Toward Stonewall
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Toward Stonewall

Homosexuality and Society in the Modern Western World

Nicholas C. Edsall

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Toward Stonewall

Homosexuality and Society in the Modern Western World

Nicholas C. Edsall

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About This Book

As recently as the 1970s, gay and lesbian history was a relatively unexplored field for serious scholars. The past quarter century, however, has seen enormous growth in gay and lesbian studies. The literature is now voluminous; it is also widely scattered and not always easily accessible. In Toward Stonewall, Nicholas Edsall provides a much-needed synthesis, drawing upon both scholarly and popular writings to chart the development of homosexual subcultures in the modern era and the uneasy place they have occupied in Western society.

Edsall's survey begins three hundred years ago in northwestern Europe, when homosexual subcultures recognizably similar to those of our own era began to emerge, and it follows their surprisingly diverse paths through the Enlightenment to the early nineteenth century. The book then turns to the Victorian era, tracing the development of articulate and self-aware homosexual subcultures. With a greater sense of identity and organization came new forms of resistance: this was the age that saw the persecution of Oscar Wilde, among others, as well as the medical establishment's labeling of homosexuality as a sign of degeneracy.

The book's final section locates the foundations of present-day gay sub-cultures in a succession of twentieth-century scenes and events—in pre-Nazi Germany, in the lesbian world of interwar Paris, in the law reforms of 1960s England—culminating in the emergence of popular movements in the postwar United States.

Rather than examining these groups in isolation, the book considers them in their social contexts and as comparable to other subordinate groups and minority movements. In the process, Toward Stonewall illuminates not only the subcultures that are its primary subject but the larger societies from which they emerged.

