around on the sidewalk, leaning against the brick wall or standing with arms crossed. Something felt different this time. This wasn’t the usual quiet shame, shuffling into the shadows to avoid trouble. This was sharper. Louder.

Across the street, someone yelled out as two officers shoved a woman hard through the door. She was struggling, fighting them every step, her hands clenched into fists. Her dark hair was messy, and her face was red with anger. One of the cops smacked her with his baton, and she howled—not in pain, but in rage. She turned toward the crowd and shouted something none of them would ever forget: “Why don’t you do something?”

That snapped the air like a whip. A ripple ran through the people watching, and then everything seemed to happen at once.

A handful of quarters clinked off a cop’s helmet. Then a bottle flew through the air and shattered against the street. Someone at the front of the crowd shoved an officer back when he tried to drag a man into a waiting patrol car. Another person picked up a brick. Cheers and shouts rose like a wave.

The police froze for a second, startled. Then their batons came out, swinging. But this time the crowd didn’t scatter.

They pressed forward.

The woman who’d been fighting threw herself at an officer again. A group of drag queens formed a tight circle, locking arms, screaming at the cops who tried to break through. Someone grabbed a trash can and sent it crashing into the windshield of a squad car, setting off a car alarm that wailed into the night.

Even more people appeared from side streets, drawn by the noise. Neighbors leaned out of their windows, watching. More bottles rained down. More shouting.

The police retreated toward the bar, trying to get the people they’d already arrested inside. A handful of officers slammed the door and barricaded themselves in, leaving the street full of angry, determined faces.

On the sidewalk, a young man in a ripped tank top stood next to a girl who wore her hair short and her boots high. Neither of them moved as a baton swung in their direction. They ducked and sprang back up, yelling at the top of their lungs. Neither knew exactly what they were yelling for—just that they were tired of staying quiet, tired of being pushed around, tired of pretending nothing was wrong.

Even in that chaos, you could feel something shift. It was as though the fear that had lived in the back of everyone’s mind—the fear of being caught, arrested, beaten—had cracked and let something else through.

Pride.

For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, the crowd didn’t shrink back into the shadows when the cops showed up. They stood together in the middle of Christopher Street, a sea of bodies shouting, chanting, throwing whatever they could find, refusing to let the night end like all the other nights before.

Across the street, someone started to laugh. A high, wild laugh that carried over the sound of breaking glass and sirens. Others joined in—not because it was funny, but because they’d finally found their voices.

The cops inside the bar peered through the windows, unsure what to do next.

And out on the street, the crowd kept growing.

LGBTQ+ rights movements

In cities all over the world every June, rainbow flags ripple from windows, streets fill with chants and laughter, and millions of people march under the word Pride. There are floats blasting music, people in costumes, families carrying signs, and groups handing out stickers and pins that say things like Love is Love or Trans Rights are Human Rights. It’s easy to stand in the middle of all that and feel like the world has completely changed since those nights outside the Stonewall Inn. And it has—just not all the way.

The connection between what happened back then and what you see today isn’t just symbolic. The LGBTQ+ rights movements you see around you now grew out of what started in that moment of resistance. And the energy that pushed people into the street then is still pushing people to keep fighting now, because there’s still more to do.

When people took over Christopher Street that summer, they weren’t following a carefully thought-out strategy. They were fed up, and their protest forced a conversation that people had been trying to avoid. Before Stonewall, politicians and courts rarely even acknowledged the idea of gay rights. Afterward, they couldn’t ignore it anymore. Once that conversation started, it got louder and more complicated, because being LGBTQ+ isn’t just one thing. It’s not one kind of person or one kind of life.

That complexity is part of the reason Pride looks the way it does today. If you pay attention to the signs at any march, you’ll notice they’re not all saying the same thing. You might see one calling for equal healthcare for transgender people, another demanding an end to violence against Black and Brown LGBTQ+ people, another about marriage equality, and another about mental health services for queer youth. Each of those is part of the bigger story, but each also speaks to its own struggle.

Making those conversations more complex doesn’t mean forgetting where they started. It means recognizing that rights don’t mean the same thing for everyone in the same way. Back at Stonewall, a lot of the people leading the push were drag queens, trans women of color, and homeless LGBTQ+ youth—people who were already on the outside of society in multiple ways. They didn’t just want to drink in a bar without being harassed. They wanted the right to exist in public at all, without being beaten or locked up just for walking down the street.

That’s a part of the story that still resonates in today’s movements. You can see it when people demand justice for trans women who’ve been murdered, or when activists call out racism and classism within the LGBTQ+ community itself. These movements keep challenging the idea that one group’s progress is enough when others are still being left behind.

