I was born in a small town just outside Jackson, Mississippi, called Flora, on June 14, 1933. I grew up there and then spent my college years at Mississippi Southern University in Hattiesburg (now known as the University of Southern Mississippi). In 1953, as a spry 20-year-old, I joined the army and became a stenographer to an army colonel. Eventually, he was going to be reassigned to Europe and wanted to know if I would be willing to go with him. I declined and said I’d rather stay in the U.S. He was disappointed, but he did help me get reassigned to a city I had always wanted to live in, Washington, D.C. I was placed in the Pentagon at first, still doing stenography work, but was eventually transferred to the CIA with that same kind of job.

I had lied my way through getting into the army, because everyone, of course, had to certify in their induction papers, under oath, that they were not gay. This was during the terrible McCarthy era of the “Red Scare” and the “Lavender Scare” under President Eisenhower, and the administration was doing everything it could to get rid of all homosexuals in government in order to satisfy McCarthy’s committee that they were serious about making sure everyone in the military was heterosexual. It was one thing getting into the army with the little white lie, but the CIA went much more deeply into any new person’s background, sending FBI investigators to one’s home town to talk to neighbors and teachers and such. My home phone was wire-tapped, too, of course, but I had expected that and acted accordingly, just to continue to pass as straight. Well, that lie eventually caught up with me. I had been given the word that I was slated to be reassigned to Vienna, Austria, to work in the American embassy there, and was even given a list of clothing items I was to buy so I would be properly attired. I was excited about this new phase of my life, but that all came to a sudden halt when two guys walked into my office one day and said: “Come with us.” One of them told me I’d better grab my coat while I could, because I would not be coming back ... ever.

They marched me first into my superior’s office. He was hopping mad and berated me for all the time, effort and money the CIA had expended getting me trained for the job, which he knew I was more than capable to doing to perfection. He cussed me out good, and I was then taken away and turned over to the army again. They took me to the base at Fort Meyers, Virginia, and placed me “in quarantine” with 26 other guys in the basement of a building, guarded 24 hours a day as they prepared to try each of us for dishonorable conduct. Everyone there was in a state of panic and shame, and fear. What would become of us? Prison or discharge? We had no idea. One guy was definitely suicidal.

In preparation for the trial, I had to go through an interview with an army psychiatrist, and it was funny, because after we talked for a long time about my past and my life in general, he wrote an official report stating that I was the most stable, reliable, well-adjusted and self-reliant gay man he had ever met. I think that report may have saved me from having to go to Fort Leavenworth Army Prison like so many others did. Instead, I was given a “dishonorable discharge” from the army with absolutely no benefits of any kind. When the gavel came down, the MPs escorted me to the front gate of the army base and sent me away to fend for myself, totally defeated in every way. Fortunately, I had a friend in the area who agreed to take me in for a few days until I could get my head back together and figure out what the hell I was going to do next.

It’s interesting that, many years later, the Red Cross took up the cause of forcing a review of the dishonorable discharges handed out to so many gay service members during the McCarthy era. I applied to have my case considered, and a woman lawyer was appointed to represent me. The result was that my discharge was officially shifted to “honorable,” but I was still to receive no benefits at all, like the GI Bill, or VA Hospital benefits, etc.

I had a friend in Washington who had been working in the State Department and had recently been thrown out of the embassy in Moscow for being discovered as gay. We had that in common, so we were both more or less at loose ends. Well, he said he was from Dallas and suggested we go there for awhile. So here we come, 36 hours later, and I wound up in Seagoville on February 14, 1956. His parents had a little tract house there, and after just one night, I decided that it was not for me. I wanted the “bright lights of the city.” So I moved to the YMCA in downtown Dallas where you could rent a room for $12 a week, with maid service and a wonderful cafeteria. It was about an eight-story building, across from the First Baptist Church on Akard, and four of its upper floors were simple residential rooms. I soon discovered that it was just teaming with sex. I mean every floor was just overcome with Highland Park fathers who would come in there on the weekends, and I met doctors and lawyers and what have you. It was so notorious that the gay community called it the “French Embassy.” Eventually the Baptist church bought the building and tore it down.

