Moving Mountains for Fairness

Louisville, Kentucky, is located across a narrow stretch of the Ohio River from southern Indiana and has been described by some as “the northernmost Southern city.” Despite the label it still has the feel of a Southern town.

The Southern character is felt in the city’s porch-filled neighborhoods, housing some 350,000 people, spread out over a rambling 60-plus square miles. Louisville also reflects the religion of the Bible Belt, serving as home to the national offices of the Presbyterian Church, two seminaries, and countless communities of faith.

And on January 26, 1999, Louisville became a frontrunner in the struggle for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender civil rights. This was the day the Louisville Fairness Campaign convinced the city council to outlaw discrimination on the job based on sexual orientation and gender identity. Later that year, a county-wide ordinance extended these protections to housing, public accommodations and employment in the surrounding area.

The movement has spread throughout Kentucky. Lexington and Henderson have passed similar anti-discrimination ordinances, and smaller towns like Bowling Green and Owensboro are organizing for legislative change.

The Louisville campaign to outlaw discrimination against lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, and transgendered people has been a remarkable legislative success story. It is also a study in patient, thoughtful organizing that has created a movement, forged new alliances, and left a mark on the community.

“People often think that you can’t hang on to your ideals, support an inclusive justice agenda, and run a successful legislative campaign,” says Carla Wallace, a founding member of the Campaign. “We proved that not only is it possible — it’s the only way to win.”

How they won — and the change that was wrought in the process — is a story that began over 15 years ago.

 

Civil Rights Roots

Gay civil rights organizing began in Louisville in the mid-1980s, when a group of progressive activists launched a campaign to have sexual orientation added to the city’s existing civil rights code. The group spearheading the fight — the Greater Louisville Human Rights Coalition — was formed by lesbians and gay men who were deeply involved in battles against racism.

At first, the initiative didn’t go far. The extreme right plastered the city with messages that “these people” would destroy the city, and town officials insisted Louisville wasn’t ready to take the issue on. But these early efforts were successful in garnering the support of activists involved in anti-racist, feminist and faith-based organizing, and a few politicians went on record with their support for gay civil rights.

A turning point came in 1987. That year, an expanded group of activists organized a “March for Justice” to push for gay civil rights. This renewed effort drew hostile threats from opponents, but also strong support from straight allies, marking the beginnings of a visible gay civil rights movement in Louisville.

That same year, a hate-inspired cross-burning incident in an African-American neighborhood prompted a community-wide campaign for legislation against hate crimes. The diverse coalition argued the measure should outlaw crimes of hate based not only on race, but also sexual orientation.

Many considered the inclusion of sexual orientation a risky proposition. Organizers debated the Catch-22: Keep sexual orientation in, and they might lose. Take it out, and they were leaving part of the community behind. Eventually, the activists coalesced around inclusive language, and when anti-hate crime legislation passed two years later, it extended protections to sexual and racial minorities alike.

Many credit this victory with creating the momentum and groundwork needed to launch the Louisville Fairness Campaign.

“It gave people something to rally around,” Wallace remembers. “It gave organizers an opportunity to link people to action.”

By 1991, what had been an ad-hoc organizing effort was transformed into a structured organization, with appointed leadership and a building to house the extensive education and organizing efforts of the Campaign.

 

A Model Campaign

Fairness Campaign activists quickly made their mark. Volunteer organizers made it their business to talk to everyone, everywhere, all the time. They talked to straight allies about the experience of being gay, and the reality of discrimination. Within their own community, they talked about the connections between race, class and gender; what it meant to be queer; and the importance of gender identity.

The discussions were hard, and not everyone agreed. But the effort was a successful exercise in education.

“They have done a phenomenal job of educating the public,” says long-time civil rights activist Anne Braden of the Kentucky Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression. “They have been patient and persistent. And this dates back 15 years.”

Patience and persistence were important early on, when Fairness legislation was considered and killed three times in nine years. While such defeats would have been a crippling loss to many, the Campaign made sure to define the mere consideration of gay rights legislation as a crucial gain.

“That they even had to stand up and vote [on a pro-fairness law] was a victory,” says Pam McMichael, a Southern organizer and founding member of the Campaign. “The movement was the victory.”

To get to that point involved widening the base of support and finding ways to link up with diverse groups — important work that would outlive any legislative success. With this long-term view, fairness advocates saw their organization and community grow.

 

“They Are Always There for You”

Central to the Campaign’s success was establishing alliances and working in visible support of a range of issues affecting the Louisville community.

“For as long as I can remember,” recalls Bob Cunningham of the Kentucky Alliance, “in all the struggles waged by the Alliance, the gay community has been there. When the Klan came to town, the Fairness community came out in force to protest.”

“They were not only visible; they were in the majority,” Cunningham adds.

Alice Wade, also of the Kentucky Alliance, further relates how Fairness activists are leaders in efforts to create a civilian police review board, to check the power of the city’s predominantly white police force in black and gay communities. “On this and other issues,” Wade explains, “Fairness is at the table. They are always there for you.”

