My dear friend, Bob Kohler, died last week, privately, quietly. But grieving Bob has been a community affair, and loud.

Bob was a legend to many: As one of the first white talent agents to promote black artists in NYC, as the "daddy" fighting for the street kids at Stonewall, as one of the founders of the Gay Liberation Front and the first gay pride march, as a WWII Navy veteran who spoke out against U.S. imperialism, as the gay white man that showed up in pictures of Black Panther demonstrations, and as someone who worked with ActUp from its inception until his death. Bob's activism didn't slow down when he turned 70, or 80.

People always commented on Bob's posse. How could some old man have so many young lesbian friends? How could some old blue-eyed white man have so many youths of color who love him? How come everyone in the village seemed to know him? When Bob was ill last summer, marches that he couldn't attend would snake past his apartment to give him a shout out. How could so many ragtag people be so dedicated to this guy in ironed jeans?

Bob could be grouchy, and didn't mince words. If you disagreed on a topic, which you inevitably would, you might get tongue thrashed. Bob didn't let people off easy: He took the Gay Liberation Front to meet with Black Panther representatives, wanting to work together, but insisting that the group's sexism and homophobia be addressed. He lectured unconvinced queer and AIDS activists about his belief that any activist worth their salt would actively support the SHAC 7 and all targeted animal and earth activists. He stood outside NYC's AIDS services office every night for a year and a half to ensure that every homeless person who showed up was housed, every night, bureaucracy be damned. He fought ActUp NY when they didn't want to support two HIV+ activist prisoners who were AIDS denialists. He made friends with gay politicians and police officers, thanked them when they made moves to help the homeless, activists, and animals in the city, and publicly challenged them when they didn't. Though not a fan of drugs, he created safe space for users. He was vegetarian, rescued dogs and rehabilitated injured deer. He was a queer who did abortion clinic defense work. He was a man who went to the dyke march every year to sing and hand out water, since "real fags are feminists."

Bob was always asked about his role at the Stonewall riots. He makes clear he was there the first night by accident, and he knew the 14 and 16 year old street kids who were fighting the police because he'd been helping take care of them. Though a lot has changed for queers in the time since Stonewall, a lot has not. Bob continued to turn his attention toward youth who were homeless because their families had kicked them out, or made "home" too dangerous a place to be. He supported queer youth of color who needed NYC streets to be a refuge, instead of a place where they'd be hunted by police.

As a veteran gay activist, Bob was quoted widely in newspaper articles after the Matthew Shepard political funeral. He was generally not quoted regarding the zillions of other political funerals he attended, for AIDS victims, for murdered immigrants, trannies, dykes, homeless people and sex workers.

On Sunday, generations of activists held a political funeral for Bob himself. We sprinkled his ashes down Christopher Street, on the piers, and into the Hudson River, so that Bob could rejoin his friends Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson. The event was sweet and funny and loud and cathartic, and a little rough around the edges, just how Bob would have liked.

May his big feet stomp these grounds forever.