There are also lessons from Stonewall about how to keep going when it feels like progress is too slow. Even after that summer, there were plenty of setbacks. There still are. Laws get passed, then overturned. Hate crimes still happen. People are still discriminated against at work or school, still kicked out of their homes, still made to feel unsafe in their own neighborhoods. But every time something like that happens, people show up. They speak up. They march again.

One thing that makes the connection between then and now so strong is how the idea of Pride itself has evolved. Back in 1970, the first Pride march was small and risky. People were scared of being seen in broad daylight, scared of losing jobs, families, friends. Marching was a way to say: “We’re still here.” Every year since, the marches have gotten bigger, louder, more colorful—and still carry that message. Pride is a celebration, but it’s also a protest.

Today, you’ll also find LGBTQ+ activists working on issues that probably weren’t even part of the conversation in 1969. Things like gender-neutral bathrooms, representation in media, protections for nonbinary people, access to medical care for trans kids. The list keeps growing because the movement keeps expanding to include more voices, more stories.

That’s something worth paying attention to. Making a conversation more complex doesn’t water it down—it makes it stronger. It challenges assumptions, forces people to think about how systems of power work, and keeps the movement honest. Every time a new issue is raised, it builds on the foundation Stonewall laid down: the idea that silence helps no one, and visibility matters.

Even when there are disagreements—and there are plenty—those arguments come from a place of people caring deeply about what happens next. Should Pride be more political or more celebratory? Should corporate sponsors be welcomed or called out? Should police be allowed to march in uniform? These debates can feel messy and frustrating, but they’re a sign of growth. They’re proof that the movement isn’t static. It’s alive, just like it was on that hot night when everything changed.

One of the most powerful parts of today’s LGBTQ+ rights movements is how they’ve connected with other struggles. You can see people linking arms at protests for racial justice, reproductive rights, immigrant rights, disability rights. That kind of solidarity is rooted in the same defiance that sparked outside Stonewall: the belief that no one should have to hide who they are or accept being treated as less than human.

For a lot of young activists today, Stonewall is both an inspiration and a reminder. It’s inspiring because it shows what can happen when people refuse to back down. And it’s a reminder that change doesn’t come automatically, even when everyone seems to agree it’s the right thing. Every generation has to keep pushing.

Chapter 1: Life Before Stonewall

Walking down a city street in the 1950s, you wouldn’t see rainbow flags or couples holding hands without a second thought. You wouldn’t even hear words like “LGBTQ+” in conversation. The language people use now to talk about identity just didn’t exist in the same way. Back then, being gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender wasn’t just something you kept private — it was something you were expected to deny entirely. For many, the only choice seemed to be silence or danger.

Every part of American life reinforced the idea that anyone who didn’t fit into a narrow definition of “normal” deserved to be punished, shunned, or “fixed.” Teachers could lose their jobs if anyone suspected they were gay. Soldiers who had served honorably could be dishonorably discharged just for being seen in a gay bar. People could be fired from their office jobs, thrown out of their homes, denied service in restaurants, beaten by strangers in alleyways, even arrested — and none of those things were considered shocking. They were expected.

That constant threat shaped daily life in ways that might be hard to grasp now. If you were a man who liked other men, you learned early to avoid eye contact with strangers on the street. If you were a woman who dressed too masculine, you risked being followed out of a store and harassed by the police. And if you were trans or gender nonconforming, the danger doubled. At any moment, a cop could demand to see your ID, check your clothes, and decide you didn’t “match” who you were supposed to be. Even the smallest details could get you thrown in jail.

It wasn’t just the laws or the police that made life like that. It was the culture, too. Newspapers ran cruel cartoons mocking gay men as effeminate clowns and lesbians as bitter, lonely spinsters. Movies showed “deviant” characters who were always villains, always destined for tragedy. Psychiatric textbooks labeled homosexuality a mental illness and recommended treatments like shock therapy or forced institutionalization. Families disowned their kids over rumors. Neighbors whispered. Friends distanced themselves to protect their own reputations.

That kind of isolation made it hard to even know there were others like you. Many people grew up thinking they were the only ones who felt the way they did. There weren’t hashtags or chatrooms or support groups to find community. If you were lucky, you might stumble across a coded ad in a newspaper or meet someone by chance who understood. But even then, you couldn’t talk openly.

In big cities, especially New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, small underground scenes began to grow. Bars became one of the few places people could gather and feel a little freer, even if only for a few hours. Some of these bars were run by organized crime, because legitimate businesses wouldn’t risk serving gay or trans customers. Patrons knew they were being overcharged and exploited, but they still went because there weren’t other options.