The Campaign’s ground rule, however, was that they would not be invisible. The sentiment was clear: they would stand, protest and pray in solidarity, but as visible members of the Fairness community.

The Campaign also argued from the beginning that the Fairness cause was not separate from other community concerns.

“The gay community is a diverse community,” explains Dan Farrell, current co-chair of the Fairness Campaign. “Low-income housing, minority contracts, disability rights, reproductive choice — these are all of our issues.”

This perspective gave the Campaign a reputation of not only being “very good about reaching out to other groups,” says Paul Whiteley of the labor-community Jobs with Justice coalition, “but also about instilling in their own members the notion that we’re not just fighting for this ordinance, we’re fighting for justice.”

African-American and Latino/a residents who were not previously connected to social justice efforts have also provided the Fairness cause with key leadership. Dawn Wilson, a black, transsexual female, was a visible spokesperson for the inclusion of gender identity in the ordinance (see sidebar, “Who’s Covered?”). Alicia Pedreira, a Latina lesbian working as a therapist and social worker, became somewhat of a celebrity and key advocate when she was fired from her job at the Kentucky Baptist Home for Children because of her sexual orientation.

Such acts of solidarity may be one explanation for the incredible support for Fairness within the black community. In 1997, 71% of African Americans that were polled on the question of Fairness legislation were in favor. When Denise Bentley ran for Alderman in her predominantly black ward, only two of her 30,000 constituents expressed hostility toward her pro-fairness platform.

But crossing the race divide in a city that is still largely segregated and mostly white has been a challenge for the Campaign. “For a long time, we all thought that one of the benefits of being an organization that grew out of anti-racist organizing would be that it would automatically create a space for black queers to participate,” says McMichael. “That hasn’t happened.”

Diane Moten is one person in the Campaign working to heal the divide. Moten, who is African American, first became involved in the Fairness cause as a volunteer while working as a minister in her Baptist church.

Moten observes that there are lots of African-American gays and lesbians at the bars and elsewhere, but they’re not showing up at Fairness events. She co-chairs the Campaign’s Bridge Building committee, which uses community dialogues and other efforts to educate the broader community. She’s now working on bringing the video “All God’s Children” — a documentary about the experience of African-American, Latino/a and Asian gays and lesbians in religion — to black churches in Louisville.

Which is one reason why Mandy Carter — a creator of “All God’s Children” and field director of the North Carolina-based National Black, Lesbian and Gay Leadership Forum — says, “I haven’t seen anything like this in North Carolina or anywhere else. It’s a powerful model we can build on.”

 

Acts of Faith

Another challenge has been the Religious Right, the loudest voice of opposition to gay civil rights in churches, high-school auditoriums, and editorial pages across the state.

“In a place like Louisville the church plays a really important role in people’s lives.,” explains Reverend Ann J. Deibert. And many people of faith have an intense and irrational fear that this is against God, that we are spitting in God’s face if we support this lifestyle.”

But in the 1990s, a group of clergy formed Religious Leaders for Fairness to prove that being Christian does not mean being anti-gay. In suits and collars, this mostly-white group of progressive clergy lobbied their representatives at the city, county, and state levels. They sponsored “talk back” seminars in churches, allowing congregants to discuss issues of homosexuality and fairness. And they provided support for pro-Fairness pastors who were being challenged for their stance.

At the same time, Fairness advocates in the African-American community were busy countering their own anti-gay ministers. Black anti-Fairness ministers were few in number, but working hard to position themselves as “the voice” of the community.

The Kentucky Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression, along with pro-Fairness ministers and other prominent African-American leaders, took a strong stand against this minority voice. Many drew on the lessons of the not-so-distant 1960s, reminding people of a time when there were no civil rights for African Americans. Their message sunk in, that “God welcomes everyone.”

“That’s important for people who are in the church — and people who have left the church — to know,” says Rev. Deibert.

The Power of a PAC

Advocates feel that the Campaign’s eventual victory was sealed when it recognized the need for a strong electoral strategy, and established C-FAIR — a pro-Fairness Political Action Committee.

While the Campaign educated the public and built key alliances, C-FAIR identified, endorsed, and helped run pro-Fairness candidates for political office. Since passage of the ordinance rested entirely upon the votes of 12 elected Aldermen, this strategy proved crucial.

“With each new fairness ordinance introduced,” explains C-FAIR president Maureen Keenan, “It became clear who our friends were and were not; who would respond to a moral imperative and who would respond only to votes.”

The grassroots-electoral combination was powerful. C-FAIR built on the Campaign’s strong, grassroots base and put muscle behind a few strategic candidates who they believed could shake loose the needed votes.

In 1996, that candidate was Denise Bentley, an African-American woman who had taken a strong and public stand against discrimination in the workplace when she refused to fire a gay employee. When she ran for office later that year, she ran on a pro-Fairness platform.

