Interviewing Tom Wilson

By Al Preston

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            It’s the end of a really amazing lecture about Pittsburgh’s Thursday Night Live, a 1980s organization and social club that was by and for gay men in Pittsburgh. It became an activist organization that brought educators and resources to Pittsburgh about the AIDS crisis, something affecting every member’s life.

            The speaker was Tim Ziaukas, a founding member of Thursday Night Live and someone I’d spoken to early on in our attempts to collect oral histories. In fact, that week, Silas and I were planning on interviewing him on the weekend.

            Most of the questions for Tim are coming from the older folks that make up the majority of the crowd. One or two of the younger folks ask questions. Then there’s a question from the back of the room. A young man about my age asking Tim; “how do you organize the gays at your workplace?”

            Tim gives a relatively vague answer because it is a hard question. It depends on the place and the people. As Tim moves on, I just manage to see the guy’s face before he sits down. My first through as I turn back around is; “I’ve gotta talk to that guy.”

            Up until this point, I have been so focused on hearing from the queer elders of Pittsburgh that I’d almost forgotten that there were many other people I wanted to talk to. There were groups I wanted to reach, and the younger folks were one of the main groups, despite how diverse that group could be.

            As the talk ends, Silas and I hurry to talk to some of the older folks that are there to introduce ourselves and get their contact information for later. As we’re trying to figure out if there’s anyone else we want to talk to, I spy the young guy again. Instantly. I’m pushing Silas forward. Talking to my elders is far easier for me than talking to people my own age.

            Thankfully, Silas is a bit more personable than me and introduces us. The guy seems happy to talk to us, happily introducing himself as Tom. We kind of fumble what we’re talking to him about, this is new to us. Thus far, we’ve only been talking to older people. We need to work on our elevator pitch, but thankfully Tom seems interested regardless.

            Once comfortable, I ask Tom about his question. He works in nuclear power and with current and former navy. He’s been trying to organize his fellow queer co-workers but tells us they’re acting like ‘Don’t-ask, Don’t-tell’ is still in place.

            I’m not overly surprised. We will be feeling the effects of ‘Don’t-ask, Don’t-tell’ for a long time. That policy was a ‘solution’ for queer people who were or wanted to be in the military. For decades, the military discriminated against queer people, systematically and cruelly discharging them dishonorably. That prevented them from gaining any of the benefits the government and military could have given them once they were back home.

            It was a huge betrayal for many LGBT+ organizations who fought long and hard to get George W. Bush into the presidency because he promised to fix this particular issue and multiple others. To his credit, he did try, but the military and many members of the government didn’t make it easy. Just recently was it repealed and those who had been dishonorably discharged in the past were given honorable discharges instead.

            ‘Don’t-ask, Don’t-tell’ created a whole new kind of closet for queer folks. They could lose everything if they were found to be queer. Even if no one was to ask and they weren’t to tell, if they were found out they suffered abuse until they left on their own or some other kind of dishonorable discharge could have been applied to them.

            Tom, not military himself, wanted to make his coworkers feel safe to be out, that they wouldn’t get in trouble and have community. However, he wasn’t sure how. What would work at a gay bar or pride parade wouldn’t exactly be work appropriate.

            I jumped on the chance. I have an idea of how to help, and I have an idea of where Tom’s experiences could fit in this project we’re currently working on. We got his contact information and a few days later, I text him. I ask if he’d be willing to do an oral history with me.

            Originally, we wanted written entries from the queer youth of Pittsburgh (and we still do!), but it’s occurring to me that we need their voices just as much as the elders. The way ‘Don’t-ask, Don’t-tell’ has affected his life and the life of his coworkers is a struggle I’ve read about. Times have changed, but I suspect that some of the base struggles we face in life may be eerily similar. Thankfully Tom agreed and we set up a time to meet at Duquesne University’s oral history lab.

Thus far, the one thing I’ve learned about Pittsburgh is that the queer community is wide and divided, without knowing it. There isn’t an official place for them to gather, no bars solely theirs. Multiple organizations that aren’t welcome to every single LGBT+ person. They don’t know their past; they’re grouped in small little pockets across the city.

Our project isn’t complete without younger voices who are expressing the same worries as other young folk and even their elders. They’re trying to reach each other but failing to connect to solve those issues or at least commiserate together. Pittsburgh’s LGBT+ community is rather quiet, after all.

As I rush over to Duquesne after work to set up before Tom gets there, I’m reminded why I’m here, what I want to do. There’s two pieces to this interview. I want Tom’s story, his thoughts and worries and struggles. I want to hear what he’s thinking.

The second part is the bit I’m good at. If there’s anything I can do, it’s talk about history. If the young folks I’m interviewing don’t know their past and are expressing interest in it or in how to organize, how to build a community, I can tell them what I know.

When Tom arrives, he’s unsure how much he should talk, how long winded he should be. I reassure him to be as long winded as he wants. He tells me about his identity, how he views the community, what he thinks about what’s been going on. All I can hear are the similar struggles faced by the elders I’ve interviewed and the oral histories I’ve read. The same stressors, the same fears, the same worries.

I can’t help but think we’re entering a new wave of our history. Despite a rather famous saying, history does not repeat, but it does echo.

As we finish up all my questions for Tom, I’m suddenly nervous. I’ve read and written a bunch about the queer history of the United States, but I’m terrified I don’t know enough. I don’t know what he’s going to ask. I don’t know if I’ll say the right things. Then Tom asks me about Pittsburgh’s queer history, and it all comes flowing out.

Not just Pittsburgh’s story, but how it fits into the larger pieces that’s the rest of the nation. Nothing is in a vacuum after all, and place matters. Pittsburgh has a deeply invisible history that even activists from other cities critiqued, but it is a unique city. As I weave this story I didn’t even know I knew, we both learn something.

Tom is amazed at what he never knew, the collective memory of events or the buried figures who did so much. I realize how much work there is to do. To tell the city its own story. To correct misconceptions. To give the community somewhere where everyone can feel welcome.

I think—hope—we both walked away from that interview with something worthwhile. I know I did.