Imagine it’s a hot August night in 1966. The bars just closed and you head to Gene Compton’s Cafeteria, a 24-hour eatery and local favorite hangout for LGBTQ people. As you enter Compton’s, located at the corner of Turk and Taylor in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco, you see queer and transgender people existing in community with each other. Amid the chatter and laughter of the evening you witness a police officer walk over and forcibly grab a drag queen. The queen throws a cup of hot coffee in the officer’s face and the cafeteria erupts. What ensues becomes known as the Compton’s Cafeteria Riot, one of the earliest known instances of collective militant queer resistance against police harassment in United States history. I carry on the hope of the Compton’s Cafeteria rioters with me in everything that I do.
To be raised in San Francisco as a queer person continues to be one of the greatest blessings of my life. As my relationship with the city that raised me continues to develop, I feel it is my duty to honor the queer and trans ancestors who came before me. Growing up in San Francisco allowed me to live in the history of my community daily. Whether it was walking up a street lined with rainbow flags as I rushed to Harvey Milk Plaza to catch the bus, learning about the AIDS Memorial Quilt in my high school art class, or celebrating Pride on the steps of City Hall the year same-sex marriage passed, I grew up believing in the audacity of equality.
The promise of San Francisco as a safe haven is as beautiful as it is aspirational. As a young queer person unsure of so many things, I always found solace in knowing I was born in one of the gayest cities in the world. When I discovered the story of Compton’s as an adult, I felt a deep sense of rage and shame come over me. The patrons at Compton’s, mostly transgender women, street queens, and drag performers, came together to fight back against a culture of police brutality and anti-LGBTQ violence that continues to haunt this city. I felt as though a critical part of San Francisco history was kept hidden away from me. Was the idealistic vision of my hometown I had come to know myself through a lie? I wondered why a city so proud of being an oasis for LGBTQ+ people would bury such a powerful piece of our history.
The Compton’s Cafeteria Riot is San Francisco’s Stonewall. The irony is painful.
At the crossroads of Turk and Taylor stands 111 Taylor Street, the historic site of the 1966 riot. Today, one of the most historically significant queer and trans landmarks in the U.S. is a building cloaked by the contradictions of the city that surrounds it. Once a safe haven for trans women and queer youth fleeing violence, it is now operated by GEO Group, a for-profit prison corporation. For over 30 years, GEO Group has managed a carceral reentry facility inside the very structure where trans women first rose up against police violence nearly six decades ago. In a city adorned with rainbow flags, GEO’s occupation of 111 Taylor is an insult to the legacy of this city. Removing GEO Group from 111 Taylor is a necessary step in reclaiming transgender history in San Francisco. Transforming the building into a space for trans, queer, immigrant, and justice-impacted communities is an act of resistance. Liberation is more than a possibility, it is a promise to ourselves, to those who came before us and to the young transgender people whose lives will be transformed living in a world that sees their humanity.
Against the backdrop of rising fascism and anti-trans rhetoric the story of the Compton's Cafeteria Riot offers unique insight into the ways in which transgender people have always fought for our right to be seen in a postcolonial world hostile to our existence. The current federal government has declared open season on all aspects of transgender life and the narrative of Compton’s provides a sense of ancestral hope. One day all trans people will be able to live in a world that not only sees our humanity but sets us up to live our lives free of violence. Failure to reconcile the historical significance of Compton’s plays into a much larger movement to erase transgender people from society. My love for this city runs as deep as our histories and we are more than just a footnote.
A hearing before the San Francisco Board of Appeals on a zoning determination for 111 Taylor Street is expected to be held July 16.
Slay Latham (they/them/theirs) is a second-generation San Franciscan with a decade of experience serving the LGBTQ+ community. They hold a bachelor’s degree in communication studies with minors in sociology and anthropology, as well as gender and queer studies from the University of Puget Sound and a J.D. from Brooklyn Law School.
As a dynamic and innovative transgender leader, Latham is invested in ensuring the survival of their community within and outside of the confines of the law. In addition to being a writer, mediator, activist, educator, and multidisciplinary artist, Latham currently works as a notary public in San Francisco.
Updated, 6/5/25: This column has been updated with the date of the Board of Appeals hearing.
