In yesterday's editions of The Sun, the name of John Hannay was misspelled in an article about the gay community in Baltimore and in an accompanying photo caption.
The Sun regrets the error.
When Joaquin Alvarez decided to leave State College, Pa., he drew up a wish list for a new hometown. He wanted an affordable Northeastern city with a strong gay community.
He chose Baltimore.
"Baltimore had passed an ordinance including gays and lesbians as a protected class, which made it very attractive," said Mr. Alvarez, 30, a doctoral student at Pennsylvania State University.
"It also had a well-established gay community, and, after being ,, here 1 1/2 years, I have come to realize it also has a long tradition of gay politics."
San Francisco's status as the epicenter of American gay culture isn't endangered, but a growing number of gays and lesbians are discovering Baltimore.
They describe Baltimore as a tolerant if not accepting place.
Incidents of hate crimes and discrimination are balanced by a live-and-let-live atmosphere, legal protections and a comfortable gay and lesbian community.
Because that community, unlike its counterparts in most urban areas, is largely home-grown, it has special difficulties: particularly in openly proclaiming one's homosexuality in a place many call the nation's largest small town.
Coming to terms with a gay or lesbian identity -- "or being out," which therapists describe as a complex and challenging process -- is made more difficult when not only parents but also one's parish priest, first-grade teacher and high school sweetheart may pass judgment.
"I'm out, but it's still uncomfortable to be totally out," said Cheryl Parham, a Baltimore native and a former president of the city's Gay and Lesbian Community Center. "Because I was bold enough to be on the television news and to fight for civil rights, I sometimes go to places and wonder if people will recognize me and dislike me before they even know me."
The legislation that Ms. Parham fought for, City Ordinance 79, was passed by the Baltimore City Council in 1988 to prevent discrimination based on sexual orientation. The following year, Mayor Kurt L. Schmoke established a Task Force on Gay and Lesbian Issues to recommend ways in which anti-discriminatory policies and procedures could be carried out in city government.
Baltimore shares the legislation and subsequent amendments with about 75 cities and municipalities, 20 counties and two states that have some form of anti-discrimination legislation. Baltimore's ordinance prohibits discrimination in health and welfare services, education, housing, employment and public accommodations.
Members of the gay and lesbian community, estimated at 10 percent of the city's population, say the existence of legal protection makes them feel confident about living in Baltimore.
Elsewhere in the state, only Howard and Montgomery counties have similar statutes, although Baltimore and Prince George's counties currently are debating anti-discrimination laws.
For Mr. Alvarez, a Cuban who grew up in Puerto Rico and was educated in upstate New York, Baltimore's legal protection -- as well as its active gay community -- make it a haven.
"If you compare this to Puerto Rico, it's real open. It will be a cold day in hell before you see a gay community center there," Mr. Alvarez said. "People may not be comfortable to participate in gay community activities here, but that's not exclusive to Baltimore. A lot of people aren't comfortable with their sexual orientation. Period."
Baltimore's gay and lesbian community keeps a relatively low profile, but it does support a community center, two bookstores, two newspapers, several AIDS-related institutions and a variety of social and recreational activities, including a square dance club, volleyball team and numerous self-help groups.
Members of the community -- once clustered in Mount Vernon, Bolton Hill and Charles Village -- live throughout the city.
"We always say we are everywhere, and we are, though we may be more concentrated in hospitable areas such as the 2nd City Council District," which includes Bolton Hill and Mount Vernon, said Ann Gordon, chairwoman of the gay and lesbian task force. "When you look to see what the demographics here are, there has been a migration from urban to suburban areas across race and class lines, but gays are staying in the city."
Ms. Gordon is one of a number of stalwart women who have been politically active since the mid-1960s. Several of these women, leaders in the gay and lesbian community, cut their teeth during the civil rights movement and honed their political skills in the Vietnam era.
Mardie Walker, an associate professor and coordinator of paralegal programs at the New Community College of Baltimore, is among this group.
In 1967, she moved to Baltimore as a young bride. Swept up in the civil rights struggle, she enrolled in the University of Maryland Law School.
Ms. Walker subsidized her schooling by selling wedding dresses at Hecht's department store. She liked the job because it allowed her to work with women. It took her several years -- and the dissolution of her marriage -- to realize she also liked the job because she was attracted to women.
