Tag Archives: Gay

Redbuds of Remembrance

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“To be remembered, to have one’s name spoken—these are the most powerful things anyone can hope for.“

–Paul Monette (1945–1995; award-winning gay author, poet, and activist. His 1988 Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir was one of the first memoirs to document the AIDS crisis from a personal, unflinching perspective.)

Cercis canadensis—or Redbud, as we call it here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia—is blooming now, as April unfurls, splashing the forest with an unmistakable purple that defies subtlety. Not pink. Not lavender. But a wild, jubilant purple that dares the bare trees around it to remember what life feels like. Its blossoms don’t wait for leaves, and they don’t hide behind foliage. They burst straight from the bark, bold and tender all at once—like a memory that insists on being remembered.

They seem more magnificent this year, tugging at my heart more fiercely than ever before, making David’s words ring out above his gentle whisper:

“When the Redbuds bloom, remember me.”

David and I knew one another decades ago at the Library of Congress where we both worked in the United States Copyright Office. When we first met, David was a Cataloger, and I was a Technical Support Specialist and then Copyright Training Coordinator. We were hello-in-passing colleagues.

Later, a close and unexpected bond developed between us. I became the Library of Congress Intern Director, coordinating a 9-month program that brought together a dozen or so highly talented librarians from within the Library and across the nation, providing them with an in-depth understanding of the library’s collections, its services, and its management infrastructure.

Sitting in my office about two weeks before the program’s start, I looked up and saw David standing there. After I congratulated him on being selected for that year’s Intern class, he gave me a troubled look:

“Thanks. Can we talk?”

“Of course. Come on in.”

He closed the door as he entered. He sat down, sighed, and shot me another look that to this day remains in my memory as one of existential angst:

“I have AIDS.”

My reply hung in the air, like eternity:

“I’m so sorry.”

What else could I have said? It was 1985. Even though AIDS (Acquired ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome) was generally known to most Americans, as it spread within the gay community, it started making its way to sensational articles in national newspapers, leaving all of us–especially in the gay community–terror stricken.

● 37% in Poll Say AIDS Altered Their Attitude to Homosexuals

● Saliva Discounted as an AIDS Threat

● More and More AIDS Cases Found Among Drug Users

● Panel Disagrees Over AIDS Risk for Public

● Grim New Ravage of AIDS: Brain Damage

● Rock Hudson, Screen Idol, Dies at 59

I had read those articles and more, but they had not prepared me for this moment.

Sitting across the desk from me was not Rock Hudson. Not a brain-ravaged AIDS person. Not a drug user. Not any of the things that I had read about.

Sitting across the desk from me was my friend David. David, poised at a high point in his career. David, diagnosed with AIDS. David. Death.

Before my three words had reached David’s ears, I walked around to where he sat. As I stretched out my arms, David stood to receive my embrace. Each knowing that friends stand for friends. Each knowing that friends stand with friends.

“I don’t know what to do?”

“About what?”

“About starting the Intern program.”

I knew the answer that I was about to give David was true. It had nothing to do with being gay. Nothing to do with AIDS. It had everything to do with being. Everything to do with living.

“I don’t have a magic ball, David, but it seems to me that as you face unknown health issues, a structured program like this might just be the anchor that you need.”

“But what about my fellow interns?”

David was well aware that for the next nine months, we would all share a small classroom–with top library officials appearing and making presentations throughout the day. It was close quarters. It was rigorous. It was intense.

He was also well aware of the public reaction to AIDS. Fear was thick in the air—fear of infection, fear of proximity, even fear within the gay community itself. At one point, some wondered whether poppers had caused the epidemic.

“I don’t know how your fellow Interns will react, but I’d urge you to stick with the program. I’ll be with you every day, and I’ll have your back.”

David left my office, leaving each of us with lots to think about.

For David, thinking about whether to continue with the program or let a disease with an unknown trajectory–other than eventual death–take charge of his life and spirit.

For me, thinking about navigating the months ahead while remembering that I was directing the most prestigious Library Intern program in the nation.

Two weeks passed. No word from David. Hopeful, I went ahead and made his name tent, stacking it with the others. As I stood at the door, greeting each of the Interns, I saw David walking my way:

“Let’s do it!”

And do it, we did, for a succession of days strung together like a strand of survival pearls. Then, one day, just before we were breaking for lunch, David asked whether he could share something with his classmates.

I knew what was coming. I knew, too, that anyone with something to share knows better than anyone else not only when to share but also how to share.

David shared his news with them as bluntly as he had shared it with me, but his existential angst had softened, perhaps in the hope that a burden shared would become a burden lessened.

I watched each face in the room. I listened to every word. To every breath between the words. One by one, each Intern summoned courage to offer consolation, support, hope, and help. When the last among them had offered all they had to give, one spoke again, laying one thing more upon love’s altar:

“Let’s have lunch brought in so we can all stay here together. Today. With David.”

We did.

The spirit that shone around the room that day continued to shine upon us day after day, month after month, all the way through a triumphant Intern graduation with David as one of our speakers.

David and his fellow Interns proved themselves to be a class beyond measure.

