At 1:20 am on June 28, 1969, New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a popular Greenwich Village gay bar. The approximately 200 patrons fought back, sparking six days of protests and inspiring generations of 2 Spirit, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer and additional sexual orientations and gender identities (2SLGBTQ+)1 activists.
In honour of the 55th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, we interviewed seven 2SLGBTQ+ alumni to learn about their experiences and to see how the Queen鈥檚 community has evolved over the years.
The 1960s
The Queen鈥檚 University campus is 615 kilometres from Greenwich Village, but in 1969 it may as well have been at the other end of the world. In an age when same-sex activity was a criminal offense that carried a prison term, 2SLGBTQ+ people knew that living openly could lead to being denied service at a restaurant, being denied housing, ostracism from classmates and professors, and, often, beatings. As a result, they tended to keep their sexual identities to themselves. 鈥淣o one was gay in those days,鈥 says Gregg Blachford, Artsci鈥71.
Blachford, who was not out at the time, remembers his Queen鈥檚 experience as happy, albeit steeped in denial. 鈥淚 dated women and they thought of me as the perfect gentleman because I never put my hands on them,鈥 he says. 鈥淭he problem was I didn鈥檛 have gay friends. Having people you can identify with is really what opens things up and makes you feel better about yourself.鈥
Blachford would later learn that there were other gay students at Queen鈥檚 at the time 鈥 including one of his roommates. Unfortunately, homophobia was so entrenched on campus that they couldn鈥檛 come out to each other. 鈥淲e were so isolated that we were never able to bond,鈥 he says. 鈥淲e each lived in our own little hidden world.鈥
As he grew to accept his sexuality, Blachford slowly began looking to broaden his world. 鈥淪omehow I picked up that City Park, near the campus, was where gays cruised,鈥 he says. 鈥淚 remember going there in my third year. There was a man who followed me. I think he might have said hello, but I just scampered. I was too scared to stay.鈥
Not long afterward, he worked up the courage to enter The Cat鈥檚 Meow, a downtown Kingston bar that was popular among gay men. 鈥淚 walked in, got terrified, and walked right out the door,鈥 he says. 鈥淪o, on those two occasions I dipped my toe in, but I couldn鈥檛 seem to follow through.鈥 He was finally able to come out after graduation, once he had returned home to Toronto.
The 1970s
In the early 1970s, Toronto had taken its first steps toward a more inclusive future for the 2SLGBTQ+ community. By 1973, the city had its own gay magazine, had aired Canada鈥檚 first queer television series, and had taken part in the country鈥檚 inaugural Pride Week celebrations. And in October, Toronto City Council made history, becoming the first Canadian municipality to ban discrimination based on sexual orientation.
In the fall of 1973, after a popular student newspaper published a column rife with homophobic slurs, a letter of protest appeared in the Queen鈥檚 Journal. Signed by 鈥淭hree Campus Homophiles,鈥 it spoke out, not only against the column, but also against a campus culture that turned an intentional blind eye to violence, intimidation, and ingrained homophobia. It added that 鈥淨ueen鈥檚 is one of the few universities left in North America which still does not have its own homophile association.鈥
The letter sparked weeks of debate on the Journal鈥檚 letters to the editor page, including several letters defending the offending columnist and attacking the original letter writers. Still, it created enough momentum that, by the end of October, the , the university鈥檚 first resource for 2SLGBTQ+ students, was born. In 1974, it became an officially sanctioned organization. 鈥淭hey ran a phone line,鈥 says Dr. Nancy Tatham, Artsci鈥86, Artsci鈥00. 鈥淭here were a lot of callers who were alone and isolated. Or maybe they were kicked out of their houses when their roommates found out. It was a desperately needed service.鈥
By 1975, the QHA had established a small resource library, and, a year later, they published their first newsletter. By 1977, they were holding dances every few months in the basement of the law school building, often attracting as many as 150 people.
The 1980s
Toronto experienced its own Stonewall moment in February of 1981, as more than 3,000 protesters took to the streets after city police arrested 286 people in a series of bathhouse raids.