In the 1950s, the only way you could meet anybody was to cruise around downtown, because everything was so underground. Downtown Dallas was alive and hopping in the 1950s. And Neimans was the best cruising location because they kept their display window lights on until midnight. So everyone came to the sidewalks around Neimans, and there we all were, looking at display windows at midnight, you know, hoping to meet somebody. It was busy. Sure enough, you would meet people. But it was all underground back then, and we were all afraid of the police, and of the thugs who liked to beat up gay men. I remember one night I was down there just looking around, and I spotted a sailor down the street a way, so I thought, well, I’ll go down to where he is and check out our naval forces. But before I could get there, a two-door white Ford pulled up beside him, the door opened, the sailor jumped in, and off they went. But … I did get a good look at the handsome man driving that car. I’ll mention him again later on.

Slowly, over time, the community became a little more bold, and there was a straight woman who opened a gay bar on South Akard, where the AT&T building is now. Her name was Zila, and she called it Zila’s Band Box. It was around behind Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club, and it was highly successful. I don’t know whether she paid off the police or what, but there were so many people in there that they were streaming out into the street. The vice squad was in every bar.

Then a young man opened a bar in north Dallas called Le Boeuf Sur Le Toit -- the “beef on the roof.” It, too, was very popular, but the problem was it had great big plate glass windows overlooking the park and hoodlums would come by and throw bricks through them. So if you went there, you had to get to the back, away from the picture windows, to avoid the breaking glass.

I admit that the late 50’s was a very low period in my life. I had almost gone to prison for being gay in the CIA, but instead had been thrown out with a dishonorable discharge, which was better than prison, but I had little or no money, no real job, no future, nothing really. All I wanted to do was run away from everything. So I went out to San Francisco, where it seems like everyone runs away to, and I was wandering around that city one day and saw a black church, and I decided to just go inside and sit down and rest awhile. And in that church I had a good talk with myself and asked, “Why are you running away? What are you running away from? Just go back to where you came from and make that work.” So I did. I returned to Dallas.

Not long after my return, a friend of mine invited me to dinner at his apartment near Lemmon Avenue and Lomo Alto. There he introduced me to another dinner guest, Jack Evans, whom I immediately recognized. I pulled him aside and asked him, “Do you, by any chance, drive a white, two-door Ford?” And he said yes, he did. So I asked him, “Do you remember picking up a sailor one night in downtown Dallas in your white Ford? Because I think I’ve seen you before.” That was January 19, 1961. We hit it off immediately. He seemed so stable, and so kind, and so compassionate and generous. So he and I soon became a couple. He could tell that I had experienced a lot of trauma in my past, and he once asked me if I thought I might need to get therapy, but I said no, not now that I was learning how to love. Jack Evans taught me how to love, and what a great gift that is. And I would tell him, “I thank the good Lord every day that you came into my life, because you saved my life.”

And it was interesting that, as the two of us moved forward together, we started developing these many circles of friends in Dallas who would throw dinner parties, and every once in a while your circle of friends would bump into another circle, and it was wonderful, because we had an ever expanding mix of gay men and women we were friends with in Dallas. We had great parties, innovative parties like Black and White parties, and themed events.

The bars all closed at midnight, and on the night of October 28, 1961, the Dallas vice squad sent undercover cops to one of the bars around closing time, posing as gay men, and they told everyone that there was a big gay party being thrown after hours at a duplex out in east Dallas … “everybody come,” you know. Free beer and all that. Well, a lot of the kids went scrambling out there, and, once the party started up, the police pulled seven paddy wagons up to the house and raided the party, arresting anyone they could nab. Many managed to escape through back doors and windows. I still have the article from the Dallas Times Herald reporting that 29 boys had been arrested, posting their names, and they all lost their jobs and had to leave Dallas. One of them was a doctor who had to go to Canada to practice medicine. Most of them went to California ... interior designers, flight attendants, and all. So that episode really set us back, and we went even further underground. It was miserable, and of course the police would a lot rather chase gays around Dallas than going to the parts of the city where the criminals were. You know, to them it was a game.

And then the Adolphus Hotel opened up a little piano bar for afterhours called the Burgundy Room. It was never advertised as a gay bar, but somehow it became popular with a gay crowd … not a big space at all, but it was fun and a place you might meet somebody. There were also lesbian bars around town, but I wasn’t familiar with where they were. I know Lory Masters has many stories about the lesbian bars of that era.

