UNERASING LGBTQ HISTORY AND IDENTITIES PODCAST SEASON 8 EPISODE 5

Published June 3rd, 2026

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TRANSCRIPT

Deb Fowler: Hello, and welcome to UnErasing LGBTQ History and Identities — A Podcast.  I’m Deb Fowler, co-founder of History UnErased.

 

Imagine risking your job, your family, your reputation, and even arrest, simply to spend an evening with people like yourself.

 

In the 1950s, a group of women in San Francisco did exactly that. At a time when lesbians were labeled immoral, denied employment, and subjected to police surveillance, they gathered behind closed curtains and locked doors to find community in a society determined to keep them invisible. But they didn’t stay behind closed doors for long. Take it away, Kathleen! 

 

Kathleen Barker: To understand the Daughters of Bilitis, we have to understand America in the 1950s. This was the era of the Cold War. Conformity was celebrated, and difference was feared. The federal government carried out what historians now call the “Lavender Scare,” purging suspected gay men and lesbians from government jobs. Gay bars were routinely raided by police, and newspapers published names and addresses of arrested patrons. Psychiatrists still classified “homosexuality” as a mental illness (which they would do until 1973!). 

 

For lesbians, isolation could be especially intense. There were very few public spaces where women who loved women could meet safely. Bars existed, but they were regularly raided by police. Many women risked losing custody of children, employment, or housing if they were exposed. In that climate, simply finding community became a radical act.

 

But in the fall of 1955, in a modest home in San Francisco, history quietly began to change.

 

 The idea didn’t come from a famous politician or a wealthy activist. It came from a working-class Filipina woman named Rosalie “Rose” Bamberger. Rose had a simple but radical idea for her time: create a private social club where lesbian women could safely gather, dance, and build community in a society that often treated them as invisible, or worse, criminal.

 

On September 21, 1955, four couples gathered at the home Rose shared with her partner, Rosemary Sliepen. Around that living room sat future pioneers of LGBTQ history: Rose and Rosemary; Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon; Marcia Foster and her partner June; and Noni Frey with her partner Mary. Together, they laid the foundation for what would become the Daughters of Bilitis, the first national lesbian rights organization in the United States.

 

What makes this story so powerful is that Rose and Rosemary weren’t famous activists or well-known public figures. They were working-class women putting in long hours at brush-manufacturing factories. They weren’t trying to make headlines or become symbols of a movement. What they wanted was much simpler: safety, friendship, community, and the chance to live with dignity in a world that often denied them all four. From that small, private gathering in a living room, something extraordinary began to grow. What started as a quiet social club would eventually help spark a movement that changed American history.

 

But in those early years, going public felt far too risky for many of the working-class women involved. As the Daughters of Bilitis began moving toward greater visibility, Rose, Rosemary, and others stepped away. Instead, they helped create more private, secretive spaces for lesbians to connect safely. Organizations such as Quatrefoil, which was composed largely of working-class mothers and their partners, and Hale Aikane provided more discreet options for gathering and socializing. (Fun fact: the word Aikāne  means intimate friends of the same sex in traditional Hawaiian culture.)

 

Speaking of names, you might be wondering: where did the name Daughters of Bilitis actually come from? Well, “Bilitis” came from The Songs of Bilitis, a collection of poems written by the French author Pierre Louÿs. In the book, Bilitis was a fictional character described as a contemporary of the ancient Greek poet Sappho, who, of course, has long been associated with love between women. The name also worked as a clever secret code. Some lesbians at the time would recognize the literary reference immediately, but to most outsiders, it sounded harmless and obscure enough not to attract unwanted attention. In the 1950s, that kind of subtlety mattered a lot.

 

Within just a year, the Daughters of Bilitis began changing from a small private social club into a political and educational organization.

 

The women involved realized that most lesbians at the time had grown up without ever hearing anything positive about themselves. Schools didn’t talk about them. Churches condemned them. Newspapers either ignored them or treated them like a scandal. So the DOB decided they needed to do more than simply provide a safe place to meet. They wanted to educate lesbians about themselves, challenge harmful stereotypes, push for legal reform, and create support systems for people who felt isolated.

 

And so, the Daughters of Bilitis became part of the broader “homophile movement,” one of the earliest organized efforts advocating for the rights and social acceptance of gay and lesbian individuals in the United States. The terminology itself was intentional. Activists adopted the term “homophile” to emphasize love, companionship, and emotional connection rather than sexuality. This was a strategic attempt to present same-sex relationships in terms that would appear less threatening to mainstream American society during the conservative political and cultural climate of the 1950s.

 

The DOB frequently collaborated with the Mattachine Society, another influential early homophile organization founded in Los Angeles in the early 1950s. While the Mattachine Society focused primarily on the experiences and rights of gay men, some women also participated in its activities. The organization sponsored discussion groups, challenged police harassment, and encouraged members of the LGBTQ community to view themselves as a minority group entitled to civil rights protections. The Daughters of Bilitis and the Mattachine Society often shared activists, meeting spaces, and organizational strategies, reflecting the interconnected nature of early homophile activism.