Tatham arrived on campus in the fall of 1981 and came out the following year. 鈥淔rom my experience, there was nothing on campus, so it was very haphazard trying to find community,鈥 she says. Her initiation into the community began with a chance encounter at the Queen鈥檚 Choral Society. 鈥淲e had a break in rehearsal, and one of the other women went outside with me,鈥 she recalls. 鈥淪he said, 鈥榶ou鈥檙e one too, aren鈥檛 you?鈥欌
Another chance encounter, arranged through a friend in a chemistry lab, led her to the QHA headquarters in the Grey House on what is now Bader Lane. 鈥淚 lived in Vic Hall, right beside the Grey House,鈥 Tatham says. 鈥淚 remember being casually warned off. 鈥楧on鈥檛 go near the Grey House. That鈥檚 where鈥︹ I don鈥檛 remember the exact terminology, but it wasn鈥檛 flattering. It was enough to scare me away, but I managed to get up the nerve and I went to a meeting there. That鈥檚 how it started for me.鈥
The mid-1980s was a hard time for 2SLGBTQ+ people around the world. 鈥淩ock Hudson had just died,鈥 Tatham says. 鈥淎IDS awareness was bubbling up in the public consciousness, and a torrent of homophobia came up with it. We were being hunted down and beaten up.鈥 That made it difficult for Queen鈥檚 students who were struggling to find community. 鈥淲e put together a flying squad,鈥 Tatham says, 鈥渂ecause there were people who were too afraid to go to the Grey House. We would get letters that said, 鈥楳eet me at Place X and Time X. I will be wearing such and such. I just want to talk to someone.鈥欌
Tatham recalls the experience of a friend: 鈥淗e was studying in Mac Corry in the middle of the day. A guy was staring him down very menacingly, so he gathered up his books and went down University Avenue. The guy caught up with him in front of Dunning Hall, grabbed him, pummeled him, and hurled his books onto the street. My friend watched as a bus drove over his books. He managed to run away, bleeding, but he told me it wasn鈥檛 the beating that hurt the most. It was that none of his fellow students intervened.鈥
This was the environment that awaited Chris Veldhoven, Artsci鈥94, when he arrived on campus in the mid-1980s. Raised in part by a gay father, Veldhoven was more comfortable with his sexuality than many of his peers. 鈥淚 was already out to my best friend when I got here,鈥 he says. 鈥淎nd I started coming out publicly as I sensed a few other queer folk on campus. It was probably a little easier for me, but even I wasn鈥檛 out to everyone in my first year because of everything that was happening.鈥
Veldhoven and Tatham were part of a diverse and dedicated group of activists who worked tirelessly to change the prevailing attitudes. Veldhoven hosted After Stonewall, CFRC鈥檚 first queer radio show. 鈥淎nd because I was exploring studying theatre and theatre history, I met people and pulled together production teams for our first Pride theatre pieces,鈥 he says. 鈥淲e called ourselves Rebels With 鈥極ut鈥 Cause.鈥
Tatham graduated in 1986 but remained on campus as a volunteer activist. "In a way, I was fortunate,鈥 she says. 鈥淟ooking back, I would say that my ability to focus on queer issues was in part because I had multiple privileges as a middle-class, WASP, able-bodied, neurotypical kid from semi-urban Southwestern Ontario with an intact, supportive family where I was the third generation to attend university. I didn鈥檛 have to deal with other issues because, my lesbianism aside, I had an easy ride. For those who were not of the mainstream, it was harder to come out, harder to find a place within the queer community, and harder to find a voice on a very white, very straight campus.鈥
Tatham and her fellow activists had a lot of work ahead of them. In 1987, she met a male student at a dance. A few days later, she bumped into him on the street. 鈥淚 greeted him by name, and he just froze,鈥 she says. 鈥淗e was terrified. I saw him again later, and he said that he was with people who didn鈥檛 know, and he was afraid I was going to out him. I remember thinking that we should be able to walk down the street and not live in fear.鈥
That realization led Tatham to more activism. She teamed up with Francois Lachance, Artsci鈥82, 鈥淨ueen鈥檚 first prominent gay and lesbian activist,鈥 to stage an annual Lesbian and Gay Awareness Week, which culminated in 1989 in Kingston鈥檚 first Pride March. 鈥淲e called it a Pride Stroll,鈥 she says. 鈥淚 remember gathering on somebody鈥檚 back deck. We made a banner, and we went to Market Square at high noon on a Saturday and we marched up Princess to Montreal Street, and then we turned around and marched back. There were no catcalls, nothing. But every shop door opened, and people were just standing there, agog. I think they were shocked.鈥
Another turning point came when Tatham and others met with the head of Student Counselling. 鈥淲e told them they needed to offer services for lesbian and gay students,鈥 she says. 鈥淎nd it became clear that they didn鈥檛 understand what the issues were.鈥
Later that year, Tatham was invited to speak in one of the residences. 鈥淥ne person showed up,鈥 she says. 鈥淏ut we quickly realized that there were all these people clustered at the door, so we invited them in, and it turned into a great meeting.鈥 Dr. Elspeth Baugh, the Dean of Women, read a report about the meeting and voiced her approval. That vote of confidence inspired the group to hold more informal training sessions with residence dons and floor seniors.
