Aging with Pride: LGBTQ+ older adults share their personal journeys

Pride Month symbolizes a vibrant celebration of LGBTQ+ communities and their achievements, while also serving as a poignant reminder to honor the stories of resilience and activism from earlier generations who endured a vastly different landscape.

The monthlong commemoration originated from the Stonewall uprising in 1969, when patrons of the Stonewall Inn, a Greenwich Village gay bar, fought back against police harassment during a raid. It was an era when 49 states criminalized same-sex sexual intimacy and none granted legal recognition of same-sex relationships. The rebellion is considered a turning point in the LGBTQ+ rights movement because it sparked a series of protests and demonstrations demanding equal rights and protections for LGBTQ+ communities.

Even though discrimination persists against LGBTQ+ communities, young adults today are embracing their sexuality or gender identity with a level of acceptance that starkly contrasts with the experiences of previous generations, and are identifying as LGBTQ+ in much greater numbers. In the past, identifying as LGBTQ+ was not only daunting, but also potentially dangerous, as it frequently entailed facing the harsh realities of being unjustly fired from jobs, denied housing, shunned by one's own family or even subjected to physical violence.

Advocates highlight the lasting fears of discrimination experienced by older adults in LGBTQ+ communities. They emphasize that concealing one’s identity upon entering elder care is a common phenomenon, driven by the concern of being subjected to mistreatment and prejudice.

WNYC spoke with some LGBTQ+ older adults in the New York City area to gain insight into their personal journeys. They shared their struggles, triumphs and perspectives on what Pride means to them.

Marie Spivey, 69

Marie Spivey is a Harlem native who now lives in the Bronx. She said she has long been an advocate for LGBTQ+ communities, but didn’t come out as a lesbian herself until much later in life.

“I was in my 50s, when my youngest child went away to college,” she said. This was around the same time Spivey’s mother died.

“I decided, you know, I'm in the community, I'm involved, [so] I found somebody of interest, and I did the damn thing,” said Spivey, who is a mother of five.

Spivey said she has no regrets about “coming out” late in life as she believed it was the best choice for her family. But, she admits, her children still aren’t fully accepting. Her advice to younger generations is to “be brave.”

“You don’t have to wait – be you,” she said. “Those who love you and care about you, gonna be there with you, and those who don't, you know, you just keep moving forward and leave them on the wayside.”

Spivey said she knows that message may be hard for some older people in LGBTQ+ communities to apply to their own lives.

“When we are older and we need assisted living or nursing home care, we get lost,” she said. “We go back into the closet because we are afraid that we are going to be mistreated, and it's happening,” said Spivey. “The fear is real,” she said.

Spivey said she remains active as an advocate – fighting to make sure LGBTQ+ elders are heard and integrated into the community.

When asked what Pride means to her, Spivey said “celebration.”

“Just letting it all out with enthusiasm. Letting people know who we are and how happy we are to be living in these times,” she said.

Criss Smith, 63

Criss Smith identifies as a trans man. He said he transitioned a little over six years ago after living most of his life as a “miserable lesbian.”

Smith, who is originally from Jamaica, grew up in a devout Christian home. “My family was very religious,” he said. “It was always about going to church, not only Sundays, but [even] Saturdays.”

Growing up, Smith said he could not articulate how he was feeling deep down, especially because there were no examples of different sexual or gender expressions around him to serve as reference points. After moving to the U.S. with his family and attending Skidmore College, Smith said he learned how to identify. But many other social factors still got in the way of living a life that was true to himself.

“My family didn't know anything about it. I wasn't able to talk to them about it. And, it wasn't until later on in life when I established myself and I had my own income that I could actually come out to my family,” he said. And even after doing so, he still felt hidden from the larger society.

“Looking at the feasibility of it, once I left college … I actually started working in the corporate environment. I worked for some of the biggest companies on Wall Street … and I never saw the possibility of being out,” said Smith, who was fearful of overt discrimination in the workplace. He said it was through his faith in God that he persisted through being closeted for many years.

“It was a journey that I had to fight through,” said Smith. “What my journey has taught me is that God loves everyone. Whosoever believes in him," he said.

“There are many times where I feel like I was born again," Smith said.

Smith added that he respects younger generations who are quick to stand up for themselves and unapologetically be who they are.

“I remember years ago just being a lesbian we used to hide. No one talked about it. But now the young people, they're like, ‘so who cares if someone says that he's gay or she's gay?’ Who cares? It doesn't matter,” he said, “It’s not something for discussion anymore.”

Donna Sue Johnson, 66

Donna Sue Johnson is a resident of Westchester County who proudly identifies as a “big, Black, beautiful, Bohemian, bougie, Buddhist, butch lesbian.” But, coming to that level of confidence required diligence, she said.

