Michael was Murdered. Discovering Police Brutality in the death of Michael Stewart.
Whenever I tell people the story of what happened to Michael Stewart lately I start to cry. Even though he was killed over 36 years ago. In fact, sometimes his death seems worse to me now than when it happened. I’m not sure why. Is it because, at the time, his death was so frightening that I couldn’t bear to imagine the light disappearing from his eyes, his consciousness evaporating into darkness as a cop pulled a nightstick tighter and tighter against his neck? A bunch of burly cops and skinny, shy, friendly, pretty Michael, closed in the impenetrable metal box of a police van? Because I didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t understand what his death meant? Couldn’t bear to picture it? This wasn’t abstract news. This was someone I knew. Maybe the horror of it froze my emotions except for anger that something so wrong could happen. But I didn’t cry.
So why does what happened to Michael Stewart, so many years later, make me cry now? I wasn’t close to Michael. But his death changed me. Changed all of us in our circle on the Lower East Side in 1983.
We hung out once that I remember. Michael and I were both part of a circle around Madonna as she came up from the downtown scene, centered around Danceteria and other clubs like Mudd, Pyramid, Lucky Strike. Where Haoui Montaug, the Danceteria…