Lorne Gretsinger, ConEd鈥92, was one of those dons. He says he appreciated the training, but he wasn鈥檛 quite ready to come out himself. 鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 come out at the time because it wasn鈥檛 a friendly environment,鈥 he says. Despite the efforts of Tatham, Veldhoven, and others, the homophobic roots still ran deep on campus. 鈥淭here would be posters that said, on a certain day, and no one would wear jeans that day.鈥
In addition to working as a don, Gretsinger was active in student government. 鈥淚 frame it that I delayed coming out by keeping myself busy,鈥 he says. 鈥淚 was with this great group of volunteers and student politicians who wanted to make things better, but I also knew there was a target on those who spoke out. Everyone knew Chris was gay. Everyone knew Nancy was a lesbian. There were insults and slurs behind their backs. I was not authentic to myself, but they were, and I was so impressed with how they were living and the leadership they showed. And I knew I was going to get there eventually.鈥
The 1990s
In the early 1990s, the Yukon became Canada鈥檚 first province or territory to grant spousal benefits to same-sex partners. And soon-to-be Prime Minister Kim Campbell lifted the ban on gays and lesbians in the Canadian Forces.
At Queen鈥檚, the QHA had adopted a more modern, inclusive name, the Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Association (LGBA). Still, the old attitudes prevailed 鈥 and not just on campus. Veldhoven, who by then was working in the Career Planning and Placement office, remembers a student who came to him for help. 鈥淚t was during the break and they and their partner lived in separate cities,鈥 he says. 鈥淭hey had a romantic conversation over the phone which they thought was private, but there were two phones in the household and one of their parents picked up the extension and overheard the conversation. The parent cut the student off financially, and the student asked me if I could write a letter of support to OSAP so they could survive and finish the year.鈥
Stacy Kelly, Artsci鈥93, was also struggling to find acceptance when he arrived at Queen鈥檚 in the early 1990s. 鈥淚 wasn鈥檛 really out, not even to myself,鈥 he says. 鈥淭hird year was especially difficult emotionally and, not surprisingly, academically.鈥 While homophobia still existed on campus, Kelly experienced a different side of the Queen鈥檚 community. 鈥淭he kindness of faculty and staff is what I will always remember,鈥 he says.
鈥淭he late Dr. Norman Brown 鈥 I took Greek and Medieval philosophy with him. He knew something was up and he called me out of the blue and invited me to his office to speak with him. I was trembling as I knocked on the door because I don鈥檛 like conflict, but he had a plate of cookies and a glass of milk sitting there and he just said, 鈥榃hat鈥檚 going on? How can I help?鈥 There were many people who showed me enormous graciousness and caring when I was flailing. That鈥檚 what made Queen鈥檚 home for me.鈥
Meanwhile, a storm was brewing on campus. 鈥淭here was a lot of outrage at that time around what was happening during Orientation Week,鈥 Tatham recalls. 鈥淭here was hazing, misogyny, homophobia.鈥
Elena Christopoulos, Artsci鈥10, remembers coming to Queen鈥檚 in the fall of 1991. 鈥淲e were driving down the 401 from Toronto,鈥 she says. 鈥淢y sister, who is 10 years younger than me, was in the car, and I remember my mother yelling, 鈥楲ook down. Don鈥檛 look out the window.鈥 There were banners on the highway, put up by Queen鈥檚 students, that said things like, 鈥楶arents, drop off your virgins. We鈥檙e going to take their virginity.鈥欌
Once she had settled on campus, Christopoulos experienced challenges. 鈥淚 wasn鈥檛 like everyone else,鈥 she said, 鈥渁nd people made that clear to me. I was teased a lot and shamed.鈥 In her third year, she was sexually assaulted and hospitalized. She left the university and didn鈥檛 return for 15 years. 鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 say the word 鈥楺ueen鈥檚鈥 without crying,鈥 she says.
Shortly after Christopoulos left, campus activists began making headway. By that time, LGBA volunteers had created a speakers鈥 bureau to provide training, both at Queen鈥檚 and throughout Kingston and the neighbouring communities. 鈥淲e had never done this before,鈥 Tatham says, 鈥渂ut we did a lot of research and put ourselves through grueling training and made ourselves available as speakers. We鈥檇 go in twos and threes wherever they would take us.鈥
By the middle of the decade, a group of volunteers, which included Tatham and Veldhoven, interviewed students to gain a better understanding of their experiences and developed more formal anti-homophobia and anti-heterosexism training and delivered it across campus.