As president of the Gay and Lesbian Community Center of Baltimore, Ms. Walker says political battles as well as the AIDS epidemic have brought gay men and lesbians closer together.
"In Baltimore, it's possible to live in a very gay world," Ms. Walker said. "The businesses I patronize and the people I hire to work on my house are all gay. I go shopping at the Rotunda, and I see gay people. I go to the Charles Theater, and I see gay people."
While gay and lesbian advocates have become more visible during the Schmoke administration, they represent a minority of their community. Until the rise of recent concerns about safe sex and alcohol abuse, gay and lesbian life tended to revolve around bars, whose patrons were usually divided along sex, class and racial lines.
"Dave," a co-chairman of BUGLE -- Blacks United for Gay and Lesbian Equality -- said Baltimore's black homosexuals and white homosexuals have gone separate ways because the racism of the general society infects the gay community.
Ill will remains from years past, when predominantly white bars checked the identification of black patrons.
"There are some integrated groups, like Black and White Men Together," said Dave, referring to a support group for interracial couples. "But there is still as much segregation as in the general community. People want to be with people they feel comfortable with."
Today, some of those divisions have been bridged as AIDS-related activities and self-help support groups bring people together.
AIDS also has brought dozens of gay people to live in the area. Some people with the human immunodeficiency virus moved to Baltimore to participate in experiments at Johns Hopkins Hospital, the University of Maryland or the National Institutes of Health. Others have come to work in AIDS-related professions.
John Hennay and John Palenicek moved here four years ago from Washington, when Mr. Palenicek, a medical researcher, was offered a job at Johns Hopkins Hospital.
Earlier this year, Mr. Palenicek became head of the SHARE study, a Hopkins project that tracks gay men who have tested positive for HIV. Mr. Hennay works for the state as an outreach coordinator to gay youth.
Both men say Baltimore's gay community is less visible than its counterpart in Washington, because so many Baltimore gays still live in the same town in which they grew up.
"Because Washington, D.C., attracts people from all over the world for short periods of time, it's easy to come out because you don't have to worry about familial connections," explained Mr. Hennay, chairman of the Justice Campaign, a civil rights advocacy organization. "In Baltimore, there's more at risk when you become publicly identified as gay or lesbian."
That risk is experienced as a nagging fear of causing pain or embarrassment to loved ones.
Dave prefers not to give his real name because of fear. He's a leader in the gay community, but he has never told his family about his sexual orientation.
For those who aren't worried about family reactions, there are fears about job security, especially for those who work outside the city.
When "Leslie" couldn't find a job in her field, she accepted a position at an Anne Arundel County firm. At a previous job in Boston, she was open about being a lesbian, but she fears that her current employers might not be as accepting.
Hiding her identity demands constant vigilance, and that makes her angry.
"It takes up time and energy to change all the pronouns, so I just don't speak about anything outside work," Leslie said.
Life is better in Baltimore, but in its annual report for 1990, the mayor's task force concluded: "Basic needs of the gay and lesbian citizens of Baltimore city are still not being met and their basic rights continue to be abrogated."
Gays and lesbians say violence against them is infrequent, but many have been verbally harassed or have received hate mail. Others say their careers or businesses have suffered.
Architect Stephen A. Glassman says Baltimore's gay rights ordinance can't help him: He can't sue people who don't patronize his firm because he supports gay causes.
"Because of publicity, there were clients who either left the firm or who didn't come to it," said Mr. Glassman, who worked for passage of City Ordinance 79, the Justice Campaign, and the Quilt Project, a commemoration of people who died of AIDS. "There is definitely homophobia here. But I wouldn't change a thing, and I definitely wouldn't go into the closet."
Even the most optimistic gay leaders acknowledge that homophobia keeps a majority closeted. City ordinances may make acts of discrimination illegal, but people's attitudes take a long time to change.
Change also must occur within their own ranks, say some gay and lesbian leaders. Many in the community feel shame and embarrassment about their sexual orientation. Gay advocates push for full equality and disclosure, looking forward to the day that gays can talk openly about their partners and point proudly to gay and lesbian role models for their children.
That struggle keeps many going.
"You want to make it easier for kids to come out so they don't have to tell themselves all the terrible things we told ourselves," said Curtis McMillen, a doctoral student at the University of Maryland School of Social Work.
Emily Cowan, a schoolmate, agrees.
Ms. Cowan recalls the fear she felt when, as a teen-ager, she couldn't think of anyone who felt like her or acted like her or seemed to lead a life similar to the one she envisioned.
