By Thaai Walker, San Jose Mercury News

Word of Harvey Milk's death flashed across a news board at the Chicago Board of Trade in 1978. Ken Yeager, then an underpaid runner who kept his sexual orientation to himself, mourned alone, as the busy trading floor hummed along without acknowledging the assassination.

Ramona Gatto was a 15-year-old San Carlos teenager then, unaware that she was a lesbian but conscious that she was somehow different. She had felt an unexplained kinship with Milk, a man she'd often glimpsed on the 6 o'clock news. Gatto knew, without knowing why, that his death meant more than the off-color jokes her classmates made.

It was 25 years ago today that Supervisor Milk -- one of the country's first openly gay elected officials -- and his political ally, Mayor George Moscone, were gunned down in San Francisco City Hall by Dan White, a disgruntled former supervisor.

The killing of a city's mayor would have been horrifying enough, but Milk's assassination jolted the nascent gay-rights movement. It was Milk who called on gay men and lesbians to be visible, to be proud and to have hope. And it was Milk who compelled many to step out of the shadows, leaving an indelible mark on people like Yeager and Gatto.

Became councilman

Yeager, who once thought his sexual orientation would limit his political aspirations, went on to become San Jose's first openly gay council member in 2000. Gatto, now 40, found herself turning to Milk's words during her own personal battles as a lesbian parent. She came to share Milk's message with her young daughter, an outspoken activist for gay families in her own right.

On Sunday, Gatto, her partner, her 15-year-old daughter, Marina, and Marina's boyfriend traveled to San Francisco to attend a Moscone-Milk candlelight march.

"A family, visible and proud. Thank you, Harvey Milk," read the sign Gatto carried.

"His message was about visibility, and that's what our family is about," said Gatto, a trim, fast-talking woman with a mass of curly brown hair.

In their San Carlos house, the family has highlighted their favorite quotes in a well-worn copy of the "The Mayor of Castro Street," Randy Shilts' political biography of Milk. "We're saying, `We're here, we're everywhere, and we're proud of who we are.' "

The gay-friendly Castro district was the home base for Milk's message. He owned a camera store there, and he marked his victory by walking proudly from the Castro to City Hall.

He was a populist and a progressive who widened his base of support by pledging to better life for all San Franciscans.

That message resonated with Yeager, who had politics in his blood. Class president, seventh grade. Student body president, ninth grade. Back then, he promised to secure the right for students to wear jeans and long hair.

But his aspirations were stunted by the belief that his political role would always be in the background because he was gay.

Then came Harvey Milk. And Yeager began to hope.

He worked as a policy analyst for two county supervisors and as a press secretary for U.S. Rep. Don Edwards. In 1984 he co-founded the Bay Area Municipal Elections Committee, a gay political-advocacy group.

Then in 1992 Yeager made his move: He was elected to the San Jose-Evergreen Community College District Board, becoming San Jose's first openly gay elected official. In 2000, Yeager won a seat on the San Jose council, another milestone.

As a labor-friendly councilman, Yeager is an advocate for mainstream issues such as less traffic and improved transit services. But he has also fought for policies that affect gay people, including an ordinance that exempted domestic partners from paying a severe property-transfer tax that married couples did not have to pay. Another gave transgender people equal protection under the city's anti-discrimination policy.

"The biggest effect he had on me was that I decided to run for office as an openly gay person in 1992," Yeager said of Milk. "He was really the person who gave gay people hope that they could run as who they were."

A connection in 2000

Milk's message also took up a quiet residence in Gatto's mind. She would not truly connect with that message until 2000. That's when she ended up in the news after suing San Mateo County District Attorney Jim Fox for revealing to her ex-husband -- a longtime friend of Fox's -- that she was a lesbian.

It was a piece of information that Fox had learned during an investigation into a domestic dispute at Gatto's house. Gatto was not a participant in the dispute, but the disclosure sparked a yearlong custody battle over her daughter, Marina. Last month, the district attorney agreed to settle the suit by paying Gatto $94,500. But during the fight, Gatto often turned to Milk's words for reassurance.

"People were telling me I couldn't win -- that I'd be humiliated, that the worst thing I could do was to fight this thing," said Gatto, a world champion kick-boxer.

Instead, she decided to be even more visible. She talked openly in the news media. Subsequently, she and her family became a "poster" alternative family. Her daughter, Marina, who has a 3.7 grade-point average and serves as class president, has gone as far as testifying before the state Legislature on domestic partners' rights.

This past summer, Marina was the grand marshal of the San Francisco Gay Pride Parade. Above her bed hangs her parade sash, inscribed with Milk's words: "You've gotta give 'em hope."

Not long ago, a man in a pickup truck pulled up in front of Gatto's house. With tears in his eyes, the man told Gatto about his teenage son, who had just come out as gay. His son said the gay-pride flag that flies in front of Gatto's home had given him the courage to make the revelation. It is a flag that others have torn down.

"Milk believed that the greatest changes were not necessarily made through politics, but by being out there and being visible," Gatto said. "And, you know what? He is 100 percent right.

"Us being here, it's changing things."