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Information

Year
2003
ISBN
9780813923963

Part 1

Making a Subculture

Chapter 1 Origins

Can there be any such thing as a history of homosexuality stretching back much beyond the late nineteenth century to the early modern, let alone the medieval or ancient worlds? Or are the terms we employ in discussing homosexuality—gay, lesbian, homosexuality itself—and the meanings we attach to them so much a product of modern Western thought that meaningful comparisons, let alone a sense of continuity, are chancy at best, all but impossible at worst? That, in essence, is the central issue in the theoretical debate surrounding gay history, the debate between the so-called essentialists and the so-called social constructionists. That is not, of course, a problem unique to this field of study. The terminology available to us limits as well as illuminates our understanding. To suggest just one parallel example, social inequality is universal, but the language of social class we employ is little more than two hundred years old and we apply it to earlier and increasingly different social relationships at an ever greater risk of misrepresenting and misunderstanding the past. Even younger than the modern language of class is the term homosexuality, coined by the German-Hungarian advocate of the decriminalization of homosexuality, Karoly Maria Kertbeny, in 1868.
Before that, homosexual acts between men were termed sodomy. But sodomy is not synonymous with homosexuality, far from it. Not all same-sex acts were necessarily considered sodomy. Oral sex was not always included; the legal definition was frequently limited to anal penetration, often to the point of emission. Nor was sodomy necessarily limited to same-sex acts. Non-vaginal penetration of women as well as bestiality often fell within the definition of sodomy, the only common denominator of all these varying definitions and descriptions being that they referred to nonprocreative sexual acts. The sodomite, in short, was defined by what he did. The homosexual, on the other hand, is defined by his sexual orientation, by what he is and not by what he does. Thus, in sharp contrast to the sodomite, the homosexual may engage in heterosexual acts or even be celibate and still be homosexual. As the father of social constructionism, Michel Foucault, put it, “The sodomite had been a temporary aberration; the homosexual was now a species.”
Described in such terms, as most proponents of social constructionism do indeed describe it, this shift in terminology involved a shift in Western perceptions of the nature of sexuality so profound as to create an all but unbridgeable discontinuity with the thinking of earlier centuries. From this clearly defined position the social constructionists launched repeated and at first almost wholly successful attacks on their doubters and detractors, the so-called essentialists, who acknowledged the discontinuity with earlier centuries but regarded it as far from unbridgeable and as an admonition to use extreme care rather than as a deterrent to attempting to bridge the gap. Unfortunately, as in most such generalized theoretical debates in history and the social sciences, the lines between the two camps became more and more sharply drawn, both sides tended to caricature the views of the other, and the terms of the debate became increasingly removed from the social realities they purported to explain. The frustrating nature of the debate as it developed during the 1970s and early 1980s led many noncombatants as well as some who joined the conflict late to search out, if not common ground or compromise, at least a way of breaking out of the confines of the debate as it was initially defined, either by appealing to disciplines outside of history such as anthropology or biology or, staying within history, by drawing on the additional evidence that has since become available.
From such evidence it is clear that same-sex attraction is very nearly universal in human societies, past and present, while the manner in which it has been understood and expressed, let alone accommodated, regulated, or repressed, is very much a matter of specific time and place. There is also a considerable body of evidence, much of it necessarily literary or anecdotal, to suggest that the more we deal with individuals and their immediate sexual longings and fantasies or with individuals in the company of similar individuals, the closer we come to whatever is essential, transhistorical, and trans-cultural in the nature of sexual orientation. Conversely, the more we deal with individuals in large or diverse groups, the more we encounter socially determined attitudes and patterns of behavior. It might even be said that each of us harbors within him- or herself an essentialist and a social constructionist—and not only in matters sexual. We all experience hunger, but what and how we eat, and how we feel about what and how we eat, is largely socially determined. We all feel heat and cold, but how we dress and how we warm and cool ourselves, and how we feel about how we dress and warm and cool ourselves, is largely socially determined. Sexual attraction is of the same elemental order of things as hunger and the desire for physical comfort, and as with these most fundamental human needs, so with sexual attraction, the essentialist-social constructionist paradigm is perhaps most fruitfully seen as more a continuum than a dichotomy.
Where any of us happens to be on that continuum is subject to constant change depending on the complex interaction between the nature and intensity of our own desires and the weight of social expectations. Any sexually active person, straight or gay, from northern Europe or English-speaking North America, who visits geographically close but culturally different North Africa or Latin America knows this from firsthand experience. The culturally insensitive may act foolishly, embarrassingly, even dangerously, but the culturally aware can quite quickly adapt to the foreign rules of the game and even, precisely because such visitors can perhaps see the rules more clearly than those who have grown up with them, subtly adjust the rules to accommodate their desires. And if, as L. P. Hartley suggested, the past is like a foreign country because they do things differently there, then within the limitations—which can also be an advantage—inherent in being foreign it is possible to write a history of homosexuality.
Writing such a history is not fundamentally different from writing the history of any institution or social relationship over an extended period of time, and one of the puzzling things about the social constructionists is their singling out of the experience of homosexuality as peculiarly culture-bound. Now I have here argued that the elemental nature of sexual attraction makes it, if anything, less culture-bound than most social relationships, but even if that view is not accepted, the fact remains that we commonly study the history of such relationships and of the institutions that frame them, which have changed radically over time. As John Boswell, the leading historian of medieval homosexuality, said in an interview:
It interests me that no one has claimed that there can’t be family history. In fact many of the people who are most constructionist about sexuality are ardent advocates of family history, and yet the family has changed much more over time than ordinary forms of eroticism between two people. … Yet nobody says there can’t be “family” history. Everyone recognizes that the family wouldn’t be exactly the same in a previous age. What social phenomenon is exactly the same in a previous age? Marriage is different, banking is different, the Church is different.
