I took a peek out of the side of my eye, and discovered that he was at least a foot shorter than me, dark, stalky, and sufficiently unattractive. Just my luck. I felt better, though, knowing that when we were dancing together, I was consistently in control--I was always the one to decide the movements, and if I decided to change the way I was dancing, he would simply follow suit. Four hips synchronized, with the control panel located inside my head.

Once he let go of me, though, I slowly danced away from him so he could not grab me again, and very soon afterwards Barbara decided she wanted to go home now. So we left, walking on air to the end of the block.

The next day was the Northwest AIDS walk, which I felt somewhat obliged to participate in. Way back when, George Bakan had said that maybe I could walk in it and then write about it. Even though I had not been contacted directly by that insanely unorganized man in more than a month, I thought I would do it and write about it anyway. Barbara happened to be over for that weekend, and she very happily did it with me--she even said to me, “Now I’ll have Bloomsday in the spring and this in the fall!” I guess she plans on making a habit of coming over for this annual walk. I didn’t mind that idea, because it would encourage me to exercise at least one more day out of each year.

The walk was about seven miles, making it the longest walk I had ever taken in my entire life. It began at the stadium right next to the Space Needle and ended there as well, with mostly the waterfront in between. Much of that waterfront stretch was in a park I had not yet discovered on my own, right at the waterfront, and quite literally--the park even had some mini beaches. It’s very pleasant there as long as you look toward the bay; turn around and all you can see is a rail yard beyond a chain link fence.

The walk left us both dead tired, especially after having to get up early that morning, after staying up so late dancing for so long. We had a very nice time, though, and Barbara returned to Spokane the next day, to arrive just in time to go to her swing shift at work.

The next weekend, the one of October 4, I had two very important guests--the man responsible for half of my very existence (quite a feat, that) and the woman responsible for 90% of what I know about personal hygiene, the two and only Kim and Sherri McQuilkin. This visit was necessary in order to round out the birthday present I gave Dad back in August--which included a ticket to Rent. They got into town a few hours before the show was to start.

They brought with them one of their old love seats, which I use occasionally but has really been staked the territory of my two cats. It will prove the most useful when I have company. They also brought a large box full of old pillows, blankets, and dishes for me. I now have more mis-matched cups than a guy could possibly ask for. I do appreciate it.

Once it was past the time that they could do so, Dad and Sherri checked themselves into the Warwick Hotel, and by pure coincidence they ended up with a room on the top (19th) floor. They were on the side of the hotel that had a view to the North, so they could see my apartment building exactly one block away. When I came back home that night, I waved at Sherri from the outdoor walkway on my floor.

That hotel was very nice, with a sufficiently lavish lobby. The elevators were equipped with not only the restaurant’s menu but framed photos of their visibly yummy meals--which proved at breakfast the next day to be false advertising. The view from the top was very nice, though.

Soon enough it was time to see the play, which ran at the Moore Theater, only four blocks from their hotel. I had bought tickets for this play only knowing that its popularity helped revitalize the theater scene, it won a Pulitzer prize, and won a bunch of Tonys. It was pure coincidence that it happened to be about a bunch of poor young New Yorkers with AIDS, which naturally meant there were gay characters--one of which proved to be Sherri’s favorite.

I don’t think it was quite either Dad or Sherri’s favorite play, but it appeared as though they liked it, and I was happy about that. It was the first Broadway production I ever saw myself, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

For the next few hours we just kind of hung out, and at six in the evening we had reservations for dinner at a restaurant called Icon Grill, which Barbara and I had tried when she was visiting. She saw herself the first time she visited how much daily progress they were making with the construction inside that building, and had said she wanted to come back and eat there when they opened--so she did. I was incredibly impressed, even though they were so busy we had to sit in the bar. When I was eating in there that first time, I kept trying to get a look at the rest of the dining room--and ended up knocking over a potted plant that was next to me in the process. Luckily there was a woman passing by who saved it.

I had no problem showing my face in there again, though. I had thought of taking Dad and Sherri to the Asgard at the top of the Hilton, where Auntie Rose and I had eaten in the summer, but when Dad told me he did not want to stay at the Cavennaugh’s Inn because it was not central enough to my apartment, I figured I should have dinner as centralized as well. I was really looking forward to eating the best shrimp spaghetti I had ever tasted again anyway.