"When I was 14 or 15, I couldn't imagine what I would be like at 28. I couldn't imagine I could be a lesbian and have a happy life," Ms. Cowan said. "Now I want to be a role model. I have a strong conviction: I want to change things not just for my sake but for the sake of all gays and lesbians."
Cheryl Parham: afraid to disappoint
The members of Cheryl Parham's family always expected her to grow up, get married, and have children. She loved them so much she didn't want to disappoint them.
She didn't want to tell them she was a lesbian.
"It was so hard that when I was growing up, I kind of suppressed my feelings," said Ms. Parham, 41, an auditor. "When I finally told them, their reactions weren't as hard as I thought they would be.
"My grandmother said I would grow out of it, and my mother said she had known all along."
Ms. Parham said support from her family was crucial -- the decision to come out is harder for blacks, who already are victims of racism.
"When you come out as a black person, you really have to make a serious statement," she said. "It's difficult because there's already so much oppression in the black community."
Ms. Parham would like more interaction between blacks and whites in the gay community. She believes some separation is healthy, but she would prefer people to transcend their prejudices.
Her bid to reach out was underscored during a 1987-1989 term as president of the Gay and Lesbian Community Center of Baltimore.
"People need their own little circles," she said. "But we should have more places to meet and mingle and to grow strong as a group."
Carole Wiedorfer: Law was catalyst
When Carole Wiedorfer was hired as a certified public accountant, she kept her social life secret. She didn't think her employers, a prestigious Baltimore firm, would be sympathetic to gays and lesbians.
Six years later, she stopped caring.
"The gay rights bill was being presented to the Baltimore City Council, and I went down for the vote," said Ms. Wiedorfer, 31, a student at the University of Maryland School of Social Work. "I made a decision to sit in the front row of the balcony. That meant I was deciding to be on television.
"The next day . . . one of the partners said he saw me on television. He said it was OK in his opinion that I am the way I am, but because our client base was conservative, it would not be acceptable if I became more politically active."
On the whole, coming out wasn't too difficult. Her mother was supportive but sometimes worried that Carole would grow old and lonely.
A similar fear had haunted Ms. Wiedorfer, too. When she was younger, she believed she was different from her girlfriends and wondered if she were the only person who felt the way she did.
"I asked myself, 'What's wrong with me?' But there was nothing wrong with me," she recalled. "But there were no role models and little support. I didn't see it on TV, and I didn't read about it in books."
Tom Eversole: no longer afraid
For years, Tom Eversole couldn't break the bad news to all those hopeful mothers: He wasn't the perfect man for their daughters. Instead, he'd dutifully traipse to dinner parties where, often, catching the eye of another unmarried man, he'd smile at a kindred soul.
A kindred closeted soul.
"It's been a real journey for me," said Mr. Eversole, 41, a psychotherapist at the AIDS service of Johns Hopkins Hospital. "I had to become responsible for my choice [to come out] and to accept the consequences of being gay, rather than pass for straight."
Mr. Eversole had convinced himself he needed to pass for straight because he was afraid he'd lose clients, friends and security if he came out. But after attending a therapeutic workshop, he confronted his fears.
At root was a fear of being different. "I realized I was different at 3 or 4 years old," he recalled. "I knew I was gay at 8 or 10. But you keep trying to convince yourself you are not, because it would be a lot easier."
Finally, in his 30s, he met a man for whom he could not deny his feelings. As he admitted his homosexuality to himself, he discovered others were not surprised.
"The most important thing I learned as a gay man is something I would have had to learn as a straight man: Just being a person is to be honest and to accept yourself. Then you can love other people."
What's changed
Many gays and lesbians say the changes in Baltimore's government -- from William Donald Schaefer, who, gay leaders say, ignored them, to Mayor Kurt L. Schmoke -- have made them feel better protected at work and in their neighborhoods.
For example:
* In the last year, several dozen gays and lesbians participated in weekly Baltimore police department in-service training to discuss gay and lesbian issues, and the police department set up a recruitment booth at Gay Pride Day.
* Since 1990, the Baltimore Community Relations Commission has handled 32 cases of discrimination against gays and lesbians and three cases of bias-related crimes regarding sexual orientation.
* The Mayor's Task Force on Gay and Lesbian Issues has met regularly to discuss concerns and policy with city agency heads.