As the curtain rises once again on Harvey Milk: The Opera, a haunting and powerful tribute to America's first openly gay elected official, the real-life political stage is casting a darker shadow. In a move that has ignited outrage among LGBTQ+ communities and civil rights advocates, the Trump-aligned leadership at the Department of the Navy is reportedly moving to rename a ship originally christened the USNS Harvey Milk. The reason? A deliberate reshaping of who is deemed "honorable" in the military's public narrative.
But even as history is being rewritten in Washington, it is being sung with renewed power,
Three decades later after it was comissioned and played by San Francisco Opera, the company Opera Parallèle, which has made a mission of staging works by contemporary composers, and the Opera Theatre of Saint Louis comissioned a new version of the opera called Harvey Milk Reimagined.
This production, which had its opening performance at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts' Blue Shield of California Theater on Saturday, May 31, and runs through June 7.
The revival of Harvey Milk—a bold, emotionally searing opera composed by Stewart Wallace with a libretto by Michael Korie—feels more urgent than ever. Originally premiered in 1995, the opera dramatizes Milk's journey from closeted insurance salesman to San Francisco City Supervisor, to martyrdom at the hands of a former colleague. The production doesn't shy away from the rawness of his story: his passion, his politics, his queerness, and ultimately, his assassination.
Today's audiences will find in Harvey Milk not just a portrait of a man, but a reflection of our current sociopolitical climate. At a time when LGBTQ+ rights are again under threat and anti-gay rhetoric is resurfacing in national discourse, the opera functions as both artistic triumph and political resistance.
Harvey Milk was more than a gay icon. Born in 1930, he was a Navy veteran himself—honorably discharged at a time when being openly gay meant instant expulsion. His later decision to run for public office was, in itself, a revolutionary act. After three failed campaigns, he won a seat on San Francisco's Board of Supervisors in 1977, becoming the first openly gay man elected to public office in California. Less than a year later, he and Mayor George Moscone were gunned down by Dan White, a former supervisor.
It is this complex legacy—part celebration, part tragedy—that makes his story opera-worthy. And it is precisely why the timing of this operatic return is so piercing.
Opera has long served as a mirror to politics, from Verdi's nationalist anthems in 19th-century Italy to Nixon in China and Doctor Atomic in the 20th and 21st. But Harvey Milk may be one of the most emotionally charged examples of how art defies political erasure. While officials may sandblast his name off the side of a ship, they cannot mute a baritone's cry of "I am Harvey Milk!" on a live stage.
This revival also challenges opera's reputation as a conservative art form. With a cast inclusive of queer performers and direction that leans into contemporary aesthetics, the production is connecting with younger, more diverse audiences. It is a bold reclamation not just of Milk's legacy, but of what opera can and should be.
In the end, the opera's final note may outlast the bureaucratic decision to rename a ship. Because Harvey Milk—like all those who dare to fight for visibility—was never just about a name. He was a voice. And that voice is still singing.