But as the years passed, the existence of gay bars became more and more common in the city. I’m 88 years old now, and I can’t remember all of them, but I do remember a fabulous bar they had downtown called the Old Plantation, where the Dallas Museum of Art is now. Frank Caven was the owner, and that was the beginning of his career of creating a good number of great gay bars over the years, both in Dallas and in other cities. Originally, the Old Plantation had been up on Rawlins Street, closer to Oak Lawn, in a big old white house, but it moved to a new space downtown. It was a beautiful bar. People came from everywhere to dance at that bar with its great music. Lesbians, too, enjoyed it. Even straight people would come and enjoy the high energy. That was our favorite bar, Jack and me.

Frank could have a bad temper. Now he did a lot for the community. And he did a lot for the MCC Church, where Jack and I were active members in the early years, like giving them a grand piano. But for some reason Frank didn’t like drag queens in his bars. Of course, wherever you have that many gay people coming together, you’re going to have one or two drag queens. So they’d come into the bar, with hair about three feet high, and Frank would make his bouncers search through all that hair for marijuana. Well, that just ruined their hairdos, and really pissed them off. The museum is there now and the Old Plantation is long gone. And that old bar in East Dallas is gone, with apartments now built on that location.

Jack and I saw a great need in the community, so we started a real estate company. He had been vice president of a savings and loan downtown for 14 years, and I was working in the trucking business. Neither one of us liked our jobs. He had been passed over for promotion many times because they knew he wasn’t married and was “suspect.” I had a tough job down in South Dallas with the trucking firm, dealing with the teamsters union, which was interesting.

So we opened a little real estate office on Lomo Alto and Lemmon Avenue. In the early years we saw our business as being “gay real estate realtors,” but after a while, we realized that that approach was limiting, a closed group. We decided to work with all sectors of the community and began to grow, until three of our agents died of AIDS. That’s when we decided to merge our firm with another firm in the Park Cities to expand our territory. But we were an open book, always. We weren’t going back into the closet, ever.

One day in January 1992 we went to lunch at a Wyatt’s Cafeteria and we ran into four friends, John Rogers, Tom Thornhill, Bruce Monroe, and John Thomas. We all decided to eat together, and during that lunch Jack said, “Why don’t we schedule a regular ‘power lunch?” So the four of us got to talking and decided that was a great idea, going forward, to establish some kind of consistent lunch meeting time where business professionals could meet and network together. So after lunch Jack and I went back to our office, and Jack sent a letter to everyone he could think of, asking them if they thought such an idea would work and would they be interested in participating. Well, we got a great response, saying yes, let’s do it. The crux of it was that it was a networking opportunity, and that was the beginning of what became the North Texas LGBT Chamber of Commerce. The very first of our regular monthly meetings was at a location on Oak Lawn, but we soon started meeting at Mark Shekter’s condo and at larger restaurant venues near downtown Dallas as the membership grew in number. There was such a need for it, it just fell into a consistent pattern and, in time, morphed into a fabulous organization. It was just meant to be.

Chris Luna, Jack Evans, George Harris, and John Thomas front center

When it got fully organized, Tony Veda came on board as executive director and did a remarkable job of building it up to being a solid organization. We never emphasized the purely social side of things. We wanted it to be a true networking opportunity for all kinds of professionals, focusing on their companies, their employees. We also felt that if we could get enough of the employees of a company involved in the organization, then we could ultimately win over the leadership of that company, as well. We’d reach out to gay business people we knew, men and women, and try to get them involved, and to get their companies involved. Networking, after all, is how the world works. You can’t meet “too many people.” That’s how you enhance your business, and that’s how you enhance your own status in the business community, through networking.

At this same time, the AIDS crisis was growing in the United States, and it definitely found its way to Dallas. I was a notary public, and we learned that there were so many of the boys who had become infected with HIV … and had then become disowned by their families, and when they died the parents would come in and just take everything they had … you know, taking it all away from the surviving partner. So I started notarizing their wills. I didn’t charge them a thing, of course, when they would come in to execute their wills, but it was gut wrenching to think, you know, this young man, 23 years old or whatever, was dying, and I’d probably never see him again. Typically, in their wills, they would leave their personal belongings to their partners … like TV sets, money, appliances in their apartment and such. But often the parents would disregard all of those final wishes and take everything for themselves, and then disappear. They simply didn’t care.