Inside those spaces, people could flirt, dance, and talk in ways they couldn’t outside. But even those moments of freedom were fragile. Police raided bars constantly, arresting whoever they wanted and sometimes publishing names and photos in the paper to humiliate them. Raids weren’t random; they were part of a system designed to keep people scared. Every time someone stepped into a bar, they knew they might not make it home without handcuffs or a beating.

For transgender people, especially trans women and drag queens, the risks were even sharper. The term “transgender” wasn’t widely used yet, and society treated anyone who crossed gender lines as a spectacle at best, a threat at worst. Laws in many states required people to wear “at least three articles of clothing appropriate for their gender” — a ridiculous and vague rule that police used to arrest people whenever they wanted. But even under that pressure, many refused to stop living as themselves.

That quiet defiance mattered, even if it didn’t always make headlines. It mattered when someone chose to walk through the door of a bar knowing the risks. It mattered when someone kept dressing the way they felt inside, even when strangers spat on them. It mattered when people formed little networks of support, passing along names of lawyers who might help after a raid, slipping each other phone numbers and safe meeting spots.

The laws, discrimination, and danger people faced

Every step someone took outside their door in the 1950s and 1960s as a gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender person came with risks that weren’t just personal — they were legal, brutal, and everywhere. This wasn’t just about hurtful looks or whispers behind someone’s back. It was about a system designed to punish people for who they were at every level, and it left almost no part of their lives untouched.

On paper, the laws were written in ways that almost sound ridiculous now, but at the time they had teeth. In most states, same-sex relationships were illegal. The exact words used in law books varied — “sodomy,” “gross indecency,” “crimes against nature” — but they all meant one thing: jail time, heavy fines, and a permanent record if you were caught. And you didn’t even have to be caught doing anything explicit. Police regularly used entrapment, luring men into conversations or situations they could twist into “evidence.”

Once you were arrested, the damage was done even if the charges didn’t stick. Local papers often printed names and addresses of everyone picked up in a raid. Bosses would fire employees the next day. Landlords would evict tenants just to “protect” the reputation of their building. In some places, a single arrest could even get you put on a registry of “sex offenders,” the kind of label you couldn’t shake.

It went beyond just the law, though. Every part of public life was hostile in some way. Bars that served gay patrons risked losing their liquor licenses if word got out, which is why many were run by organized crime. Legitimate businesses wanted nothing to do with “those kinds of people.” Even restaurants could refuse to serve anyone they suspected. Police enforced all of it. Some officers saw these laws as a way to make easy arrests and look good to their bosses. Others just used it as an excuse to harass, beat, and humiliate people.

Walking into a bar or dance club took courage, because raids could happen any night. They weren’t quiet affairs. Officers would storm in, turn on the lights, line everyone up, and check IDs while reporters stood outside waiting to snap photos of whoever came out in handcuffs. The rules weren’t even consistent. One night you might get a warning. The next night, for the same thing, you’d end up spending a weekend in jail.

And the rules weren’t just about who you loved. They policed how you looked. “Cross-dressing” laws made it illegal for someone to wear clothing that didn’t “match” their legal gender. There was a common rule that said you had to wear at least three articles of clothing considered appropriate for your sex — a vague and humiliating law that allowed police to target anyone they didn’t like the look of. Even shoes or makeup could be used as justification for an arrest.

What made all of this harder to fight was how society backed it up. People believed these laws were there to protect “morality.” Courts almost always sided with the police. Judges handed down sentences with speeches about “setting an example.” The American Psychiatric Association even labeled homosexuality as a mental disorder, giving doctors cover to recommend everything from drugs to electroshock therapy to outright confinement in psychiatric hospitals as treatment.

For teenagers growing up during those years, the message was clear: you were a problem to be hidden, punished, or fixed. Schools taught nothing about queer people except maybe in health class, where the message was always negative. If you were caught holding hands with someone of the same gender, or if a teacher noticed you didn’t act the way they thought a boy or girl “should,” you could find yourself expelled or sent home to parents who might throw you out completely.

At home, families were often no safer. Many parents felt it was their duty to “straighten out” their kids, sometimes literally. People were sent away to “reform schools” or forced into therapy meant to scare them straight. Others were beaten, locked out, or simply erased from family photos and never spoken of again.

Even in neighborhoods where people knew each other, it wasn’t unusual to hear slurs shouted across the street or see graffiti scrawled on someone’s door. Groups of men would roam certain areas just to pick fights with anyone they thought was “one of them.” If the victim went to the police to report it, they were often laughed at or threatened with arrest themselves.

