As we embark on a new fight for our rights, looking back is as important as looking ahead.

BY MICHAEL G. LIBERATORE

We are about to make history.

This is the stuff of which civil rights legends are made. The Stonewall Riot in New York City. Rosa Parks' refusal to move to the back of the bus. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s march on Washington. ACT UP's illustrious history of civil disobedience.

And now, we fight for our right to marry. A right granted to us by California's Supreme Court in March of 2008, and rescinded by a small majority of bigoted, closed-minded Californians on Nov. 4.

Tempers are flaring, and our indignation is justified. We have been lied about, scapegoated and cheated by religious organizations that gleefully accept tax-exempt status while blatantly abusing that privilege. We have been abandoned by the very businesses we've supported; those who chose to contribute to the hate-mongering Yes on 8 campaign. And we feel divided from other oppressed minorities, those whose battles we have joined selflessly, and those who now choose to tell us we should now be treated as second-class citizens.

So what do we do? We take to the streets, of course.

Don't tell me to be polite. Don't tell me to sit back and see how this unfolds. If we hadn't been so busy relaxing with Will & Grace for the past decade—actually believing that America regarded us as full equals rather than a charming diversion—perhaps we'd have seen this coming.

But as we take to the streets, there are things we must remember—lessons learned the hard way. Yes, activism is a huge adrenaline rush, but it's not a party.

Watching so many young people fight the establishment inspires me to become, once again, an activist. And though it makes me proud, it also fills me with fear. These kids—optimistic and energized—have never participated in civil disobedience before. They don't understand that the police aren't always as helpful as they've been during the last few weeks of protests. They don't know about legal observers and marshals, P.R. committees, and “staying on point.” These are things that make or break a movement, and a people.

For example, in the old days of ACT UP, we learned that some cities housed polite police departments, while others most certainly did not. In Washington, D.C., for example, we found that officers would tape over their badge numbers with electrical tape, or remove their shields altogether, in order to freely beat protesters without reprimand.

In New York City we discovered that mass arrests could cause confusion, injury, and chaos if legal observers didn't keep careful track of where arrested activists were taken for processing, and who, precisely, these activists were. Did they have necessary medications with them? Did each detainee have a picture ID? Were these activists documented immigrants?

Over and over again we found that “loose canons” can sink a demonstration, if not an entire movement. We don't need to play nice, but we must keep our message of nonviolent, civil rights clear and concise. If we spread a message of hate, we will find that hatred returned by the voting public 10-fold at the polls.

In 1989, ACT UP/NY targeted Cardinal O'Connor and the Roman Catholic Diocese of New York for their stance on refusing to teach safer sex practices or distribute condoms in the city's Catholic Schools. We formed an alliance with the National Organization of Women, and over 5,000 people surrounded St. Patrick's Cathedral, stopping traffic and paralyzing Manhattan that cold Sunday morning. It was brilliantly successful. At first.

The media adored us and our cause—it was sexy. Teens were being ignored by the church's doctrine, and once again at risk because of Catholic negligence.

Then a “splinter group” went inside the Cathedral, received Holy Communion, crumbled the wafers and threw them on the floor. This splinter group consisted of about five very angry people, and they changed the face of the demonstration—and ACT UP—forever. The only news coverage the event received from that point forward was vilifying reports about how we defiled a sacred church tradition. Our initial message, and the 5,000 supporters outside, were lost forever.

In the heat of the moment, we must remain safe, both physically and psychologically. We must remain true to our cause—our civil rights. Other minorities are not our enemies. If they voted against us, we must consider the oppressive hold that organized religion creates in their lives. For many, this is a powerful presence that is not easily disregarded—it has been their sole source of hope during very bleak times. They are not our enemies. Institutionalized homophobia is.

As we move forward, and a new age of activism dawns in the LGBT community, it's important to know not only where we've been, but where we are, and where we're going. This time, we have a plethora of straight allies who stand with us. This time we have openly gay police officers and elected officials. This time we have the internet, e-mail and cell phones. It's a different day, but it's the same old battle. New technology, old enemies.

Fight the good fight. But fight it with wisdom, empathy and self-care. We are on the side of what is right, morally and politically. And no simple majority can take that away from us.