In 1997, Veldhoven published the AMS-funded Your Queer Community, Queen鈥檚 (and Kingston鈥檚) first-ever guide to resources for 2SLGBTQ+ students, and a new climate of acceptance was slowly settling in. 鈥淲e were seeing more pink triangles and rainbows around campus and more people were identifying as queer or as allies,鈥 Tatham says. 鈥淓ven though Queen鈥檚 may have realized that it needed to pull up its boots, the changes were coming from the grassroots 鈥 students, student organizations, professors, and teaching assistants pushing for change.鈥
The 2000s
By the turn of the millennium, the Supreme Court of Canada had ruled that same-sex couples had the same rights as common-law heterosexual couples, and adoption was now legal for gay and lesbian couples in most provinces.
At Queen鈥檚, the LGBA had disbanded and was replaced by the , and Kelly had returned to campus to work in the Admissions and Recruitment office. And while students and faculty were on a visible path to progress, the haze of homophobia still lingered in some corners. 鈥淚 made a promise to myself in my workspace in Richardson Hall,鈥 Kelly says. 鈥淢y co-workers all had pictures of their spouses on their desks, and I promised myself I was going to put a picture of my boyfriend (now husband) on my desk, and if someone asked about it, I was going to tell the truth. And that鈥檚 what happened. Word got around, and someone said, 鈥業 really love working with you. It鈥檚 a shame you鈥檙e going to burn in hell.鈥 鈥
Kelly knew he had to respond, but he didn鈥檛 relish the thought of going through the traditional channels. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 want to navigate the terrible bureaucratic mess of filing a complaint,鈥 he says, 鈥渟o I decided to do something different.鈥 He helped launch QUAQE, the Queen鈥檚 University Association for Queer Employees. 鈥淚t took a while to get people to come out of the woodwork,鈥 he says, 鈥渂ut the reaction was great. People really liked knowing there was a community for them.鈥
As one of QUAQE鈥檚 early champions, Kelly found himself thrust into a leadership role. 鈥淢ostly, I just tried to be helpful,鈥 he says. 鈥淎 colleague would confide about their daughter coming out, that kind of thing. I tried to be a positive resource and a role model.鈥 That included writing an op-ed piece to promote QUAQE in the Queen鈥檚 Gazette in which he came out to the entire university. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 really intend to do that,鈥 he says. 鈥淚 was just learning to become visible. There were people who were much more visible than I was 鈥 Chris, Nancy, Marney McDiarmid 鈥 these people were my heroes. I was watching them and learning and finding my own way as an advocate.鈥
Dana Wesley, Artsci鈥09, MA鈥15, was also finding her way as an advocate during the first few years of the millennium. A member of the Moose Cree Nation who is bisexual and 2 Spirit, Wesley hadn鈥檛 seriously considered her sexuality before she arrived at Queen鈥檚. 鈥淚 had always had feelings and thoughts about all genders,鈥 she says, 鈥渂ut I didn鈥檛 express them. I repressed them. But once I found my communities at Queen鈥檚, I felt safe exploring what that meant to me.鈥
A former president of the Queen鈥檚 Native Students Association, Wesley divided her time between 2SLGBTQ+ and Indigenous causes during her 11 years on campus. 鈥淚 felt like I was a part of these smaller communities that were at Queen鈥檚, but not necessarily a part of Queen鈥檚,鈥 she says. 鈥淎nd that is not an isolated experience. I know a lot of racialized students and Indigenous students and other queer students and people who intersect all of those identities who felt the same way. We were at Queen鈥檚, but we didn鈥檛 feel we belonged.鈥
Wesley focused her activism on bringing the university鈥檚 queer and Indigenous communities together. 鈥淎 lot of it was having genuine conversations and helping to open up queer spaces within the Indigenous communities,鈥 she says, 鈥渂uilding understanding and eliminating barriers for queer and 2 Spirit students.鈥
Present day
Today marriage equality is a reality in Canada from coast to coast, and the right to gender identity and gender expression is enshrined under the Canadian Human Rights Act. Kathleen Wynne, Artsci鈥76, became Ontario鈥檚 first openly lesbian premier in 2013, and queer, trans, and 2 Spirit politicians now serve in leadership roles in provincial and municipal governments across the country.
