Unification for Self-Protection: A Guide to Queer Resistance During the Lavender Scare

Ella Patterson is a political science and history major, class of 2027. Ella is one of our 2025 Human Rights Summer Research Grant winners and a featured guest blogger. Grant winners will be sharing an inside look into their experiences on the Duke Human Rights Blog this summer and fall as part of our Student Stories: Summer Research Series. Read Ella's first blog post from earlier this summer, History Repeats, Resistance Persists: Lessons from the Lavender Scare.

This summer, I researched how queer people resisted in one of the most dangerous yet understudied eras in US history for LGBTQ communities: the Lavender Scare. Throughout the many personal archives, literary publications, news articles, and other primary sources I examined, a handful of consistent patterns emerged. From these patterns, I developed key “steps for resistance” as a way to highlight how ordinary people created strategies for survival and solidarity in the face of systemic persecution.

Step 1: Know Your Landscape

You live in a world where being openly queer could cost you your job, your home, and your safety.

The 1950s–70s were not just conservative years—they were also treacherous ones. The Lavender Scare, intertwined with the Red Scare, extended Cold War fears of “subversives” by targeting queer people as alleged security risks, costing thousands their federal jobs.

This homophobia and unwarranted fear did not stop with the federal government; it permeated into everyday life. The actions of the federal government emboldened the public, and especially the police, to act on their homophobia under the guise of “defending America.”

In that climate, not everyone could pick up a protest sign. Many people were not out to their family or friends and risked losing their homes, jobs, or even their freedom. Resistance needed to be creative, quiet, and smart.

Step 2: Party With Your People

You need a place where you can laugh, dance, and breathe without fear…at least for a night.

Public protest might get you arrested; being at a queer bar could get you arrested too, but it also offers something rarer: a place to connect with people like you. In an era when queerness is seen as a criminal act and a moral disease, simply sharing a drink or a dance with another queer person is an act of defiance.

Despite the fear of police raids, nightlife was an essential part of queer culture during this period. The law might label these places as dens of “immorality,” but to those inside, they were classrooms in survival and identity. In the dim light of a club or the backroom of a bar, people traded advice about which lawyers would fight entrapment charges, which neighborhoods were safer, and where police had just raided.

In San Francisco, the Black Cat Bar was one of the most beloved gathering spots for queer people. Known for its cabaret

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 acts, political chatter, and diverse clientele, it stood out not only as a place for community but as a site of legal resistance. When the California State Board of Equalization suspended the Black Cat’s liquor license on the grounds that it served gay customers, owner Sol Stoumen refused to accept the decision quietly. He sued the state, and in 1951 the California Supreme Court ruled in his favor, declaring that simply serving queer people did not constitute an illegal act. That victory made it harder for the state to shut down bars simply for serving queer people.

The heart of the Black Cat was José Sarria, a Latino drag queen who performed opera spoofs for the patrons. Beyond just performing, Sarria stood up to police extortion and encouraged bargoers to resist police entrapment and to plead not guilty to charges as opposed to giving in quietly. After his shows, he led the audience down the block to the city jail to sing “God Save Us Nellie Queens” to the queer people in jail.

Beyond simply providing an inclusive “home away from home” where queer people could practice quiet acts of resistance, spaces like the Black Cat became forums for collective learning and platforms for advocates like José Sarria to launch what would become lifelong journeys of activism.

Step 3: Listen Between the Lines

You don’t just listen to music…you use it.

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A lyric can travel where overt protests can’t, slipping under the radar of censors and police. Change a pronoun, layer in a double meaning, or deliver a line with a knowing emphasis, and suddenly a love song becomes a coded message to your community.

Queer performers during the Lavender Scare era mastered the art of slipping queer meaning into their songs. This “coded” music often took the form of comedic or parody songs, where humor made the subtext safer to deliver and easier to disguise.

Frances Faye, for example, would ad-lib during her jazz performances to hint at her sexuality. While singing “The Man I Love,” she once quipped, “The man, the man, THE MAN? What am I saying that for?” She often replaced the name of the male love interest in songs with that of her girlfriend. Straight patrons could enjoy the performance without catching on, while queer audience members reveled in their connection to the singer.

Whether on a cabaret stage, a lounge piano, or a record spinning in someone’s living room, music carried solidarity, humor, and quiet defiance into spaces where open speech was dangerous.

Step 4: Build Your Network—In Person and in Print

You need more than courage; you need a community with skills, knowledge, and connections. Some allies you’ll meet face-to-face in living rooms, church basements, or borrowed offices; others, you’ll encounter only through the words printed in a magazine.

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The Mattachine Society, one of the first queer organizations in the US, was built for both connection and protection. Founder Harry Hay recalled that the “founding five” organized it like a revolutionary cell: members in different “guilds” didn’t know one another, no photographs were taken, and nothing was ever written down that could be seized by the FBI. Some newcomers were even blindfolded and driven in circles before being brought to a meeting.

This secrecy created a safe space for the Society’s members to shift away from their mindsets, imbued with internalized

 homophobia, formed under constant repression in the outside world. “For years we had been told that we were sick and criminal…it was important to establish another word for ourselves, one that would combat the negative images,” Hay recalled in an interview.

The Society’s publication, the Mattachine Review, became a lifeline for members and isolated readers across the country. It offered political commentary, legal updates, and affirmations of identity at a time when most mainstream coverage portrayed homosexuality as deviant. Through its pages, people like Jim Kepner, who remembered his first Society meeting as the moment he decided “No more hiding! No more damned hiding!”, could share experiences and encourage others to join the fight.

Whether whispered in a secret meeting or printed on a page, these connections reminded queer people that they were not alone, and that together, they could imagine a world beyond fear.

Some Closing Thoughts

As this is my final blog post, I want to reflect on what I’ve learned this summer. Studying the Lavender Scare and the many acts of resistance has been inspiring. The queer community is again under attack today, but history shows us that resistance worked then, and it can work again now.

At the top of this post are two photos of Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon, the founders of the Daughters of Bilitis (“DOB”, the first lesbian organization in the US). The first was taken in their early DOB days in the 1950s, and the second in 2008, when they became the first same-sex couple to be married in San Francisco. More than fifty years separated those moments, reminding us that while change can be slow, it is always possible.

If there’s one lesson I’ll carry forward from my research, it’s that resistance takes many forms; it could be a dance at the club, a hand-passed newsletter, or even two women building a life together against the odds.

Whatever your tactic, use it—and keep the fight alive.

Human Rights Summer Research Grant winners will be sharing an inside look into their experiences on the Duke Human Rights Blog this summer and fall as part of our Student Stories: Summer Research Series. Follow Duke Human Rights Center on social media and sign up for our newsletter to keep up with this series. Look out for part 2 of Ella's research experience later this summer!

Image Citations:

Top image:

Marcus, Eric. “Phyllis Lyon & Del Martin.” Making Gay History. November 30, 2017.

Black Cat Bar Image:

Carlsson, Chris. “The Black Cat Cafe.” Found SF, Shaping San Francisco. Accessed August 10, 2025.

Frances Faye Image:

Petkanas, Christopher. “Frances Faye.” Fabulous Dead People, New York Times Style Magazine. July 12, 2010.

Mattachine Society Image:

“The Mattachine Review,” May 1 1959. Pride Museum Plus. Accessed August 18 2025. Pride Museum, Cleveland.