All of this created a kind of constant tension in daily life. People learned to scan rooms, watch their backs, and edit every word they said. They knew which streets to avoid, which bars had a back door for a quick exit, and which friends they could actually trust. Many lived double lives: one face for the world and another for the few people who really knew them.

The danger and discrimination weren’t just individual experiences. They shaped the whole community. People were forced into secrecy but still found ways to support each other. Networks sprang up to help those arrested find sympathetic lawyers. Safe houses were established for people kicked out of their homes. Groups passed around coded newsletters to warn about police raids and share advice.

Those quiet acts of care were a kind of resistance on their own. Even in the face of overwhelming hostility, people refused to let each other completely fall through the cracks. That’s what made the conversations that began in the late 1960s so powerful: for the first time, those whispers about injustice became louder, more public, more demanding.

What happened at Stonewall can’t really be understood without knowing all of this. The raid that night wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the response. Years of being pushed into the shadows, shamed, and hurt built up into something no one could take back once it started. Those who fought weren’t just resisting that one night — they were pushing back against every law, every insult, every beating that told them they didn’t deserve to live openly.

Police raids and harassment as a regular part of life

Every person who walked into a gay bar in the 1950s or 1960s did it with the knowledge that the police could crash through the door at any moment. It wasn’t a question of if — it was a question of when. And yet, night after night, people went back. Even though the lights could flash on mid-song, even though a cop might yank someone by the arm or shove them against a wall, even though walking out of that bar in handcuffs could mean losing everything, they still showed up. Because for a lot of people, those hours were the only place they could feel like themselves.

Police raids weren’t a rare or shocking event. They were routine. Entire units were dedicated to “morals enforcement,” and raiding gay and lesbian bars was considered part of their job. Sometimes they planned their raids in advance, giving the press a heads-up so there’d be photographers outside when the first handful of people were marched to waiting squad cars. Other times it felt more random, like officers just decided to swing by and see how many people they could humiliate that night. Either way, no one who went out could afford to feel safe.

The routine was brutal in how predictable it became. Uniformed officers would rush in, bark orders, and turn on the lights. Anyone who tried to leave would be blocked at the door. Patrons were herded into lines and forced to show their IDs, which the police would write down and sometimes send to newspapers. Men who were dressed “too feminine” and women dressed “too masculine” were singled out immediately. The three-article clothing rule was one of the easiest excuses officers used, checking collars, inspecting shoes, even lifting skirts to see what someone was wearing underneath. If they decided you’d broken the rule, you were hauled off, no questions asked.

For the people being lined up, it was more than just embarrassing. Many knew that once their names appeared in the paper or their boss got wind of the arrest, their job was gone. Some lost their homes when landlords decided to evict them rather than deal with a “morals” case in their building. Others had families who would slam the door and never speak to them again. Every raid carried that risk. And yet people kept returning to those bars anyway, because the alternative — staying invisible — was worse.

The raids didn’t always stop at arrests. Officers often used the chaos as cover to rough people up, slam them against walls, call them names, and sometimes worse. Patrons learned to keep their eyes down and their mouths shut to avoid drawing attention. But even silence didn’t always protect anyone. For transgender women and drag queens in particular, raids were terrifying. They were often the first ones targeted and the most violently handled. They faced verbal abuse, sexual harassment, and beatings, with little chance of anyone listening if they tried to file a complaint afterward.

Outside the bars, the harassment never really stopped. In some neighborhoods, police would sit in unmarked cars and watch who came and went. They’d follow people home, threaten them, or demand bribes in exchange for “looking the other way.” Some bars even had arrangements with the police, paying regular kickbacks to minimize the frequency of raids. Even then, there were no guarantees. Sometimes the cops would still raid just to remind everyone who held the power.

For people who had never been inside one of those bars, it was easy to assume the police were just “doing their jobs.” That was the line you’d hear over and over — keeping the city safe from “degenerates” or “perverts.” But for those who actually lived through it, it was clear these raids weren’t about safety. They were about control. They were about making sure no one got too comfortable living in a way the rest of society didn’t approve of.

Some nights the harassment was less formal but just as damaging. People walking home after work, leaving a theater, or waiting at a bus stop could be stopped, questioned, even frisked simply because an officer thought they “looked queer.” The laws gave them wide discretion to arrest people for vague offenses like loitering, disorderly conduct, or indecency. Those charges didn’t even have to hold up in court — by the time someone got to the judge, the harm was already done. They’d spent a night in a holding cell, sometimes been beaten or humiliated, and had their names recorded on police reports they couldn’t erase.