Where many people spoke of separation, the Interns spoke of inclusion.

Where many people chose to remain socially ignorant, the Interns chose to embrace information as power.

Where many people practiced discrimination, the Interns practiced acceptance.

I like to think that all of us rose to the occasion. We did. At the same time, I know that it was David who helped us rise higher than we ever imagined simply because we were not trying to rise. We were just trying to be … ourselves. We were just trying to let him be … himself.

In David, we did not see the face of AIDS.

In David, we saw the face of humanity.

In David, we saw the face of ourselves.

In David, we saw the depth of our empathy.

In David, we saw the things that each of us valued most.

In David, we saw opportunities to be more present, to say “I love you” more, and to recalibrate the course of our own lives.

In David, we saw the face of our own mortality, our fears of not having lived fully, of leaving things unsaid, and of being forgotten.

Through David and with David, we grappled with all of those grave issues–spoken and unspoken–confident of being fellow travelers on a shared journey.

Through David, with the arrival of every new spring since–now numbering forty–I am wrapt by redbuds of remembrance.

Not Alone

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“When one person is oppressed, all are oppressed”

—Nelson Mandela (1918-2013; prominent anti-apartheid revolutionary and political leader who served as President of South Africa from 1994 to 1999, advocating for peace, reconciliation, and social justice.)

Imagine an early June morning on a West-facing mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. With the temperature just a mark above the 55% humidity, it’s perfect for being on a deck, high in the air, nearly high enough to reach up and touch white clouds and blue sky.

On the deck is a man closer to eighty than to seventy, with a faded burgundy baseball cap shielding his balding head and spectacled face, gray ponytail curling out the adjustment loop in back, dark blue polo, tan shorts, and clogs showing the tops of colorful Bombas.

The man could be sitting on one of the Adirondack glider chairs, moving effortlessly back and forth, or he could be reclining on the chaise lounge, sipping slowly on a cup of steaming coffee.

But he’s doing neither. Instead, he’s kneeling on the weathered deck, leaning forward with a putty knife in hand, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past.

He’s playing Gospel music, and the songs are trumpeting through the open doors, breaking the morning quiet. A black dog measures the deck’s length and width over and over again, stares through the railings, looks down the gravel road to see who might be going out or coming back in, and from time to time comes over and kisses the man first on one cheek and then on the other, as if to reassure him that all is well on the mountain and that he is not alone.

I know these details. I know them all and more because I’m the man on the mountain, lost in a deep reverie.

As I scrape away the old paint, I can’t help but ponder the bigger picture. I find myself musing over mankind’s place in the universe.

I don’t mean that to sound pompous, though I suppose that it does. Actually, musing over mankind’s place in the universe is an overstatement. I mean, it’s not as if I go around all the time contemplating questions such as:

● Are we the only intelligent beings in the universe?
● What would it mean if we found alien life?
● Could we communicate with alien beings?
● What ethical responsibilities do we have toward alien life?

Pondering and answering such profound questions is better left to astrobiologists, astronomers, philosophers, scientists, theologians, and stargazers.

However, make no mistake. From time to time, I do think about our human desire to connect and belong. I would hope that finding extraterrestrial life would encourage us humans to rethink our (in)significance in the greater scheme of things. I would hope that it would deepen our sense of spiritual connection and ethical duty to all forms of life. I would hope that it would make us feel less alone and more united in the universe.

But when I think about the possibility that we might be alone in the universe–and being alone strikes me as being nearly impossible–it never frightens me. I’m far more sobered by what the speaker feels in Robert Frost’s “Desert Places”:

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars–on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

My own desert places. In those four words, Frost captures the self-consciousness and the alienation that most of us–some more than others–experience at some point in our lives.

To be certain, I can relate, especially as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, knowing all too well my own desert places. I imagine that most gay guys of my era knew their own desert places, too.

In those days, I never heard the word homosexual. Instead, I heard queer, always brandished or whispered with disgust and derision. Being gay was something no one talked about, and I certainly wouldn’t have brought it up with my family or my friends or my teachers. Besides, all of them–teachers, friends, family–often told me that I was different. I took it to mean that everyone knew that I was gay and simply chose not to discuss it.

But here’s the thing. I saw being different as being special. Actually, I thought that I was super special. I felt that way not because I was gay but rather because I was a human being, filled with potential, waiting to be fulfilled.

Nonetheless, it still carried with it the feeling of being an outsider. It carried with it the feeling of not fitting in. I felt that way through grade school, through high school, and even through college. In fact, I was convinced that I was the only gay guy in the universe, although I felt confident that surely other gay guys existed somewhere. I simply didn’t know where.

As a result, those years found me doing my best to fit into a society that had not made a place at the table for a gay guy like me.

Actually, society had made a place for gays like me, especially in the South. Being queer was widely viewed as immoral and contrary to religious teachings, particularly within Christian denominations that had significant influence in the region. Being queer was heavily stigmatized and carried with it ostracism, harassment, and violence. Being queer was not seen in media, politics, or public life. The invisibility reinforced negative stereotypes and perpetuated ignorance and fear. Being queer came with prevalent sodomy laws, which criminalized sexual acts between individuals of the same sex. Those found in violation faced fines, imprisonment, and a damaged social reputation.