 

The political strategies adopted by these organizations were generally cautious and encouraged assimilation with so-called mainstream society. Both the DOB and the Mattachine Society frequently promoted what scholars now describe as respectability politics. Members were encouraged to dress conservatively, conduct themselves carefully in public, and present themselves as responsible and productive citizens deserving equal treatment under the law.

 

At the same time, tensions existed within these alliances. Many lesbians believed that the male-dominated homophile organizations did not fully address or understand women’s experiences. In later years, some activists also criticized the DOB for aligning too closely with male-led gay rights organizations rather than pursuing a more distinctly feminist or separatist political framework. These tensions reflected broader debates about gender, leadership, and political strategy that would continue to shape LGBTQ activism throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

 

In 1956, the Daughters of Bilitis launched what would become one of the most influential lesbian publications in American history: The Ladder.  Edited initially by Phyllis Lyon under the pen name “Ann Ferguson,” the magazine became the first nationally distributed lesbian publication in the United States. More than a magazine, The Ladder became a forum for community-building, education, and early lesbian activism. 

 

The publication covered a wide range of topics, from news and editorials to reader letters, poetry, fiction, book reviews, and interviews. It also tackled legal, psychological, and social issues affecting lesbians. In its early years, The Ladder focused on respectability and assimilation, encouraging readers to better understand themselves, participate in research, and challenge stereotypes about homosexuality. As the years went on, however, the magazine took on a more activist tone. Later editors embraced feminist ideas, pushed back against claims that homosexuality was a mental illness, and called for greater visibility and political engagement. 

 

Because discrimination was so common, many writers used pseudonyms to protect themselves from losing jobs, facing harassment, or being rejected by family and friends. Among the magazine's most influential contributors were Barbara Gittings, who later became editor and helped steer the publication toward activism; Barbara Grier, whose popular literary column, Lesbiana, reviewed books, films, and other works with lesbian themes; and Lisa Ben, who is often recognized as the first lesbian magazine editor in the United States. 

 

Another famous contributor was Lorraine Hansberry, whose play, A Raisin in the Sun, was the first play written by an African American woman to be performed on Broadway. She joined the Daughters of Bilitis in 1953, and contributed letters to The Ladder, on topics such as inequalities faced by women, even in theLGBTQ+ community, and the ways in which lesbians were forced to conform to societal stereotypes about women. These pieces were published using only her initials – L.H.N or L.N., since her husband’s last name was Nemiroff. 

 

Together, these writers and editors helped create a national network of lesbian intellectual and cultural exchange. Today, The Ladder is recognized as one of the foundational publications of lesbian history in the United States. Decades before the internet or large-scale LGBTQ organizations, The Ladder connected readers across the country and provided a platform for lesbian voices, helping to lay important groundwork for the later LGBTQ rights movements. 

 

By the mid-1960s, the homophile movement was beginning to change. The first generation of organizations, including the Daughters of Bilitis and the Mattachine Society, had generally pursued a cautious strategy. Their leaders often believed that education, respectability, and quiet persuasion were the best ways to win acceptance. But a younger generation of activists was growing impatient with that approach. Influenced by the Civil Rights Movement, anti-Vietnam War protests, and other emerging social justice movements, they argued that visibility and direct action were necessary to create meaningful change. 

 

One of the most important voices in this shift was Ernestine Eckstein, an African American lesbian activist who became involved with the New York chapter of the Daughters of Bilitis. At a time when many organizations were hesitant to attract public attention, Eckstein advocated for demonstrations, pickets, and more assertive forms of activism. Drawing on her experiences in the Civil Rights Movement, she helped push the homophile movement toward public protest and encouraged activists to think about the connections between racial justice, gender equality, and gay rights.

 

In 1965, she participated in some of the earliest public gay rights demonstrations in American history, including pickets outside the White House and Independence Hall in Philadelphia. These protests took place years before the Stonewall uprising and challenged the common assumption that LGBTQ activism began in 1969. Photographs of Eckstein from these demonstrations remain among the most powerful images of pre-Stonewall organizing, showing a young activist standing confidently and visibly in support of gay rights at a time when doing so carried enormous personal risk. Eckstein also challenged racial exclusion within predominantly white LGBTQ organizations, urging the movement to become more inclusive and to recognize the overlapping forms of discrimination faced by many people.

 

Her growing influence was recognized in June 1966 when she appeared on the cover of The Ladder. In an interview conducted by Barbara Gittings and Kay Lahusen, Eckstein articulated a vision that was remarkably forward-thinking for its time. Rather than focusing solely on rights for gay men and lesbians, she imagined a broader movement dedicated to breaking down social categories and barriers altogether.

