When most people come out, becoming a pillar of the queer community isn’t usually top of mind. Instead, they often reflect on gaining confidence in their environment, finding love and relationships, and embracing their true selves. But when one Maryland lawyer came out, he unexpectedly found himself becoming a hero to many.

Fifty years ago Lawrence (Larry) Jacobs was living a life that looked picture-perfect: A successful law career, a wife, and a son. But when he came out as gay, everything changed.

“When I started practicing law 50 years ago, there was basically no such thing by and large as openly gay people, much less openly gay lawyers,” Jacobs told the Blade about his days prior to coming out. “I was married to a woman and had a kid. I was pretty closeted until the first 10 years of my career.”

Despite the beginnings of a successful career, Jacobs felt he wasn’t being truly himself and decided to change that. It was difficult leaving his familiar beginnings and facing unsupportive people.

“When I did come out in ‘83 I got tossed out of my own law firm for being gay by my [law] partner,” he said. “So that was not a good start.” 

Yet he didn’t let this change in track become a setback. Instead he used what he learned through college, law school, and life to direct him to where he needed to be. This direction, stemming from his understanding of law, began to flourish into much more for the Maryland LGBTQ community. 

“I started representing gay business owners in doing corporate and business work, which was always something I was interested in,” Jacobs said. “So lo and behold, as I got more comfortable being out and I had a [romantic] partner, I started nibbling around the edges of doing activist work in Montgomery County.” 

This work began with working on wills and estate planning. 

“I had my first set of gay business owner clients who said, ‘Larry, we need wills,’” he recounted. “And I said, ‘I’ve never written a will.’ And they basically said, ‘Figure it out.’ That was almost 2,000 wills ago.”

During the time when Jacobs started writing wills in the 1980s, HIV, AIDS, bigotry, and sadness came to many in the community with little support from mainstream politicians. 

“You know the old AIDS days, ‘80s and ‘90s, where the families would swoop in and carry the body off to Iowa and the partner would never see them again,” Jacobs recalled. “There were all these heartbreaking stories about that.”

He explained that these stories were not just kept to the queer media sidelines either. This issue was growing more and more prevalent in American society. 

“One of the turning points, ironically, was a made-for-TV movie that was on HBO called ‘If These Walls Could Talk.’” Jacobs said. “It was a series of vignettes about lesbians. A fabulous actress played a grieving surviving spouse of her partner who had just died. They’re literally carrying stuff out of the house, carrying the TV and furniture and paintings out, and she’s sitting there crying.”

Seeing these tragic stories playing out in front of him, both on screen and in real life motivated Jacobs. He knew he could do more to help. 

“What little bits of things can I do to make gay life better in Montgomery County, for the people that come after me,” Jacobs began to wonder. He realized that in the fight for rights, being seen is crucial to gaining acceptance.

“Working with some people, we actually put together early Montgomery Prides and ran them for a few years, just to sort of build political visibility,” he said. “I kept telling people, ‘Nobody’s gonna listen to us if they don’t see us!’ And then right around the same time, around ‘95, everything just kind of took off.”

 “I got appointed to the Montgomery County Human Relations Commission by our then county executive, Doug Duncan, as an openly gay man,” Jacobs said. “Well, I had never been an openly gay man much of anything before then, but it was like, ‘Yeah, yeah, OK.’”

This seat on the Montgomery County Human Relations Commission gave Jacobs the ability to wield power to help those who needed it the most. He remembered that fighting for LGBTQ student rights in schools was a particularly big hurdle that seems all too familiar today.  

“Through an odd combination of coincidences, I, with Bonnie Berger, launched the Safe Schools movement in Montgomery County to protect LGBT kids in schools, and that turned into a three ring media circus,” he began to explain. “I mean, you want to see ugly? It included getting interviewed on a radio station with a Christian fundamentalist woman who said right to my face, ‘You know, gay men on average die at age 40.’ I was like, ‘Yeah, I’m already past that. So is my partner.’”

Despite the “three ring circus,” Jacobs and Berger were able to make progress.

“We did get it passed, it got swept under the rug, but eventually we got more supportive schools,” he said. “But then I sort of somehow got involved more on the state level with the statewide organization that was then ironically called FreeState Justice.”

This then marked a shift from fighting for local policy changes to state policy changes, which Jacobs foresaw as the next step to gaining equality. 

“We were desperately trying to get domestic partnership benefits,” Jacobs explained. “Nobody could get married. If you’re not married to somebody, you’re a stranger, whether that’s in Maryland or even in the District. Unless you’re registered domestic partners, you’re nothing [in the eyes of the law].”

Jacobs used his platform to inform the queer public. Without legal domestic partnerships he understood that everything two people in love had, regardless of gender and gender expression, could be taken away in an instant.

He started sharing his information by tabling and talking with members of the LGBTQ community about the state of things wherever he could, highlighting what could happen if a partner dies.

“Sometimes my husband and I, well, I would get a booth at Pride, and my husband would come with me and swelter. Sometimes my son would come with us and swelter, and it just started growing,” Jacobs said.

He would share stories about how having legally binding documents can protect a couple even against the most hateful of people.

“I had these two elderly women, one of whom was sick and we knew her partner was going to die,” he began. “I don’t remember how old she was, but she was sick. She died not long thereafter, and my client, the surviving client, went into the funeral home, and they gave her a hard time. ‘Who the hell are you? Why do you think you can make decisions?’”

“And she literally called me up and told me this. She [then] brought in a manila envelope with all the documents that we had done and pulled out the funeral document that named her, of course, as the power behind the throne, and handed it over to the funeral director, and he went ‘Oh, OK. That’s all we need.’” 

While many of the issues that had plagued same-sex couples prior to Obergefell v. Hodges, the Supreme Court case that gave same-sex couples the same protections as opposite-sex couples, went away, Jacobs made it very clear legally being seen as a couple is the strongest defense to protecting everything you and your partner own.  

“There’s certainly more acceptance because of marriage equality,” Jacobs explained. “And I will, without violating client confidentiality, tell you there are numerous clients that I have said to, ‘You need to get married. Yes, we’re doing these great documents, but you need to get married too for this and this and this and this reason.’ The right documents and a wedding license are a very powerful combination. Neither one by itself is foolproof, and marriage gets you a lot of things, but doesn’t get you everything.”

To summarize an extremely rewarding and impactful career Jacobs offers this piece of advice: “If I could be remembered for anything it would be ‘Get married, and get married while you can, because someday you’re going to need it, want it!” Jacobs said he plans to retire effective Dec. 27.