I will say, though, that as bad as the AIDS disaster was, it brought our community together. We had wonderful leaders who held us together in that horrible time, people like Bill Nelson and Terry Tebedo and William Waybourn and John Thomas and Bruce Monroe, each of whom died of AIDS-related complications except for William Waybourn, who is still alive and well and living in Virginia, I’m happy to say. It was so depressing to live through that era. Jack and I even went to the unveiling of the AIDS Quilt in Washington D.C. one year, which was a phenomenal experience – to see all those parents coming there to view the panel representing their own children who had died of the disease. There was one I’ll never forget. It said, “Dear Jesus, Please take care of David until I get there.” Eighteen years old. And I asked myself, how can a young person like this handle such an utter disaster? How can they handle death? How can they handle that emotion? How will it affect their lives? Will they be able to pick up and go on? Or will they succumb to sadness? But many of us made it through. Some of my very dear friends, though, I was with them when they died. You just have to keep on keepin’ on.

Of course, in the early days of AIDS, we didn’t know what was even causing it. You know, was it simple touching? Or was it germs that were spreading by breathing the same air? And we weren’t getting any help from the government, of course; they wouldn’t even mention the word AIDS. So, much of the time Jack and I just stayed home. We didn’t go out. The community here developed an underground railroad of getting the drug AZT in from Mexico, just in the hope it would help the ones who were suffering so. It helped some people, it seemed, but it didn’t last. It wasn’t a cure. One of the boys working for us was the “stud of all studs,” you know? From the cornfields of Kansas, healthy as an ox. And he was our top realtor. One day he and I were going to lunch and he told me he was probably HIV-positive. And I said, “Oh, Darrell, I doubt if you have AIDS — you’re not the type.” Well, I was wrong. He did, and it was horrible. He went down so quickly, and developed those ugly purple skin splotches called kaposi sarcoma. I went with him one day to St. Paul’s Hospital, for a doctor’s appointment after he had become so ill, and while we were waiting to see the doctor he said to me, “Well, this time, I hope they can find out what’s wrong with me.” Even then, he was in denial. He couldn’t accept that he truly had AIDS. He was soon hospitalized, and I visited him every day.

And once when I came into his room I said, “Darrell, I know that you are estranged from your parents and your family. So do you have a will?” He said yes, but he had never signed it. Well, I went right then to his apartment and found it, right where he said it was, and brought it back to his hospital room. He was terribly sick, but there were several people in the room so he signed it in front of witnesses and I notarized it for him. Then he motioned for me to come over to him, and he whispered to me, “Will you ask all these people to leave the room? I’m ready to go now.” So we did as he asked, and I notified the nurse that he needed to be helped with morphine. They agreed and administered it. He didn’t take long to die.

Well, I notified his parents and they came down to Dallas. His mother was mad as hell. None of them even knew he was gay. His father was just weeping in tears. I didn’t know how to handle them, but I told them we were going to have a service and it was already planned. His mother said she didn’t care what we had planned and that she had no intention of going some place “with a bunch of queers.” So I just said she could do whatever she wanted, but we were going to have a service anyway. But at that service, Darrell’s father and mother both showed up, to our surprise. It was a beautiful service. Everybody was dressed up, very dignified and professional like Darrell would have wanted it. His mother seemed surprised. I don’t know if she was expecting a Gay Pride parade with drag queens or what. After that they loaded up everything in Darrell’s apartment but the doorknobs and took it all up to Kansas. We never heard from them again. It made me think that dealing with the families was one the worst parts of the whole AIDS mess for us.

And I also want to say something about the gay women, too, the lesbians, who were so remarkable how they took care of their dying friends. They’d pick the boys up and take them to their doctor’s appointments. They fed them. They took care of them, you know? And I have been so incredibly proud of our community because we got so much done, because we were united, together. In a lot of other big cities there is quite a gap between the gay men and women. So the Dallas gay community has an incredible history, and if you study the history of gay communities all around the country, you’ll see how important the history of the community in Dallas has been, and is.

We had a number of low points in those years, like the Judge Hampton fiasco … that terrible judge who admitted to the press that he had given a convicted murderer a very light sentence for killing two boys down in Reverchon Park … because the boys the defendant had murdered were just gay men. It was disgraceful.