 

As she told The Ladder:

“I would like to see in the homophile movement more people who can think. And I don’t believe we ought to look at their titles or at their sexual orientation. Movements should be intended, I feel, to erase labels, whether ‘black’ or ‘white’ or ‘homosexual’ or ‘heterosexual.’”

She expanded on that idea later in the interview, arguing that the struggle for gay rights was connected to larger questions of personal freedom and identity:

“I feel the homophile movement is only part of a much larger movement of the erasure of labels…. I’m not saying it’s exclusively a homosexual problem, but I am saying it’s a problem of sexual identity. So far as society is concerned the two are lumped together, and therefore once we solve ours, I see no reason why we cannot begin to expand into other areas.”

 

Looking back, Eckstein's words seem strikingly modern. Long before terms like "intersectionality" entered mainstream discussions, she understood that struggles for equality were interconnected. Her activism helped bridge the gap between the cautious homophile movement of the 1950s and the more visible, confrontational gay liberation movement that would emerge after Stonewall. 

 

By the late 1960s, there were Daughters of Bilitis chapters in large cities across the country. The Boston chapter was established in 1969. The organization supported itself through membership fees and donations. They also published a monthly journal called Focus: A Journal for Gay Women. In 1972, the Boston DOB applied to place an ad in The Boston Globe to promote the magazine. But on April 13, 1972, Gail King, who was President of the Boston DOB, received a letter from the national advertising manager of the Globe, denying the DOB’s request and refunding their $58.80 payment. The reason? Apparently, the editors “do not care to publish this advertising.” 

 

Well, the DOB refused to be silenced. They contacted the Equal Economic Opportunity Task Force and the Civil Liberties Union of Massachusetts seeking guidance and support.  In a letter to the editor of the Globe,  John W. Roberts, Executive Director of the Civil Liberties Union, wrote that even though the editors of the paper might find and ad run by a “female homosexual organization” to be controversial, the ad they wished to place was tastefully done and “does provide an organization and service for a group of people who have every right to exist, and to extend themselves to those of like mind.”

 

Meanwhile, Judith B. Gertler, Chairperson of the Equal Economic Opportunity Task Force, framed the issue in terms of a civil rights violation in her letter to the editors. “Since you print advertisements which state or imply a sex preference in employment–advertisements which are in violation of Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 … it is illegal to refuse to accept an advertisement which violates no law.” 

 

While the controversy became an important example of the barriers lesbian organizations faced in gaining public visibility, even in the years after Stonewall,  the available archival evidence does not clearly show that the Globe ultimately agreed to run the advertisement. 

 

By the early 1970s, however, the Daughters of Bilitis was beginning to fracture. The social and political changes that had energized the movement also exposed growing disagreements within the organization. Members debated questions of leadership, feminism, and the future direction of lesbian activism. Some favored maintaining the organization's original focus on education and community-building, while others wanted to embrace the more radical politics emerging from the women's liberation and gay liberation movements.

 

One of the most significant controversies centered on The Ladder. In 1970, editor Barbara Grier and DOB president Rita LaPorte took control of the magazine's subscriber list and moved the publication toward a more explicitly feminist direction. The decision sparked intense conflict within the organization and deepened existing divisions. For many members, the dispute symbolized larger questions about who would define the future of the lesbian rights movement.

 

The controversy accelerated the decline of the national organization. The Ladder, which had served for more than a decade as a vital source of information, connection, and activism for lesbians across the country, ceased publication in 1972. Although some local chapters continued operating for a few more years, the era of the Daughters of Bilitis was effectively coming to an end.

 

Yet the organization's legacy endured. Long before Stonewall and before the rise of the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement, the Daughters of Bilitis created spaces where lesbians could find community, share ideas, and organize for change. Through its meetings, publications, and activism, the organization helped lay the groundwork for the generations of activists who would follow. Though the DOB itself faded away, the movement it helped build continued to grow, transforming both LGBTQ+ history and American society.

 

DF: Kathleen Barker is History UnErased’s program director and podcast host, and is a library and information specialist and public historian with over 20 years of experience as a museum and library educator.  This podcast is funded by the New York City Council. It was developed by History UnErased and produced and edited by Dinah Mack, our youth equity program director and podcaster. Our theme music is “1986” by BrothaD via Tribe of Noise. 

 

We would love to hear from you! Email [email protected] and let us know where in the world you are listening, or what history we can highlight in a future episode from your corner of the world. That’s [email protected] - and please rate this podcast and share! I’m Deb Fowler. Thanks for listening. 

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Primary and Secondary Sources

1. The Daughters of Bilitis - LGBTQIA+ Studies: A Resource Guide

2. Feminist to Know: Rosalie Bamberger — Uterish

3. The Stonewall Reader

4. Summary, part 2 | The Stonewall Reader | Study Guide — Radical in Progress

5. Barbara Gittings and Kay Tobin Interview, 1988 · Lesbian Herstory Archives AudioVisual Collections

6. Primary Source Set: Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin — GLBT Historical Society