Backed by Fairness people-power, Bentley soundly beat her rival — a 12-year incumbent and anti-fairness Alderman. Once elected, Alderwoman Bentley co-introduced Fairness legislation with colleague Tom Owen, which was quickly defeated.

C-FAIR put their efforts behind Emily Boone in 1997, who also ran against an anti-Fairness and deeply entrenched incumbent. Boone lost, but her campaign garnered 40% of the vote — a high level of support for a first-time candidate. Her showing was strong enough to scare her incumbent opponent into reconsidering his vote.

By 1998, the Fairness community had helped to seat five committed fairness supporters on the Board of Aldermen. A sixth who had abstained in 1997 was on record as a yes vote for the 1998 legislative year. Bowing to overwhelming voter sentiment, the seventh Alderman — Emily Boone’s opponent — offered the winning vote in favor of a Fairness in employment ordinance. It was signed into law in 1999.

 

The Louisville Legacy

By all measures, the Louisville Fairness Campaign has been historic. While the principles of persistent organizing, alliance building, and electoral presence may all seem like common sense, the Campaign’s success in putting these ideas into action is viewed by many as ground-breaking.

“In my travels I’ve seen many people who desire to do queer organizing in ways that connect to broader issues,” says Pam McMichael. “But I haven’t seen many organizations that have integrated it into their work. And there are not that many queer organizations working on legislative campaigns, period.”

National Gay and Lesbian Task Force director Kerry Lobel agrees.

“I brag on the folks in Kentucky wherever I go. Why? Because [they] have always understood that ours is one movement for social justice. Both organizations have made remarkable coalitions with people of color, the poor, women, people of faith, labor organizers, welfare rights organizers,” says Lobel, referring to the Louisville campaign and the Statewide Kentucky Fairness Alliance (see sidebar “Today Louisville; Tomorrow the State.”)

“When they say ‘Fairness,’ they mean it, and when they say ‘equality,’ they show it every day,” Lobel adds.

Another enduring legacy of the Fairness movement has been a shift in the city’s balance of power.

“The gay community has become a force to be reckoned with,” says Bob Cunningham of the Alliance. “No politician in his right mind is going to speak too loudly against the gay community because they have power.”

While five years ago, a C-FAIR endorsement was seen as a kiss of death, now public officials compete for it because they know the Fairness community can deliver the people and the votes.

“That’s good for all of us,” says Cunningham, “because it shows what can be done when you come together and organize.”

Paul Whiteley, of Kentucky Jobs with Justice, tells a similar story of a rank and file union member who was never particularly supportive of the Fairness Campaign — but who recently said to one of his peers, “We can learn something from them about how to pass this [living wage] ordinance. . . . If we want a living wage, that’s what we’re going to have to do.”

The Campaign has also served as a kind of training camp for activists and organizers in Louisville, especially the younger generation.

“There were all these people who didn’t feel like leaders and who were brand-new to organizing,” says Carla Wallace. “Fairness gave people a place to come out, to tell their story, to get involved.”

 

The Long Road to Fairness

In Louisville, gay civil rights were built on trust and over time. And the work is far from over.

Fairness advocates see garnering statewide protective legislation for lesbians, gay men, bisexuals and transgendered people as the next great battle.

“Given the state of Kentucky,” says Maria Price, director of the statewide Kentucky Fairness Alliance, “statewide legislation makes perfect sense because discrimination does not stop at the county border.”

Meanwhile, there are legislative victories to maintain in Henderson, Lexington, Louisville and Jefferson County, and ongoing organizing to support in several of Kentucky’s more isolated towns and rural areas.

The Fairness movement’s success has also sparked a well-organized backlash by the religious right. The Louisville and Jefferson County laws are being subjected to a legal challenge brought by the Pat Robertson-founded American Center for Law and Justice on behalf of a local doctor who claims that employing gays and lesbians violates his freedom of religion.

The passage of the Lexington ordinance prompted the formation of Equal Rights Not Special Rights, which includes veteran anti-gay campaigner Kent Ostrander of The Family Foundation on its board.

There are still gaps in coverage, too, such as the fact that “religious organizations” are exempt from the Louisville and Jefferson County ordinances (but not the Henderson statute). Many of these organizations — like the Kentucky Baptist Home for Children which fired Alicia Pedreira — receive well over 51% of their budget from public sources, questioning their status as independent religious institutions.

And questions about improving racial diversity within the primarily white Fairness community — and better sexual diversity within primarily straight social justice organizations — remain. Fortunately, the Campaign’s work has begun to create a space where people can ask those questions as they look to the road ahead.

“When I think about what still needs to be done,” says Rev. Deibert, “I think about the issue of civil rights for African Americans. They got anti-discrimination laws on the books 35 years ago, and discrimination still occurs. So there is still a lot of work to be done. We have our life’s work cut out for us.”