Stonewall Was A Riot - A Reflective Blog Post for Pride Month

*The following blog post is from a QLC member who wishes to remain anonymous at this time:

There is a rich tradition of queer people resisting society’s violence agains us--violence that includes criminalization, medical negilence, and housing discrimination. Violence that persists to this day. Queer people at the Stonewall Riots didn’t meekly ask for respect; the mostly trans crowd smashed windows, threw bricks, and raised hell for five days to let the NYPD know that they were tired of the non-stop harassment. The leaders of the Stonewall riots would go on to form additional radical organizations, including Gay Liberation Front and Street Transvestites Action Revolutionaries. 

We invite you to attend Reclaim’s Queer Liberation Caucus event, Stonewall Was a Riot, on Sunday, June 27th from 2-4pm, to commemorate the radical roots of queer history. Our first panel in this new speakers’ series will discuss how queerness intersects with Mass Incarceration and housing justice, and will include speakers from ACT UP, Galaei, and William Way Center, among others. 

Although society is far more welcoming to the LGBTQ community than 1969 America, we are still struggling for our survival. As queer folks, we have a unique vulnerability to housing injustice--for some us, our queerness is not welcome in the homes of our birth families. It’s estimated that around 40% of homeless youth are LGBTQ. Queer people still face employment discrimination, and even as adults, housing is more difficult to secure because of that. I carried that legacy with me as I and my neighbors fought against an illegal mass eviction in 2018.

I received a letter in August 2018 informing me that my lease would be terminated on December 31st of that year. I laughed. I was currently on rent. I just renewed my lease in July for another year. I wasn’t in violation of any lease terms. Surely this was a mistake.

 I called up the office of the new landlords, who had recently purchased the building for 5.9 million. They confirmed that yes, the letter was accurate, and I would need to vacate my unit before the new year.

It turned out that every tenant in the building received the same lease termination letter. We all felt desperate--most of us had poor credit, worked low income jobs, and would need at least three months of rent in order to move into a new place. Personally, my last day of work was scheduled two weeks from when I got the letter, and I had no savings due to student loan debt and housing costs. 

I also didn’t want to give up my home. It was convenient to work, spacious, and the type of building where you could borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbor. As a transplant to the city, my neighbors played an invaluable role in getting acclimated to Philly, and had quickly become a new family. I learned to become more comfortable with my queerness as a result of their unconditional kindness and care. I wasn’t giving up my home without a fight.

I initially called the City’s Fair Housing Commission, which agreed that the new landlords couldn’t cancel our leases mid-contract, but referred me to a lengthy process to share with my neighbors and ensure we could stay in our homes. It didn’t matter that we were facing the threat of homelessness and needed a quicker solution than filing paperwork in the hopes of obtaining a hearing six months from now. I also looked into a lawyer, but the knowledge that I would need to procure three months worth of rent, while also facing down unemployment, made procuring one seem insurmountable.  

I felt despondent and began to mentally prepare to move back with my family. While I couldn’t gauge their reaction, I wasn’t out to them, and the idea of coming out to them during an eviction seemed unreasonable. I was finally comfortable with my sexuality, and didn’t want to revert to hiding in the closet. I’d rather sleep rough.   

Word began to spread through the building that the landlord couldn’t legally collect rent. Suzie, one of the residents, complained to the city’s 311 hotline, where she learned that the landlord lacked a rental license. Landlord’s technically can’t collect rent or evict without a rental license in Philadelphia; however, it’s rarely enforced, and that fact alone won’t encourage a judge to rule in a tenant’s favor. 

Ignoring those caveats, most tenants stopped paying rent. A quick google search revealed the story of Penn Wynne, a building where tenants’ leases were terminated early so the new property owners could redevelop and market to students at St. Joseph University. The tenants there fought against their eviction, which encouraged council members to advocate for and pass good cause legislation. Feeling inspired, I shared the information with Suzie, and we began to develop a strategy for us to collectively resist the mass eviction. 

Over the next two months, we collected complaints and stories from our fellow neighbors, consolidating into a demand letter. Our movement of two grew to over 60% of tenants by thanksgiving weekend. 

Our demands were basic: we wanted to remain in our homes. We wanted to be held harmless for the ad hoc rent strike, especially given the landlords’ legal inability to collect rent. We wanted improved safety standards to guarantee that exiting the building wouldn’t end with broken bones and sprained ankles.  

The landlords responded by firing the current property manager, as if it were her fault that the lease termination letters were sent, safe exits from the building were blocked, and the elevator was a death trap. The landlords refused to acknowledge their culpability in traumatizing us, so we went to the news and staged a protest while trying to meet with the new property owners.

Our meeting in December with the landlords wasn’t fruitful, with them dismissing our concerns as “people think it’s cool to fight the power.” By that point, the landlords were cutting heat for tenants who filed reports to 311, and tenants were reporting instances of sexual harassment by the maintenance crew. 

A mass exodus occurred over December as tenants used the money saved from the rent strike to put down security deposits necessary for new places. We weren’t concerned about subsequent legal action; our complaints had put City officials and the media on notice about the landlords’ behavior, and it seemed unlikely that a judge would rule in their favor. The landlords’ continued to rage a campaign of terror against us as we moved out, escalating to property damage. I had to transport my belongings in batches, and the landlords’ contractor broke into my apartment to destroy about half of my property during my move out process.  

I watched a community that I love get destroyed by gentrification. It was a community that gave me the strength to become more comfortable in my queerness. Where our neighbors looked out for each other. The landlord’s greed necessitated that long standing tenants be kicked out in order to redevelop the building to charge higher rent to whiter, straighter, wealthier tenants. 

While my fellow tenants and I were determined enough to fight and ensure we didn’t end up homeless from forced displacement, we didn’t escape unscathed. Domestic violence within the building skyrocketed during our struggle, and more tenants fell into addiction. If we could do it over again, I would have advocated for more community care efforts to address how stress from the mass eviction manifested itself.  

Yes, Stonewall was a riot, and we must continue to honor our history of resistance. We shouldn’t be straightwashed into believing that queer acceptance is the result of kind actions from our elected officials.

From the ongoing work that carried over from these pivotal events 52 years ago, we get to see transformative justice for LGBTQIA + folx right here in Philadelphia. We’re excited to bring this event to you and hope you can make it!