Worth 1,000 words?

Alfred Eisenstaedt's 1945 photo "The Kiss at Times Square," taken at the end of World War ll, is honored as one of the pictorial moments "that changed the world." (There's a published collection by that title.)
Eisenstaedt captured the joy in a spontaneous celebratory kiss of a young sailor and a then-unknown nurse reveling with thousands of others at the longed for end to carnage, plunder and loss of millions of lives caused by six years of Axis aggression against the free world.
After 63 years, the nurse, Edith Shain from Los Angeles, was "discovered" and last November 11 was fittingly feted as Grand Marshall in the New York City Veteran's Day Parade.
Of that memorable kiss Edith (now 90, and still bussworth, and probably quite willing to be kissed by a handsome gob again – God knows I would at my advanced years), told reporters, "The photograph says many things to me. Hope, love, peace, and promise of a better tomorrow."
For some reason (perhaps it's the hemline or stocking shade Nurse Edith wore when the picture was snapped) I'm reminded of another photo – different but equally memorable – by another famous photographer, a guy who nicknamed himself Weegee. The photo I have in mind is of a blond drag queen.
Weegee snapped his unknown crossdresser just seconds after being shoved into a packed paddy wagon. For whatever reason of boldness, inebriation, or outspoken "Honey, I am what I am," she turned, smiled a dazzling mouthful, lifted her skirt teasingly, and revealed for one and all a gorgeous pair of gams. Betty Grable, eat your heart out!
Pretty damn brave for the mid-1950s, I'd say. Whoever you were, Princess Paddy Wagon; (perhaps whoever you still are), whatever you went through after you got out of that cursed jail on wheels, your moment of devil-may-care glamour took real, pre-pre-Stonewall Riots he-man guts. I salute you.
As someone who came out during the tail end (no comment please) of the '50s, I do most certainly remember the vice squad, the "Big Four" in their unmarked police cars, the presence of non-uniformed cops in gay bars eager to make an arrest. (Lotsa luck, kid. Your word against theirs.)
I had friends who were entrapped, heard stories of employees who were fired because an employer received a phone call legally tattling that so-and-so was a pervert. I knew lesbians who were turned back at the Canadian/American border because they looked "too butch."
So much came back as I sat through Gus Van Sant's "Milk." Right from the opening credits I was deeply touched. Newsreel clips were used to give a contrasting framework for the two-and-a-half hours of Harvey's life, times, and death.
We had an expression back then for straights who, whether for beer-and-a-shot curiosity or low brow titillation, gay bar hopped to giggle and leer. We called them tourists. That's exactly what the beginning "Milk" newclips are. Celluloid tourists.
These cameras menacingly tape gay men's shame. Hands covering faces. Heads hidden under coats. The awful horror of being nailed in a raid. Fear of friends, neighbors, loved ones finding out. Queer! Fairy! Creep! How will I ever live this down?
We've come a long way, to be sure. And God knows we've got a long way to go. For all those who once hid their heads in shame, and to the very, very few – like the unknown Weegee crossdresser – who bravely (and chicly) posed for posterity…
We may never know who you were. Your actions speak louder than words. They echo still.