Legacy Magazine

By Kelly Farrell

Four statues in a park forever changed my life.

Statues are everywhere. In cities around the world, public squares and buildings are filled with monumental sculptures honoring individuals or representing historic moments. How many times do we walk right past, paying them little or no attention?

One day last summer, though, four statues spoke to me. I’m not talking about those mime-like performance artists who paint their faces and pretend to be sculptures, delighting tourists with unexpected interaction. No, I’m actually referring to bronze-cast, life-sized human replicas, whose placement and message overwhelmed me in a way I did not anticipate.

It was my first visit to New York City, and I had one free day to spend with my best buddy who lives there. Micah crammed our schedule full of essential experiences: We did the fun stuff—Central Park, Rockefeller Center, Times Square, the Brooklyn Bridge—and also toured more solemn historic sites like Ground Zero and Battery Park.

If this were your day, what do you think would be most memorable? For me, every place on the itinerary was more surreal and moving than I could have imagined, but an unplanned venture produced the most powerful moments: When we happened upon tiny Christopher Park, in the heart of the Greenwich Village Historic District, I walked in with no expectation of the interpretive experience I was about to have.

The moment I realized where we stood, and saw the four statues, I was instantly lost in a memory from a decade ago:

“Mom, Dad, there’s something I want you to know…”

These words have been the start of countless conversations in homes everywhere. Chances are that you’ve said them, for any number of reasons, perhaps to announce a pregnancy, share news of a job offer, or ask for help in facing addiction.

For me, the words that followed that opening statement…eventually…after a long, awkward silence and deep, courage-gathering breath, were, “I’m gay.”

It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done.

I sat tense, flinching almost. Heart thumping. Mind racing. Already I was exhausted. Months of mental rehearsal had left me spent. It took tremendous energy to prepare for this evening. There was no question of my identity—of that I was sure—but everything else about this dialogue was left to uncertainty. On sleepless nights, I’d stand out under the stars, praying for guidance and wondering about possible outcomes.

Mostly I prepared for anger and rejection. Sitting at my parents’ kitchen table, I awaited their censure. I was ready for words like “regret” and “disappointment.” I expected yelling—or worse, silence—or perhaps even an invitation to leave.

I worried too much. Mom and Dad fumbled for words, but generally made an effort to communicate a loving response. They didn’t understand it, but they were willing to try. I wish all my coming out stories had gone this well.

I chose to come out to my parents. It was a purposeful act of audacity. I would tell them myself, on my own terms, in my own time.

Avoiding the topic, I reasoned, would create an uncomfortable, ever-growing “elephant in the room.” Worse, I feared they might get the news as hearsay from others. Either situation might force them into confronting me about it, putting me on the defensive and likely sending a message that I felt guilt or shame for being who I am.

Initiating the conversation, then, was a proactive move, allowing me to share my identity in a positive light, to literally say, “This is who I am, I’m comfortable in my skin, I am not ashamed, and I have found love.”

***

“A penny for your thoughts.” Micah’s quiet voice brought me back to the present. We tended to explore places separately, each wandering at our own pace. When he looked across the park, though, and saw me crumpled on a park bench with tears streaming down my face, it was time to talk.

“I’m a professional interpreter.” I replied, “The work I do is about real people and real places and real purpose. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve seen thousands of interpretive exhibits and commemorative sculptures.

“But this,” I lightly laid my palm over two statues’ hands, “is the only time I’ve encountered public interpretation of this story.”

You see, Christopher Park is adjacent to the Stonewall Inn, where an uprising in 1969 is credited with igniting the gay civil rights movement. According to the New York City Department of Parks & Recreation:

On June 28, 1969, there was rioting on Christopher Street when police raided the Stonewall Inn, a popular gay establishment, in order to curb liquor law violations. Over the next few days, in what is known as the Stonewall Rebellion, several thousand rioters filled the streets to protest the police action. Thereafter, Christopher Park became a symbol of the gay liberation movement.”

Thirty years later, the Stonewall Inn, Christopher Park, and the surrounding neighborhood streets were placed on the New York State Register of Historic Places and added to the National Register. Among the 70,000 listings in the National Register, Stonewall was “the first such historic site recognizing the national significance and contributions of lesbians and gay men,” said M. John Berry, assistant secretary of the Department of the Interior. “Let it forever be remembered,” Berry declared, “That here–on this spot–men and women stood proud, they stood fast, so that we may be who we are, we may work where we will, live where we choose and love whom our hearts desire.”

In 1992, sculptor George Segal witnessed the public installation of his work, four statues collectively titled “Gay Liberation Monument.” Set in Christopher Park, the piece features two standing males and two seated females. Their positions seem comfortable, suggesting deep discussion and revealing the most simple, yet poignant displays of affection—a touch on the shoulder, a brush of two hands. Segal’s style was noted to be “specific, evocative, and understated, showing the public comfort and freedom to which the gay liberation movement aspired.”