And then, much later on in early 2011, Jack and I got to talking about our community’s incredible history. I had always loved history, and we both felt we needed to capture GLBT history. We had lived through AIDS, that horrible situation, and we just felt all that history needed to be carefully preserved for future generations to learn about, and maybe to learn from. We first discussed it with David Taffet of the Dallas Voice, and he said he thought it was a super idea. So we pulled together a small group of six friends, who were major leaders in the community in their own right, to get it organized. Initially, in addition to me and Jack, there was Robert Emery, Carl Parker, Mike Anglin and Buddy Mullino … to think it out and get it created, planned and organized. And then joining the first official board of directors were some other well known leaders in the community, like Steve Atkinson, Bruce Monroe, Kay Wilkinson, Stella Hess, Anne Fay, Mike Grossman, Rebecca Covell and Stan Aten. Jack was the first president of the organization, and I was its first vice-president. So everyone agreed it was a wonderful idea to create an “LGBT history organization,” but what should we name it? And Stan Aten suggested “The Dallas Way.” Well, we liked the sound of that. The Dallas gay community has always had its own way of doing things. So that was the beginning of another organization that’s still going strong today, and I’m still a member of its board. We had all been friends for a long time. We had all gone through the horrible AIDS crisis together, going to so many funerals together. So many of our historical early leaders had been lost to AIDS, and one of our goals was to do whatever we could do to preserve their histories, too.

In early 2015, our minister at Northhaven Methodist Church, Eric Folkerth, started urging me and Jack to have a church wedding. We were certainly open to the idea, so he asked the Methodist bishop if he could perform that wedding at Northhaven, and the bishop said no. He would not allow a same-sex wedding to take place in a Methodist church. So we started asking around and decided to change locations and have the wedding at the Midway Hills Christian Church. It took place on March 1, 2015.

Rev. Bill McElvaney performed the ceremony there, but in the audience were Eric along with all these other Methodist ministers who were attending just to show their defiance to the Methodist bishop’s stance on same-sex weddings taking place in a Methodist church building. I didn’t see them or talk to them at the wedding, itself, but afterwards I would meet one who would tell me he had been in attendance at our ceremony. I wish I had known, because I would have like to have had a conversation with them about taking that stand. George Mason, that remarkable minister at the Wilshire Baptist Church, sent us a note of congratulations, and since that time he, too, has conducted same-sex weddings at his church, much to the chagrin of the Baptist hierarchy. I understand that now he’s leaving Wilshire Baptist and going to SMU to teach.

George and Jack at their church wedding reception

Following the wedding, everyone went back to Northhaven Methodist for the reception, which I thought was stupid, you know? You couldn’t take your vows in the Methodist church but you could celebrate the marriage there. It didn’t make sense. And awhile later, after all that was over, we got a call from the minister at Midway Hills Christian Church, inviting us to lunch. So, as we were eating lunch with him, he shared with us that our wedding had been an important part of his own decision to at last “come out of the closet” and be honest about his own sexual orientation.

Religion is so complex, and I’m a man of great faith. But I just don’t understand the discrimination against loving gay couples. It’s so unnecessary, and so un-Christian. .

One of the greatest high points in our history came not long after that in the early summer of 2015 when the Supreme Court declared that same-sex couples have the right to marry, and have their marriages fully recognized under the law. On the day that was announced, Jack and I were working in two different locations, on two different transactions, and Jack called me and said, “Today, the Supreme Court is announcing its ruling on same-sex marriage.” And I said, yes, I knew that. And he asked me, “Well, do you have a tie on?” And I said, yeah, I’m all dressed up. And he said, “Well, let’s meet down at the courthouse.” It was June 26, 2015.

So we met down at the county courthouse, and we ran into our preacher from Northhaven Methodist Church, Eric Folkerth, who had performed our church wedding service a few months earlier. Well, his wife, Dennise Garcia, was a family court judge down there. So we quickly filled out the forms and went into her courtroom where a great number of other couples had collected in the hope of getting married. The courtroom was packed with many people wanting to get married and with members of the press all set up with their cameras. We saw many friends in the crowd. After awhile, a court administrator came into the courtroom and announced to everyone that they were going to start marrying people now, and said … “Are Jack and George here?”

Well, we stood up and said we were Jack and George, and she said “Well, y’all have been together longer than anyone else in this room, so y’all are going to be the first.” So Judge Dennise Garcia married us then and there, on the same day the ruling was announced, June 26, 2015.

