Each October during LGBTQ+ History Month—I consider October 14, 1979, when tens of thousands of people gathered in Washington, D.C. for the first National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights. In the United States of America it was our community’s first national demonstration of that scale, a landmark moment that declared, unmistakably, that queer people would no longer live in the shadows.
That march did more than fill the National Mall; it articulated a plan. Organizers advanced five clear national demands: a comprehensive federal lesbian and gay rights bill; a presidential executive order banning discrimination in the federal government and military; the repeal of all anti-sodomy laws; an end to discrimination in custody, adoption, and immigration; and a fight against police harassment. The boldness wasn’t just in showing up—it was in insisting on policy, dignity, and safety, everywhere.
Attendance estimates vary—some news outlets reported around 75,000 while others cited more than 100,000—but the size is less important than the signal: a geographically diverse, cross-movement crowd arrived with banners, drums, and resolve. It was the product of months of organizing that followed years of pressure, including calls—cut short by his assassination—from Harvey Milk to convene such a national demonstration. The march became a proof of concept for future national mobilizations and a generational handoff of tactics and courage.
The archival record reminds us who we were and what we insisted upon. The souvenir program preserved in the Gay Ohio History Initiative Collection shows not only the schedule and speakers but also the ecosystem around the event—ads from community businesses, lists of supporting groups, and the practical logistics that bring movements to life. The same collection preserves photographs of marchers and organizers, including Ohioans who traveled to D.C. and carried our state’s banners. In those pages and images you can see a movement knitting itself together—state by state, coalition by coalition.
Here in Columbus, that national momentum echoed into local action. Columbus’ first Pride march took place in 1981, and by 1982 Stonewall Union (now Stonewall Columbus) organized the city’s first official Pride parade—early steps in what would grow into one of the largest Pride gatherings in the Midwest. The line from 1979 to Columbus runs through people who came home from D.C. ready to build: to organize, to lobby, to create welcoming spaces, and to keep showing up—summer after summer, year after year.
Why revisit 1979 now? Because the lessons travel well.
- Clarity matters. The five demands were specific and national in scope; they gave organizers a north star and gave officials something concrete to answer. Today’s fights—for trans justice, for safe schools, for healthcare access, for the freedom to read, assemble, and speak—deserve the same clarity and courage.
- Coalitions win. The march’s planners invited broad participation across race, class, gender, and geography, and aligned with other struggles for liberation. That cross-movement posture is still how we make progress that lasts.
- Archives are action. Programs, photos, flyers—these are how we teach, recruit, and remember. They are tools for tomorrow’s organizers. The Gay Ohio History Initiative‘s collection makes plain that what we preserve, we empower.
I also hold the harder truths. Our movements—then and now—have had to confront exclusion within. The most powerful history doesn’t smooth those edges; it names them, repairs them, and moves with more intention. When we say “United in Power,” we mean power built through accountability and care, not just proximity.
As executive director of Stonewall Columbus, I’m mindful that our local work sits inside this national arc. We build community programs and a resourceful, welcoming center; we engage, and educate, at the city and county levels; we host Pride as both celebration and civic ritual. And we do it with a clear memory: 1979 wasn’t an endpoint…it was 10 years after a spark at Stonewall Inn. It was a blueprint and a promise—that we would keep marching until freedom is shared, safety is real, and dignity is non-negotiable.
This October, I invite you to spend a few minutes with the primary sources: read the 1979 souvenir program, study the photographs, and imagine who you might have been that day—and who you can be for someone now. Then bring that energy with you: to a volunteer shift, to a city council hearing, to a classroom, to your kitchen table. The work endures because we do.
We show up, we carry the banner forward.
—Densil Porteous
Executive Director
Stonewall Columbus