“I came out when I was in the military, which was very difficult to say the least, because it certainly wasn't don’t ask, don’t tell, it was more like witch hunts," said Johnson.

Johnson served in the U.S. Air Force and was stationed in Fairfield, California. She recalled going to her fist “Gay Day” parade in San Francisco in 1981 and wanting to get a motorcycle after seeing the group Dykes On Bikes.

Johnson said she also found solace and inspiration in books that detailed lesbian experiences, particularly “Rubyfruit Jungle” by Rita Mae Brown. She said after reading that book, she no longer felt alone.

Johnson said books were a gateway into the community she longed to be a part of. That’s why her message to LGBTQ+ youth is “understand that it's important to read, read, read,” she said.

Meanwhile, Johnson said she is now advocating for and assisting LGBTQ+ older adults as a licensed clinical social worker in the Bronx. Johnson said it is a “magnificent epiphany of blissful pleasure” to be living her life as an open Black lesbian who is aging with “grace” and “in place.” But, she said she realizes “hate” against LGBTQ+ communities is still affecting people’s quality of life.

“This is causing older LGBT folks to go back in the closet and to be stealth,” she said, “Going back in the closet after working so hard is a disgrace. It's painful, it's horrific. If you end up in a nursing home with health care workers who have no cultural competence, it can be just [an] insult to injury,” said Johnson.

Victor Rios, 61

Victor Rios is a lifelong Bronx resident who uses she/her pronouns.

“I don't call myself a gay person,” said Victor. “I feel like a woman. I always thought I was a woman ever since I was born,” she said.

Rios shared her experience growing up in a Puerto Rican family that imposed a rigid sense of gender ideology, particularly among the men. She also expressed that the streets of the South Bronx were equally challenging during her upbringing.

“It was very scary because there was a lot of machismo,” Rios said, “and it was scary because they used to beat you up, and not only beat you up, but they did a lot of stupid things.”

Rios said she also faced negative reactions from colleagues while working in maintenance.

Rios was just 8 years old when the Stonewall uprising took place and said she was oblivious to the LGBTQ+ community as a whole for the bulk of her youth and onto early adulthood.

“I was 21, and I got married, I never knew there was a gay parade in Manhattan…” she said, “ [even though] I was raised and born here.”

Rios said she learned overtime that optimism and joy are key to self-preservation. Today she works as a kitchen aide at the Queens Center for Gay Seniors in Jackson Heights. It’s a self-affirming job on a number of levels, Rios said.

“I feel like I'm a whole person here. There's no thinking about being a woman or gay cause I'm hanging out with them, and I know they are in the same predicament that I am [in],” said Rios.

Being part of the center’s community has filled her with a profound sense of purpose, she said, realizing that many seniors are left feeling alone and isolated. Rios said she’s confident that by embracing joy and sharing it with others, they can conquer the shared struggles they encounter.

“The best medicine in this world is laughing. I think that's the best. No matter how much you're hurt,” she said.

Eleanor Batchelder, 83

The 1970s was a time of great change for women in New York City and across the country. This era was characterized by advancements in women’s rights, including the landmark Supreme Court case Roe v. Wade in 1973, which established the constitutional right to abortion. For Eleanor Batchelder, a resident of Jackson Heights, Queens, this period marked the beginning of a great big new chapter in life.

The 1970s, she said, “was a flowering of gay culture in every area, and particularly of lesbian women.” But Batchelder said she and two other women noticed New York City lacked a “proper” bookstore to empower women at the time. They answered that call in 1975, with the opening of Womanbooks, a feminist bookstore on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

Batchelder said the bookstore “examined [the] different aspects of a woman's life, and the things that women care about, to give [them] more options.” All the while, she was treading new territories in all aspects of her life. “I was divorced with three children living in Manhattan. I had a job [as] a computer programmer at that time. I quit it, [and] went into the bookstore,” she said.

Batchelder said in the beginning, some people just didn’t get the concept.

“They thought, ‘you can't just open a bookstore,’' said Batchelder, “About three weeks [after opening] they realized, yes, you can.” And so, Womanbooks, which is now defunct, was a hit, as it became an epicenter for women interested in feminist literature, contemporary art, and poetry, she said.

“We built the store [around] what our customers ordered, what they wanted, they often knew more about what was out there than we did,” said Batchelder. And in the midst of all the discoveries, Batchelder found her soulmate, Fumiko Ohno, she said.

“I was studying Japanese at the time. And this Japanese woman came into the bookstore, she wanted information, and she clearly was not an English speaker, so they recommended her to me,” Batchelder said.

They have now been together for 35 years, she said.