05/15/2026
Along with the many other aspects of their live which matter and deserve to be cherished and remembered let us note that this, too, is the history of publishing.
If voices like yours aren't being heard then that almost certainly only ever changes when a person much like you sits down at the keyboard, begins to write, and does what is needed to eventually get what they have written in front of a critical mass of other people.
Seattle, 1950. A young woman named Phyllis walked into a trade magazine office and spotted someone across the room she would never forget. Del Martin stood there, cigar in hand, teaching herself to knot a tie while the men watched. Phyllis had never seen anyone quite like her. She didn't yet know that this accidental meeting would reshape American history.
By 1952, they were in love. On Valentine's Day 1953, they packed their lives into boxes and moved in together in San Francisco. The world had no vocabulary for what they were, no framework for what they were building. So they built their own.
In 1955, Phyllis and Del looked around and realized something that should have been ordinary but felt like a revelation — they didn't know any other le****ns. Eight women began gathering in living rooms. They gave their group a name obscure enough to fool outsiders, drawn from an old French poem. The Daughters of Bilitis became the first le***an political organization in American history, and Del became its first president.
A year later, they were editing a national publication from their kitchen table. Phyllis wrote under a false name. The subscriber list was kept hidden in the back of a station wagon, ready to vanish if federal agents came knocking. This was the reality of their lives — building something brave while the world pressed down.
They co-wrote books when no honest books existed. They joined the National Organization for Women as its first known le***an couple. They built bridges between San Francisco's LGBTQ community and its religious institutions. Every brick they laid, they laid without a blueprint.
On February 12, 2004, San Francisco's mayor opened city hall doors to same-sex couples. Del was 83. Phyllis was 79. They were the first couple married that day. Six months later, the California Supreme Court took it back.
"At our age," Phyllis said quietly, "we do not have the luxury of time."
Four years later, the court reversed itself. On June 16, 2008, Phyllis and Del walked back into city hall. Same mayor. Same mauve and turquoise pantsuits from the first wedding. First couple married again. Two months later, Del was gone.
Phyllis kept fighting for twelve more years. She died in April 2020 at 95.
Those pantsuits now sit in a museum in San Francisco. Side by side. Just as they always were.
In November 2025, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to overturn marriage equality. Not a single justice dissented. Phyllis and Del spent 55 years laying that foundation, one dangerous, unglamorous, necessary brick at a time.
Image Credit to NickGorton (Wikimedia Commons) (Restored & Colorized)