As Canada and its cities and provinces became more welcoming, there was one segment of the Queen鈥檚 community that had yet to embrace the revolution. Although Tatham had been part of a couple of unofficial Homecoming events over the years, there was no official 2SLGBTQ+ presence in the Queen鈥檚 alumni community. 鈥淔ast forward to 2019,鈥 Kelly says. 鈥淎 few of us were rumbling around, wondering if, in the spirit of QUAQE, maybe there was something similar we could do on the alumni side. Could we create a positive advocacy space for Queen鈥檚 alumni?鈥 Later that year, the Queen鈥檚 Queer Alumni Chapter (QQAC) was born. The first official queer alumni event took place once in-person Homecoming returned from the pandemic hiatus in 2022. 鈥淚t was history-making,鈥 Kelly says. 鈥淧eople shared very openly and talked about their experiences. Now we鈥檙e looking to the future and wanting to solidify the chapter鈥檚 purpose around being a helpful bridge for queer, trans, and non-binary students.鈥
The QQAC is one of many services available to the Queen鈥檚 2SLGBTQ+ community today. In addition to EQuIP and QUAQE, there are safe, inclusive spaces in all six faculties and the School of Graduate Studies, supportive services available at Yellow House and the Four Directions Indigenous Student Centre, advocacy services through the , and Pride celebrations through Queen鈥檚 Pride.
鈥淭hings have definitely changed for the better in the 50 years since I was at Queen鈥檚,鈥 Gregg Blachford says. 鈥淚n many ways, we鈥檙e living in a different world.鈥
Nancy Tatham agrees. 鈥淚n the last 10 years, I鈥檝e seen that, when kids enter university, there鈥檚 a lot more acceptance than there used to be,鈥 she says. 鈥淣ow there are far more people on campus who are open and accepting of someone in their life who is gay or trans or bi.鈥
Lorne Gretsinger has also observed signs of progress. 鈥淲hen I come to campus and see the poster boards, it鈥檚 nice to see the diversity that鈥檚 here now,鈥 he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not just siloed in Grey House anymore.鈥 He is also encouraged by the make-up of the university鈥檚 volunteer leadership. 鈥淎s I look through the list of people on the University Council, I鈥檓 comforted, jazzed, actually, by the diversity of people who are now serving,鈥 he says.
One of those people is Elena Christopoulos, who was elected to University Council in 2022. 鈥淚 wanted to be honest that my experience at Queen鈥檚 was tough on my physical and mental health,鈥 she says. 鈥淨ueen鈥檚 has made it clear that they want to hear about my experience, and they want to use it to help them do better. Universities typically move very slowly, and I鈥檓 proud to see that Queen鈥檚 is moving quickly. They鈥檙e asking the tough questions and listening to the voices that had previously been silenced.鈥
鈥淭here is, increasingly, inclusive language and intentions in everything from job postings to the wording on assignments and exams and media releases,鈥 Tatham adds. 鈥淎nd then you look at things like land acknowledgements and identifying one鈥檚 pronouns below one鈥檚 email signature. Such things look and sound like lip service (and they are, for some), but, with time, they become commonplace, and they let more and more light in and redefine expectations.
Do I think it鈥檚 better? Absolutely. Now I can walk on campus and see same-sex couples casually holding hands in broad daylight. You didn鈥檛 see that 10 years ago. You definitely didn鈥檛 see it when I was a student. Queen鈥檚 has seen great change in the past three decades, but it鈥檚 not perfect. There is plenty of work needed for greater support for 2SLGBTQ+ members of the Queen鈥檚 community -- and beyond.鈥
Indeed, members of the larger Queen鈥檚 community are still occasionally prone to backsliding into destructive old habits, dredging up hurtful memories in those who were around to experience them decades ago and creating new hurtful memories for a new generation of 2SLGBTQ+ students, faculty, and staff. And Tatham, Veldhoven, Kelly, Gretsinger, Wesley, Christopoulos, and Blachford all agree that Queen鈥檚 can still do much more, especially for trans students, non-binary students, and BIPOC queer students.
鈥淲e have a huge opportunity to set the standard,鈥 Wesley says. 鈥淨ueen鈥檚 is seen as a leader in post-secondary education. That was drilled into us as undergrads. On our first day, they told us, 鈥榊ou鈥檙e the Harvard of the north. You鈥檙e the best of the best.鈥 So, let鈥檚 be the best of the best by setting the bar high and fighting for everyone in our community, making sure everyone feels accepted and welcome. Let鈥檚 do even more to show them that they belong here and that we鈥檙e happy they鈥檙e here.鈥
1The way members of the 2SLGBTQ+ community self-describe has evolved over the years. In the interest of inclusivity, we have chosen to use the contemporary term 鈥2SLGBTQ+鈥 throughout this story.