Thus, while the widespread adoption of the term homosexuality in the years after its coinage points to a significant development in Western thinking about sexuality, it is misleading to treat it as too sharp a line of demarcation (just as it distorts history not to acknowledge or account for the discontinuity, which is the great failing of virtually all histories of homosexuality aimed at a general audience).
Jeffrey Weeks, the most prominent historian of homosexuality in modern Britain and an avowed social constructionist, asserts that “the late nineteenth century sees a deepening hostility towards homosexuality, alongside the emergence of new definitions of homosexuality and the homosexual,” and argues that such changes were so fundamental that they “can only be properly understood as part of the restructuring of the family and sexual relations consequent upon the triumph of urbanization and industrial capitalism.” Furthermore, he believes that the modern homosexual subculture and the movement for homosexual rights must be seen as primarily “a basic but creative response to the culture which defined and oppressed them.” The assumptions underlying this argument can be faulted on a number of grounds, but most of all because Weeks pays virtually no attention to historical continuities. He does, to be sure, note “signs of the emergence” of homosexual roles as far back as the late seventeenth century, but he treats them dismissively. Yet there is now, as there was even at the time Weeks wrote, substantial evidence suggesting the emergence of vibrant, recognizably protomodern homosexual subcultures in northwestern Europe two centuries earlier than he suggests. Furthermore, while the late nineteenth century witnessed increased hostility toward sexual deviation, this was as nothing compared with the savage repression of homosexuality early in the century (let alone in earlier centuries). This wider historical perspective opens up the possibility of interpreting the developments of the late nineteenth century in a way very different from, indeed almost opposite to, Weeks’s. The repressive atmosphere of the fin de siècle can be read, not as a catalyst for the emergence of the modern homosexual subculture, but as a reaction to the earlier loosening of the constraints of mid-Victorian society, of which the emergence of a homosexual subculture was a notable, even notorious part.
Clearly it is important to understand how and when something approximating the modern homosexual subculture evolved if the significance of the defining and further developing of that subculture in the late nineteenth century is to be properly understood. In this respect the tendency of Weeks and others to see the development of that subculture as largely a reaction to hostile labeling of deviant behavior is troubling. Not only does it rob the individual and the group of autonomy but it oversimplifies a complex process. The sense of being different, of not quite fitting in, of having thoughts and feelings and interests most of one’s peers do not have, and the accidental stumbling upon or actively seeking out others like oneself underlies a wide spectrum of subcultures—not only sexual but also ethnic, religious, intellectual, and artistic. Different subcultures often find common ground, sometimes through overlapping membership, often simply because they gravitate to the same places. The relationship between subcultures and society at large is often tense but not necessarily hostile. Merely dissenting or dropping out is a very long way from openly challenging social norms; subcultures may have a great deal of latitude to define themselves as different from society at large but by no means antagonistic to it. As long as that distinction is maintained society at large may even point to the diversity of its subcultures with some pride. Only when a subculture is (or is thought to be) growing rapidly, when it becomes highly visible, even assertive or challenging, or when a society feels insecure within itself does tension necessarily spill over into hostility and the freedom of self-definition give way to labeling as a mechanism of social control or scapegoating.
The earliest richly documented examples of this complex process so far as homosexual subcultures are concerned occurred at the close of the seventeenth century in London, Paris, Amsterdam, and neighboring Dutch cities. Despite the considerable differences between these cities, the similarities in the nature and development of their sodomitical subcultures are striking (which would have made it easy for a knowledgeable Parisian, say, to find his way into the demimonde of London or Amsterdam). Certain streets and districts became well known as places where men could make contact, either for a brief sexual encounter or as a preliminary to more lengthy and intimate relations in private. In Amsterdam the area around the town hall and the exchange was a major cruising ground; in the Hague the Voorhout and Vijverberg were the center of activity. The royal gardens—the Luxembourg, the Tuileries—were particularly favored in Paris, as were the boulevards built on the site of the former city walls. In London, Covent Garden and Lincoln’s Inn Fields to the west and Smithfield and the area around the Royal Exchange to the east were popular haunts, though by no means to the exclusion of other places. And in all these cities, then and ever since, public urinals, parks, and secluded walkways beside canals or river banks have served as meeting grounds.
Recognition signals, often quite elaborate, were necessary to establish who was who: apparently accidental physical contact, shoe to shoe or elbow to elbow; patterns of dress, including the use of particular colors or the wearing or waving of a handkerchief in a certain way; the too intense perusal of the wares in market stall after market stall; or simply the casual glance held just a beat too long. In the most notorious cruising areas, or following a few preliminary moves, men might act more brazenly, exposing themselves or even risking overt sexual contact. There were common verbal approaches too, including the ageless requests for the time or for directions. Slang could also be used for identification purposes or, within the subculture, as an expression of solidarity. Words and phrases that might have no particular significance to outsiders might mean something different to those in the know. Male prostitutes were available in the larger cities, as were casual hustlers, perhaps soldiers or sailors, or apprentices, servants, students in need of a bit of cash, a meal, a drink, or a place to spend the night. If they were lucky and their clients were sufficiently independent or had the right contacts, they might be invited back to a private house, perhaps to a discreet party. Such private circles appear to have been especially common in the Netherlands, where informal contacts linked such circles in a number of cities. For those with lesser means or less freedom—men who lived in lodgings, men who were married—there were inns and taverns, even private clubs, that catered to their needs, providing rooms for couples or for parties. The so-called molly houses of London ranged from makeshift rooms behind lowly public houses to establishments large enough to accommodate fancy-dress balls and a dozen or more couples in private bedrooms.
