I get in to see James for ten minutes before he’s released. His arm is in a sling. His face is a mass of bruises. Stitches crisscross his swollen lips. I wonder what the club kids or those newspaper writers who are always talking about his cheekbones would think if they saw him now. If they saw him damaged and discolored.
One of the gay newspapers of the time, probably The Native, published a map of where bashings were taking place. That's how prevalent this was. I didn't want to write this, I didn't want it to happen to James. But I'd committed to telling the truth and too many of my friends have been hurt for me to ignore the ugliness of this type of hate.
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