Persons who identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgendered (commonly referred to as LGBT) are often referred to as a “community,” but does such a thing even exist? There are no unifying interests, values, or politics among all LGBT people. Some suggest that having a minority gender identity or sexual orientation are the common threads, but even those concepts exist on a spectrum, making them tough to define in the broadest terms of “community.”

Despite significant cultural changes following Stonewall, many LGBT people in America still live in isolation, in fear of trusting others, and in conflict about how to find—let alone exist in—anything they can call a community. Others completely eschew an LGBT community, preferring to live completely assimilated lives in their larger circles of citizenship. They see this as a more effective strategy for being perceived and accepted as normal. Collectively, we seek a wide range of ideals in advocating for civil rights, finding companionship, forming families, and establishing homes.

What makes a community, anyway? Certainly it exists when people live in geographic areas like neighborhoods and towns. It is built around common interests, such as sports, vocations, or hobbies. It surely occurs where values are a foundation for fellowship, like in churches, charities, and political groups. Community even forms in the face of shared experiences or adversity, as with medical or mental health support groups.

This last category lends the strongest evidence that community exists when people actively recognize a shared life experience. Of course I can’t speak for all LGBT persons, but I believe that there is just a single salient event—encountering the moment of revelation about our identities—that gives us any semblance of belonging in community with each other. “What we perhaps have at the core,” writes poet Judy Grahn, “is an uncanny ability to identify with what we are not, to die as one form and return as another.”

Following this deeply personal revelation, LGBT persons face the challenge of navigating life, but no two courses chart the same. We must decide, a thousand times every day, whether to hide or be real. It’s a complicated, often weary, journey of measuring others’ attitudes and anticipating their reactions. Will we speak truth, or is it easier, smarter, safer to just acquiesce to the majority?

Is it any wonder, then, that so many universal, yet conflicting emotions—pride, hope, fear, frustration, anger—are tied to the LGBT community? Is it any wonder that America hears so little of this community story through interpretation at museums, historical sites, and other interpretive places?

Is it any wonder that I was overwhelmed at seeing myself reflected for the first time in those Christopher Park statues?

It’s obvious why this resource held inherent meaning for me: Freeman Tilden’s first principle of interpretation was in effect. “The visitor’s chief interest is in whatever touches his personality, his experience and his ideals.” When I found a place telling an oft-overlooked part of my story, guess what? I was intrigued. My life is not solely defined by my sexual orientation, but it is constantly tempered by it.

In fact, my experience at Christopher Park is a model for Tilden’s exact definition of interpretation, which “aims to reveal meanings and relationships through the use of original objects, by firsthand experience, and by illustrative media, rather than simply to communicate factual information.”

The original object was the actual park, and me standing there was firsthand experience. I met “the Thing Itself,” according to Tilden. “Whether it be a wonder of Nature’s work, or the act or work of Man…To pay a personal visit to a historic shrine is to receive a concept such as no book can supply.”

Then there was illustrative media, both textual and artistic. The signage, well written and placed, forged intellectual connections by going beyond dates and data. Instead, the panels told a story, helping me understand the site’s context in history and culture. “Interpretation is the revelation of a larger truth,” wrote Tilden, “that lies behind any statement of fact.”

It was the statues, though, that forged the strongest interpretive connection and elicited my overwhelming emotional reaction. Tilden said good interpretation is about “exposing the soul” of a place, revealing “those truths that lie beyond” what physically exists before our eyes. In their comfortable, easygoing poses, the statues represented a way of life that I have long sought: to be authentic. When I stood among them, I felt a strong sense of belonging. These people would understand my angst in coming out to my parents and dealing with life every day since then. For a moment, through interpretation, I found community.

Tilden suggests that the final measure of success is when interpretation “aims not to do something to the listener, but to provoke the listener to do something to himself.” Right then, I resolved to keep living like those statues, who so quietly, yet candidly, sent such a strong message. I shy from being flashy or loud, but sincerely am myself—present, open, honest, and loving. I do wear a ring symbolizing commitment to my partner of 14 years. I do share my story when it can help set the tone for positive communication. My aim is not that others think or feel the same as me, but I do answer Tilden’s challenge, encouraging anyone in my company “to do some thinking about [things] himself…. His horizon cannot fail to be widened.”

In my career as an interpreter, I have long believed that when we do our work well, we create opportunities for visitors to move from understanding, to appreciation, to protection of cultural and natural resources. Now, because of outstanding interpretive design in Christopher Park, I am more motivated than ever to be effective. I’ve found I work harder at fostering a sense of belonging for visitors. I am more conscious about relating to their lives, helping them to have firsthand experiences, and using effective illustrative media that connects with their minds and hearts.

I was serious when I said those statues spoke to me. An encounter with community-based interpretation changed my life when I least expected it. Will it change yours?

Kelly Farrell is an NAI Certified Heritage Interpreter and Trainer based in Little Rock, Arkansas. Reach her at kelly.c.farrell@gmail.com.