HISTORY: Randolfe “Randy” Wicker

by Randolfe “Randy” Wicker

As a teenager during the 1950s, I knew I was homosexual.

In the 1950s, newspapers and magazines only covered homosexual scandals: Child killers, Leopold and Loeb; Burgess and McLean, British spies who’d defected to the Soviet Union; Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s “hunt” for homosexuals working for the government; police round-ups of “perverts,” usually featuring photos of drag queens, make-up askew, sitting in a paddy wagon.

I had no problem accepting my homosexuality. I only feared discovery. As a college freshman, I kept a diary that detailed the crush I’d developed on a fellow student. My father found my diary and read it. Fortunately, the psychiatrist he consulted advised him that I’d always be homosexual.

“It’s your life to live,” he surmised. “I don’t think you are going to get very far with this. I ask just one thing: that you not involve my good name.

“I’ve lived the American dream,” I declared. “In my lifetime, homosexuals have gone from being criminals to being a legitimate minority group. We may not have ‘full equality’ yet, but we’re slowly getting there.