LAURIE BARRON

PHILADELPHIA GAY LIBERATION FRONT, RADICALESBIANS

Barbara Gittings (left) and Laurie Barron (right) by unknown, 1974.

Laurie Barron was born in Philadelphia and came of age with an instinct to question authority and live authentically. By her teens, she was secretly reading lesbian literature, subscribing to homophile publications, and exploring the city’s hidden gay bars. She came out to her mother early in life, embraced activism, and went on to help organize Philadelphia’s first Pride march while becoming deeply involved in the Gay Liberation Front, Radicalesbians, and the women’s movement.

In 2017, after the United States political climate shifted, Laurie moved to Costa Rica and founded Rainbow Refuge in 2024, a haven for LGBTQ people—especially trans Americans—seeking safety. Though she once imagined retiring, at 77 she continues to champion love, courage, and community, carrying forward the spirit of liberation that has defined her life.

— August Bernadicou, Executive Director of The LGBTQ History Project

“I was born in Philadelphia at Einstein Southern hospital, which was known as the Jewish hospital. I recognized that Philadelphia was a big city, but as far as queer people, I didn't have any particular knowledge of the diversity, because it was a pretty hidden thing back then in the 1950s.

I realized I was different when I was three years old. I asked my mom if she could make me a boy. She said, ‘Darling, I can’t do that.’ She was pretty wonderful. When I was 11 or 12, she gave me a copy of The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall. I was a bookworm, and I devoured the book. I identified with the main character, and although I never said a word to her, I thought to myself, 'There are other people in this world like me. I'm not the only one.’

I was a tomboy. I was not particularly happy. I was very anti-authoritarian from an early age. I played baseball with the boys, and I was a fast runner. If I could just bunt a ball, then I would be at first base or second base. So, you know, I enjoyed those kinds of things. Rather than playing with dolls, I played with toy soldiers. I would have tanks and trucks and little soldiers, and then I had cowboys and Indians. I would take my blanket and just rumble it all up and make it look like there were caves and mountains. I placed the toys in it.

I wanted to hook up with my first-grade teacher. I wanted to go home with her. I first became aware, like around sixth, seventh grade, that I was attracted to women. I remember watching a show called Ben Casey, and everybody would swoon over Vince Edwards, the main character, but I swooned over Maggie. When I saw the movie El Cid—Charlton Heston was El Cid—I swooned over Sophia Loren. That was my life. When did I first hook up with a woman? I would say, when I was about 14 or 15, I got into some heavy petting with another girl.

I read a lot. I looked things up in the encyclopedia. I read really early homosexual literature when I was a youngster. I subscribed to magazines during my high school years. I subscribed to the Mattachine Society’s newsletter. I subscribed to ONE, Incorporated’s newsletter. I subscribed to the Daughters of Bilitis’ magazine called The Ladder. I had all those things come to my house in a plain brown envelope, and I would hide them behind the other books on my bookshelf.

At age 16, when I was able to drive, I drove into Center City from the northwest part of Philadelphia, and I went around and around the block, trying to find Rusty’s, a lesbian bar. I just wanted to see what the lesbians looked like. I was never able to find it back then, but the first time I did find it, I tried to get in, and they kicked me out the door. I was way underage.

Laurie Barron (left) and Marcea Rosen (right) by unknown, 1975.

Not much later, when I became a gay activist, I went back home for the weekend, and I brought with me a copy of George Weinberg’s Society and the Healthy Homosexual, and I gave it to my mom, and I said, ‘You know, you might want to read this. It's very interesting.’ She went into her room. I went into my old bedroom, and I heard her saying things like, ‘Oh, bullshit. This is crap.’ I thought, ‘Oh, my God, this is going to be so hard,’ because I had come home that weekend to come out to her.

The next day, I said, ‘Mom, we have to talk.’ We sat down, and I said, ‘This is really hard for me to say.’ And she said, ‘What is it, darling? Is it about your lifestyle?’ I said, ‘What do you know about my lifestyle?’ She said, ‘The fact that you're a lesbian.’ I said, ‘You know that for a fact?’ She said, ‘Honey, I've known since you were five years old.’ And my immediate response was, ‘Why didn't you tell me and save me all kinds of grief all these years?’ But she was pretty wonderful and accepting—my father, not so much so.

Most gay women, I would say, in the 50s and early 60s, considered themselves as covered by the gay mantle. In time, it changed. Women’s voices weren't heard as much. So that's where lesbian separatism came from—we were just excluded from gay presence. We’d walk into a gay bar, and the men, in their swivel chairs, would turn around and look, and then swivel back. We were not welcome, and we were treated as secretaries: ‘Oh, Hun, can you get me a cup of coffee?’ You know, men know how to make coffee.

It was an important moment in my life when I went to my first Radicalesbian meeting. I volunteered to staff the phone line at the Women's Center, because that was like—I wanted to do it on Monday nights when Radicalesbians met, so I could get a look at who was coming and was going, and before long, I wasn't staffing the desk anymore. I was going to the meetings. That’s when things blossomed. It was electric. It was just a very exciting time to be alive.

The Philadelphia Inquirer, which is the newspaper of record in Philadelphia, refused to put in a classified ad that said gay and lesbian. So we had advertised it as—I don't know how we advertised it, but we managed to sneak it in. Carol Friedman used her phone number, and she would get all kinds of hang-ups and nasty calls. You can imagine, this was a first in Philly—our first public outreach there. Carol and her partner had cats, and some guy called up and said, ‘I want to eat your pussy,’ and Carol went, ‘Diane, hide the cats.’ I will never forget that.”