If much of this seems unremarkable, that is what is so remarkable. Here we have many of the elements of a readily recognizable modern gay subculture; most of the signals are familiar, and some of the cruising areas are still in use for that purpose three centuries later. There are substantial differences, however, both from what had been and from what was to come, and not only in such ephemeral matters as slang. Though the evidence from earlier periods is thinner, the most common, or at least most commonly noted, pattern of homosexual relations before the late seventeenth century was either a passing phase of sexual contacts between adolescents or involved partners unequal in age—adults with youths—and often in social status as well—masters with servants, teachers with pupils, employers with apprentices, and the like. The hierarchical or patronage nature of these relationships usually extended to the sex acts themselves, with the older partner or the partner having the higher social status assuming a dominant, masculine role, while the subordinate partner normally acted as the receptor. As long as these roles were adhered to, the morals of the adult partner might be questioned, but not his masculinity. Indeed, a temporary lapse into sodomy or even the active pursuit of boys did not necessarily preclude heterosexual relations or marriage, and vice versa. As one historian vividly put it, the upper-class libertine or rake with “his whore on one arm and his boy on the other” was a subject of gossip and often of social (and legal) concern but not of derision.
Such men were not so much bisexual in the modern sense as sexual opportunists, ready to satisfy themselves as chance and inclination dictated. Nor is there more than occasional or fragmentary evidence to suggest that even those among them who were more or less exclusively involved with boys over an extended period were or saw themselves as members of distinct sexual subcultures. By and large they appear to have been simply individuals whose sexual tastes or lack of other outlets led them to experiment with sodomy. Such unselfconscious sexual ambidexterity became increasingly difficult to sustain following the emergence of the molly house subculture and its Paris and Amsterdam equivalents. The general mixing of ages and ranks in the molly houses was matched by a growing flexibility in sexual roles: adults with adults and adult males accepting the passive, or “feminine,” role. The issue of what one did, in short, was now supplemented, indeed often superseded, by the issue of who one did it with, and once that happened any adult male’s taste for other males of any age, boys included, became suspect. Inevitably, those who preferred the sexual company of other males came to be associated in the public mind, and increasingly in their own minds, with others of their kind, as members of a distinct category of persons, not merely as men who engaged in acts of sodomy but as sodomites, as men who, because of their choice of sexual acts and partners, were deemed other than, or less than, fully men.
For the denizens of the emerging sodomitical subcultures this almost inevitably led to identifying themselves as well as being labeled by outsiders as in some sense partly feminine in their nature. With the decline of the old hierarchical paradigm of male-to-male sexual relationships, there was no pattern of explanation for the subculture other than in terms of some variant or distortion of normal gender roles, and one of the characteristics of these sodomitical subcultures as they developed during the early eighteenth century was the way they incorporated, played on, or parodied contemporary gender categories and expectations, to the point in some instances of staging mock marriages and even mock birthings. Indeed, if there is one aspect of these early modern subcultures that more than any other seems to separate them from the gay subcultures of the late-twentieth-century West, it is this elaborate and exaggerated emphasis on feminine role-playing.
That said, however, it would be misleading in our turn to exaggerate the differences between the molly house culture and what preceded or followed it. There was almost certainly more homosexual contact between adult males before the emergence of the sodomitical subcultures of the late seventeenth century than we will ever know of, simply because the consequences of acknowledging or being discovered in such a relationship could be socially catastrophic for the individuals involved. Moreover, there is substantial evidence from a number of cities in southern Europe a century or more earlier of streets, taverns, and other well-known meeting places for sodomites and their youthful partners, as well as of informal networks of adult neighbors, friends, and coworkers with shared sexual tastes, not, to be sure, for one another, but for boys (who equally often ran in groups of friends or gangs). In Renaissance Florence, and very likely elsewhere as well, “sodomy was intimately connected to the intense bonding and camaraderie so characteristic of male sociability in this culture.” That did not mean, however, that there was a “truly autonomous and distinctive ‘sodomitical subculture.’ … There was only a single male sexual culture with a prominent homoerotic character.” The growth of just such an increasingly highly structured, distinct, and self-conscious subculture appears to have been the novel feature of the sodomitical underworld in the major cities of northwestern Europe at the turn of the eighteenth century.
Similarly, while the emergence of these subcultures reinforced and extended the taboo to any and all homosexual relations, that taboo has never operated as completely as some would imagine. The earlier distinctions between sexual partners based on what they did survived the rise of the molly house culture and survives to this day. In his superbly researched study of gay New York at the beginning of the twentieth century George Chauncey reveals that it was common for men to seek out the services of avowedly homosexual “fairies” but that as long as the clients kept to the dominant role, their masculinity was not questioned. This carefully maintained distinction could not survive very far into the new century, Chauncey argues, as the idea of the homosexual as a type of person spread and took hold, but even casual conversations with present-day hustlers clearly show that this is not the case. Many who are new to the game cling to the fiction that they are only doing it for the money and are not “queer” by refusing to do anything other than let the client pleasure them, while any experienced hustler will have encountered clients who, on the excuse that they were not getting enough from their wives or girlfriends, sought out a male hustler for relief yet, no matter how often they did so, adamantly denied that they were gay. Such artificial distinctions may not be as carefully structured and maintained—or maintainable—today as they were a century ago or, indeed, as common, but they are there.
A similar observation applies to the exaggerated effeminacy of the sodomitical subcultures of three centuries ago. For one thing, it may not have been so, or at least not so all-pervasive. The police surveillance records from Paris, for example, contain a number of references to sodomites who, repelled by the more effeminate cliques and clubs, sought their satisfaction elsewhere; court records from a number of Dutch cities indicate a wide range of sexual tastes and preferences within the subculture; and the most thorough study of the London subculture convincingly argues that cross-dressing was usually reserved for masquerades and other special occasions. Moreover, all surviving accounts of these subcultures come from hostile sources, such as sensational pamphlets and newspapers or ...

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