On the other side of the movement are the smaller, grassroots gay groups. Often run by passionate, unpredictable volunteers who want to stir up the status quo, these groups say they are not seen as friendlies by Gay Inc., even though they also are trying to win equal rights.
"The folks in the national organizations have been all about controlling what's going on and stifling independent, grassroots action," says Jones, who began working in the gay rights movement in 1972. "They don't really understand what a social movement is."
PHOTO BY PATRICK RANGE MCDONALD
Geoff Kors, departing director of Equality California
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Jones, Bottini and other longtime activists note that Gay Inc. grew out of the AIDS crisis of the 1980s and '90s, when the gay community, out of necessity, formally organized itself, started nonprofits and obtained money from government and private funders to take care of sick and dying gay men. The model worked: The nonprofits got access to money and power while the more outsider, grassroots groups such as ACT UP demonstrated in the streets.
Equality California and others soon patterned themselves after the nonprofit model of the AIDS era. But instead of delivering health-care services, Gay Inc. promised donors a fight for full equal rights. As a result, "checkbook activism," as it's often called, replaced much of the knocking on doors, holding rallies, creating coalitions with other groups and keeping politicians publicly accountable.
Over the years, the Gay Inc. model has created deepening problems. "People sign checks to the large gay organizations and then they go away," Bottini explains. "Now we handle only one big issue at a time. Back in the day, we could handle more than one issue because we'd have different grassroots groups working on different issues."
One result is that groups like Equality California and the Human Rights Campaign don't stand up to the Democratic politicians they've long courted.
Says Bottini, "You don't want some grassroots group protesting a politician's office if you're trying to court him. But that's the thing that gets politicians to move, and big organizations don't understand that."
Richard Zaldivar, a longtime gay rights- and AIDS activist who founded The Wall — Las Memorias Project on L.A.'s Eastside in 1993, dreams of "a movement of many people, and not a supper club–type of movement," referring to the black-tie fundraisers the big groups rely on. "The decisions now in the movement seem to be coming from the people with money."
With money and power on the line, Gay Inc., including Equality California, has carved out political turf that has meant turning against the noisier — and some say far more tuned in — grassroots gay groups.
"There are numerous examples of Equality California trying to usurp [a grassroots group] and then kill it," says McGehee, who heads Fresno-based Get Equal.
In 2004, Kors and Equality California teamed up with an emerging grassroots group called Marriage Equality California. It ended badly for MECA leaders Molly McKay and L.J. Carusone, who saw their mission shelved after the merger — but the move helped turn Equality California into the lobbying and money-raising powerhouse it is today.
In 2000, McKay and Carusone founded the modest Marriage Equality California, three years before a group known as California Alliance for Pride and Equality took the similar name Equality California. "MECA was one of the sole grassroots groups to push for marriage equality," says McKay, an attorney who's now the media director of Marriage Equality U.S.A.
MECA was launched as a reaction to voter passage of Proposition 22, the "Knight Initiative," which in 2000 banned same-sex marriage in California. It was struck down by the California State Supreme Court in 2008. "A lot of us who fought Proposition 22 were very unhappy with how that was fought," Carusone tells the Weekly. "There was so much anger and fallout after Proposition 22."
McKay worked in Northern California and Carusone in Southern California, helping activists start local chapters. "There was a long period of time when we struggled to get the [gay] community to care about marriage," McKay recalls.
Then, in February 2004, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom made headlines globally after he directed the city-county clerk to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples. McKay and her wife, Davina Kotulski, were among those married at San Francisco City Hall. MECA suddenly began to draw massive interest from the press and the gay community, and McKay emerged as a national spokeswoman for legal same-sex marriage.
She soon got a phone call from Geoff Kors, and they talked about working together. "We were always limited by a lack of resources," McKay recalls. "We thought we'd get more for the grass roots."
Two months later, McKay and Carusone joined the Equality California staff. Marriage Equality California, in their eyes, would be a "project" funded by Equality California and encouraged to expand its grassroots organizing. McKay, who's hesitant to come down too hard on Kors and Equality California for what happened next, calls the move a "merger."
Carusone doesn't pick his words so carefully. "There was a hostile takeover by Equality California," he recalls. "They promised to give us money and help us build our chapters. But they weren't able to deliver."