‘Got Weird’: 50 Things From The Past That Are Hard To Believe If They Weren’t Photographed (New Pics)

On the second day of the annual convention of the American Psychiatric Association in 1972, something extraordinary happened.

While the assembled psychiatrists, mostly white men in dark suits, settled into rows of chairs in the Danish Room at the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas, a disguised figure had been smuggled through the back corridors. At the last minute, he stepped through a side curtain and took his place at the front of the room.

There was an intake of breath in the audience. The man’s appearance was grotesque. His face was covered by a rubber Nixon mask, and he was wearing a garish, oversized tuxedo and a curly fright wig. But the outlandishness of his outfit diminished in importance once he began to speak.

“I am a homosexual,” he began. “I am a psychiatrist.”

For the next 10 minutes, Henry Anonymous, M.D. — this is what he had asked to be called — described the secret world of gay psychiatrists. Officially, they did not exist; homosexuality was categorized as a mental illness, so acknowledging it would result in the revocation of one’s medical license, and the loss of a career. In 42 states, sodomy was a crime.

The reality was that there were plenty of gay people in the A.P.A., psychiatry’s most influential professional body, the masked doctor explained. But they lived in hiding, concealing every trace of their private life from their colleagues.

“All of us have something to lose,” he said. “We may not be under consideration for a professorship; the analyst down the street may stop referring us his overflow; our supervisor may ask us to take a leave of absence.”

This was the trade-off that had formed the basis of the masked man’s life. But the cost was too high. That’s what he had come to tell them.

“We are taking an even bigger risk, however, in not living fully our humanity,” he said. “This is the greatest loss, our honest humanity.”

He took his seat to a standing ovation

A few years later, in 1931, Schwartz was in a plane crash. Mistakenly identified as dead, she was placed in the trunk of a car, and driven to the morgue where it was discovered that she was still alive but in a coma. It took her years to walk normally again but she returned to track and field and was part of the US relay team at the 1936 Summer Olympics where her team won gold.

The fact that it was found in an Edwardian London slum, and is made from the heel of a man’s shoe, a black sock and some scraps of household fabric, makes it at once the most heartbreaking and marvelous of toys.

In 1993, Emile Leray set off on a solo journey across the Moroccan desert in a Citroën 2CV, a lightweight French economy car. During his trip, he encountered a military checkpoint that prohibited him from continuing on his planned route. Wanting to bypass the checkpoint, he attempted to take a remote off-road path through the Sahara Desert—a risky decision that would soon lead to an incredible challenge.

“I had travelled round Africa about 10 times, so I knew the region well and therefore had no concerns,” said Leray “I decided to do it in a 2CV because, although it is not a 4×4, it is tough. In Africa they call it the ‘Steel Camel’ because it goes everywhere — provided you drive it gently. I obviously was too rough.” Not long after, Leray’s 2CV broke down in the middle of the desert, far from civilization. With no way to call for help and limited supplies, he realized he had to take drastic action if he wanted to survive. Over the course of 12 days, using only the tools and parts he had with him, Emile Leray disassembled his car and built a makeshift motorcycle from the chassis, engine, wheels, and suspension of the 2CV. He created a bare-bones, motorized bike using the rear wheels for traction and mounted the engine in a way that allowed it to drive the wheels. He used parts of the car body as protection and fuel storage. He rationed his food and water carefully, using just 0.5 liters of water per day.

After completing the bike, Leray was able to ride out of the desert and eventually reached safety. Yet the police who met him were less excited, and especially unimpressed with his makeshift vehicle which failed to conform with the specifications of the Citroën 2CV Leray had registered. They slapped him with a hefty fine, worth 4,550 dirhams (450 euros). Emile Leray’s story has been featured in engineering circles, survival magazines, and even in automotive history as one of the most extreme examples of field improvisation. His modified 2CV-motorcycle still exists and has been shown in various exhibitions.