Witness

In the early 1980s, growing numbers of gay men in New York and San Francisco began developing mysterious, terrifying illnesses.

Some were cancers. Others were opportunistic infections rarely seen in the United States. Soon, men started dying. Several close friends of mine would go. My oldest childhood friend would be taken, too.

There were early theories, but no one knew exactly why. Few outside the gay community seemed to care to learn the reasons. Several reporters and Reagan White House officials laughed out loud when questions about the growing “gay disease” were asked at early press conferences.

(Yes, I know that's an outrageous claim. Here are the recordings: https://lnkd.in/e8MM_Qu )

By 1982, the plague had a name: Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome. AIDS.

For generations before the appearance of AIDS, of course, gay people around the world had been misunderstood, feared, ostracized, and, often, hated. Sometimes killed. At the outset of AIDS, these threats intensified. Terrifying stories of attacks on AIDS victims grew. Rumors about bodies of AIDS victims abandoned in alleyways outside hospitals became harsh reminders to gay people that they were not safe. The message was clear if you were gay — to be safe, be quiet, be silent, be invisible.

But the opposite happened.

We raised a flag.

A dazzling, colorful flag.

A rainbow.

Flags — the vivid emblems we create, carry, hang, raise and sometimes salute — feel primal to our nature. From the flags of our countries, to white flags of truce, to team flags that build camaraderie, to a flag planted on the moon, flags are symbols for unity and hope.

It is the most visually powerful way to say, “Here we are.”

In 1978, designer Gilbert Baker had sewn the first rainbow flag out of that same hope. It was his way to signal that being gay was more than being okay; it was normal.

By the mid-1980s people were not only waving the rainbow, but wearing it. Proudly. Pins, jackets, jeans, shirts, backpacks, earrings, shoes, flip flops, caps, beach blankets, cheap sunglasses, and expensive scarves. Whatever could be made with Gilbert’s rainbow was made with Gilbert’s rainbow, despite potentially harrowing repercussions.

The rainbow was not an aegis only for protection; it was a symbol of identification, resilience and possibility. Gilbert said in a 2015 interview, “We needed something to express our joy, our beauty, our power. And the rainbow did that.”

When the rainbow flag made its debut that year in San Francisco, it became our North Star. It was the peak of a rising mountain that we had set our eyes on, knowing that there was a dark forest ahead of us. Not all of us would make it through.

The summer before the world turned upside down, I walked home through Times Square. On the way, I saw bursts of Gilbert’s rainbows everywhere — store windows, billboards, taxi tops, shop displays jammed with rainbow-slathered merchandise. I wandered, mesmerized by colorful explosions of support for the LGBT+ community by all kinds of famous brands.

Eventually, I passed the spectacular flagship store of the most powerful media brand in the world. I was floored by what I saw.

Inside, in the center of wall-to-wall tourists, sat a giant box. Inside were piles of this corporation’s most celebrated symbol — a beloved, anthropomorphic mouse. But this version of Mickey Mouse was new: he was covered from head-to-tail with a vivid, iridescent rainbow.

Sales clerks were holding the rainbow Mickey aloft. Two young parents gave their two giggling kids strapped in a stroller this new rainbow mouse. A teenage couple took the rainbow mouse and hooked him, swinging, off their backpacks. A small, tasteful sign told me that Disney was donating proceeds to a leading educational organization for LGBT+ students.

I was beyond happy. But standing there watching this unfold around me, my joy slowly turned to regret. My closest friends from my 20s were no longer here to witness this multi-colored milestone.

The rainbow flag was designed out of a necessity to be seen and understood — the greatest gift that human beings can give to one another. It was used to carry us forward into an era of new normals. To help people rise and use their voices and creativity to become visible.

To see Gilbert’s rainbow on this globally beloved mouse exemplified, to me, that the future we sought in the ’80s was being normalized today.

On a good day, this is the quintessential nature of design: signaling and rehearsing new tomorrows. To craft symbols, stories, and artifacts that ultimately shape hearts, minds and lives for the better.

Moments like this make me want to continue, as a designer, to build better futures. Progress, after all, is a conscious and collective choice. And we get to choose every day.

Whether you’re a man like Gilbert. Or a mouse like Mickey.