I often wondered what would happen if those who saw me as different suddenly saw me as queer? Would one word turn special into rejected? Condemned? Marginalized? I daresay that my behavior sometimes mirrored Paul in Willa Cather’s famous story “Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament”:

…always glancing about him, seeming to feel that people might be watching him and trying to detect something.

These feelings of isolation and disconnection led me to develop my own strategies for fitting in. I managed to navigate my own fears within the framework of that environment. I had my own strategies, not the least of which was an intense focus on academic achievements.

I excelled in various competitions and consistently maintained a top academic standing. Everyone in my community saw that I was headed toward success. I became an active member of key clubs and organizations in my schools, often holding leadership positions.

Those strategies paid off. I managed to fit in, in my own way. I was accepted. I was the model son. I was the model brother. I was the model friend. I was the model student. I was best dressed. I was teen of the year. I was most likely to succeed.

I did something else, too. I decided that I would just be me. Gay. Who else could I be? I was a gay guy. I never tried to pass as a heterosexual, nor did I lead a double life, carefully curating my behavior and associations depending on the social context. I recognize that many had to do so for their own reasons, but for me, it was important to maintain my authentic self and stand for what I believed, even though I stood alone. I was proud of who I was, of who I had been, and of who I was becoming.

I did something else, too. I cultivated a fierce resolve and determination to not let others feel the isolation that I sometimes felt. Whenever I saw someone struggling to find their place–whenever I saw an underdog for whatever reason–I made it a point to befriend them, to let them know they weren’t alone, and to let them know that they had found a safe space with me.

When I started my professional career and afterward pursued graduate studies, I moved away from my rural roots to urban areas that were more liberal and accepting. Nonetheless, I kept my resolve to create inclusive and welcoming environments wherever I happened to be. It became a guiding principle in my life, shaping my interactions with everyone. In my federal career, I was known for my appreciation of diversity and for my insistence on inclusivity. Those values carried over into my career as a community college professor where I always made it clear that my classes provided a safe, caring, and nurturing environment where students could share their views and celebrate their authentic identity.

Perhaps more important than anything else, I always included Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” in all of my classes, and I always made a point of reading aloud and emphasizing what I consider to be one of the most empowering and liberating paragraphs in literature:

O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. […] I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. […] If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth.

As I look back and share what I experienced, I am not pointing the finger of blame. I grew up in a time and place when social norms were different. The society I knew in the 1950s and 1960s had its own set of rules, shaped by cultural, religious, and social influences that were pervasive and powerful. It was a world where being different often meant being misunderstood, and where silence was often the safest response to anything outside the norm. My parents, my friends, my teachers—they were all products of their time, doing their best within the confines of the world they knew. They provided me with love and support in the ways they understood, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Although they were silent about my sexuality, they were supportive of me in countless other ways. They celebrated my achievements, encouraged my interests, and stood by me through my successes and failures. Their silence on my being gay was not a rejection but a reflection of the times. They showed their care through actions and support, even if they did not have the language or the understanding to address every part of who I was. Their love was a constant in my life, a foundation that helped me become the person I am today.

Things have changed a lot. I celebrate those advances. The progress we have made in terms of acceptance and equality has been remarkable. These changes eventually allowed me to be fulfilled in an openly gay relationship. When I met my late partner, we knew at once that we were soulmates. We said our vows, exchanged rings, and went on living our lives together, openly rather than in silence, as all people should be allowed to do. Our relationship was a testament to the strides society has made, allowing us to live authentically without fear or shame.

At the same time, I am aware that much remains to be achieved for all of us who might be marginalized. It’s critical that adults—especially educators—do everything in our power to foster a spirit of inclusion and to provide safe spaces so that everyone realizes they are not alone. We don’t have to embrace everyone, but we do need to accept everyone. We must continue to work towards a world where everyone, regardless of their background, identity, or circumstances, feels valued and included. The silent ones, those who feel they have no place, need our attention and our compassion. It is our duty to ensure that no one feels the isolation that I once did. It is our duty to let everyone know that they have a seat at humanity’s table.

And that brings me back to the man on the mountain, lost in reverie, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past, and musing about mankind’s place in the universe. The past is a great teacher, but it is not a place to live. The present moment is all that we have, and it is in this present moment that I find my solace, my meaning, and my connection to all of humanity. I am not alone. We are not alone. And in the vastness of the universe, that is a comforting thought.

My story is just one example of how struggles can be outweighed by resilience and acceptance. It is a testament to the power of love, support, and the human spirit’s ability to adapt and thrive.

If my message reaches only one person, my heart will be fulfilled knowing that the message was a touchstone, perhaps to be paid forward. If my message reaches many, my soul will be fulfilled in the belief that many can touch more.

We have come a long way, but our journey towards true inclusion and acceptance has a longer way to go. That’s why I believe it’s crucial that we continue to work towards creating a world where everyone feels seen, heard, and accepted.

Let’s muster up our full measure of strength, resolve, and determination to make sure that no one ever feels alone.