Well, it was a glorious day, and I still have copies of all the news coverage. We were in People Magazine, and on the front cover of the New York Times with the headline “LOVE WINS.” We were getting calls from all over. Even the Jerusalem Post called for an interview. NBC News did a live interview. Tamara Hall’s talk show had us on, too, and she asked us what we were going to do for our honeymoon. I said we were going to go home, have a martini, and take a nap. She laughed and said, “Well God bless you, and good luck to you.” What’s so phenomenal is that we never got any negative reactions. We didn’t have anyone threaten to blow us up, or shoot us, or tell us we were going to hell. It was all so positive; it just enhanced an already beautiful experience. That day was the highlight of our lives, to tell you the truth. I think about it all the time.

When Jack died, we had a beautiful service at Northaven Methodist, and I was surprised that all of my brothers attended it. I had never come out to my parents, although they say “mothers always know.” But my brothers were there, and that meant a lot to me, because we had never been very close. We were in touch, normally just over the holidays, no real closeness. Jack and I had always felt closer to his family in West Texas than to mine, because they were so much more accepting and welcoming.

But that funeral service changed our relationship with each other. They’d call me every day wanting to know how I was doing. One of my bothers, who had retired from working at the King’s Ranch and was living up in Decatur, called me and wanted me to drive down to Bryan, Texas, to visit our brother John, who was a veterinarian there. And I said that now was not a great time for me, and he responded, “Well, I’m not going unless you can go.” That funeral service had changed my brothers’ attitudes about gay people. They could see that we were worthy and that we, too, had a story to tell. I had never even told them that I had been thrown out of the CIA for being gay, nor that Jack had been fired from Niemans for being gay. In the service, they heard the minister telling the story of Jack’s life and mine, and how we had had to live through discrimination and prejudice. So we became really close at the end of our lives.

I can’t say that about my dad. He and I never had a good relationship. My brothers were athletes and I was not, so I was an embarrassment to him, I suppose. I got the feeling he would just prefer to never have anything to do with me during my adult life, and I, having to find a way to survive in this world, accepted that for what it was and tried to move on. Then after my mother died my brothers decided to sell the family home and move my dad down to Bryan, to live near my brother John in an apartment. After a time, I got a phone call from him when he told me he just wanted to call me and tell me that he knew I was a good person. Well, I thanked him for calling and said that I wanted to come down to Bryan and visit him that next weekend. He had been recently hospitalized for health concerns. So I drove down to the hospital where he was and asked the receptionist nurse how I might find him and that I was his son. She told me she regretted have to tell me that he had died about an hour before I arrived. So I never got to have a face-to-face reconciliation with him, and I regret that.

Of my brothers, all but one have now died. My brother John in Bryan is still alive, and he and I talk on the phone all the time now. But I’ve often thought how interesting it is that it would take an event like that, like Jack’s memorial service, for them to become open to knowing their own brother.

Jack had an aunt who was a rather homophobic woman, and she had said she did not want me or Jack to be buried in their family plot, because we were gay. And so when Jack died, I thought “to hell with her.” There was just one plot left, and I made sure that was where Jack was buried, and I designed the headstone that says “Love Wins.” And then, on the back of the headstone, it has the date we were officially married, June 26, 2015.

- Edited by Mike Anglin
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On January 29, 2022, George Harris, at age 88, was interviewed by Jerry Wei on behalf of The Dallas Way. Much of the content of the oral history story above comes directly from that interview. The link below gives access to the audio recording of that oral history. In it, George recounts high points of his life with his partner Jack Evans, including his work starting the Dallas-area Power Lunch, the North Texas LGBT Chamber of Commerce, The Dallas Way, and his and Jack Evans’s status as the first legal gay marriage in Dallas.

Among the other topics discussed were LGBT social and nightlife in Dallas in the 60, 70s, and 80s; working as gay realtors in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area; the impact of HIV/AIDS, including serving as a notary for men’s wills; and his Methodist faith.

Businesses and organizations mentioned include: the Dallas YMCA, Sala’s Bar, the Burgundy Room at the Adolphus Hotel, Le Boeuf Sur Le Toit, Wyatt’s Cafeteria, Old Plantation, and the Metropolitan Community Church. You can find the recording of this oral history interview with George Harris here: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1oPWRT-suSXR35-G6tZ-MM9TYDFMgQBtc?usp=sharing