So we ate there, and Dad and Sherri were visibly impressed with it, complimenting the food as soon as they tasted their appetizer of clams (which I thought looked positively wretched). Sherri ordered the same thing I did, and also thought it was very good--I don’t remember what Dad had, but I doubt any of you care what it was. In any case, we had a nice visit there, talking over our food about the misunderstood letter from Uncle Paul that spawned the introduction to last month’s newsletter.

When dinner was over, Sherri had left already because she had to go to the bathroom. I had planned on paying for this dinner, and partly because Sherri had asked me once way back when of this weekend, “So where are you going to take us for dinner?” But it was much more than just that, because they have paid for my meals both at home and elsewhere all of my life, and I have very rarely thanked them for it--very much because such things were sort of just a part of life for me. I wanted to come up with an incredibly noticeable way to show my appreciation, and action certainly speaks much louder than words. They have given so much to me and done so much for me over the years, I felt it was about time I started giving at least a little bit of it back.

I had hoped that I could just slip my card on the bill and have it taken away before I looked at the price, so I could have my heart attack later. However, Dad completely screwed up the plan by very promptly picking up the bill. I had nothing else to do but reach over and drop my card into his hands, over the bill itself.

“What’s this for?” he asked. I should have told him it’s a new kind of toothpick.

“I’m paying for it,” I said.

“Why?” He obviously was not expecting this.

“It’s your birthday.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Ah, the joys of the obligatory comment--of course he and I both knew that I didn’t have to do it; that’s what made the action that much more valuable. I think I may have made him a little uncomfortable, and much of that was probably due to how unexpected it was for me to do such a thing. So then he tried to give me a little wad of cash, saying, “At least let me pay for Sherri.”

“No,” I said.

“Take it,” he said.

“No.”

“Take it!”

“No!”

So he apprehensively put the money back into his pocket, and then he told me how much it cost! Let’s just say . . . it was expensive. I still didn’t mind paying for it. I had spent about five times that much on my cats over the previous month, so it’s not like it was much of a stretch to do something like that for my own parents.

When we were outside and waking toward a corner store, Dad told Sherri that I had paid for dinner. “You didn’t have to do that!” she said. When we got into the store, I immediately shot away to get the couple of things I wanted so I could make it to the cash register before they could offer to pay for it. They were little things, but still, when they are my guests the tables are turned and there is no reason to expect the same kind of offerings I tend to get at home. At one point I shot past where Dad and Sherri happened to be standing at the moment, and I did not know they were standing there at the end of the isle I was passing. All I heard was Sherri saying, “Stubborn little kid, isn’t he?” I assumed Dad was telling her about my insisting on paying for dinner.

I enjoy being stubborn.

That evening I hung out with them in their hotel room, and we watched There’s Something About Mary on their hotel TV. It was not too late when I got home.

The next day Dad and Sherri stayed for most of the day, and we just sort of hung out some more, going through that underground tunnel that connects Rainier Square to the convention center four blocks away, looking around FAO Schwarz, and visiting the Space Needle via the monorail, among other things. At one point Sherri was standing on the observation deck of the Space Needle and she asked if I ever stood there and waited until it completed a revolution.

This prompted me to take this opportunity to clear up a misconception I have even overheard from other tourists on the observation deck over there. That deck does not revolve at all, only the upper restaurant does. If you stood in one spot on the observation deck and waited for an hour, you would indeed find yourself in the same spot again--but you would have been in that exact spot in all the time between as well. The restaurant does go around, about one revolution per hour.

Dad and Sherri sat on my love seat and watched the news in my apartment that evening, waiting for the five o’clock traffic to taper off. Soon enough they were ready to go, though, and they were off.

It was the following weekend, on Sunday, that Dad and Sherri had a very important guest--the one and only self-proclaimed fruitcake this side of the Mississippi, yours truly. I was actually coming down to attend the Hawaiian dinner my grandparents were going to cook at Dad’s house--which consisted of transparent noodles I did not eat any of and sticky white rice covered with chili (I had the rice, covered with sweet and sour sauce, for that dinner . . . it was not very good). Grandma and Grandpa were recently back from Hawaii and it was going to be nice to see them again.

First, though, on the evening of my arrival for that weekend, Dad and Sherri and I went out to dinner with Angel and Gina. It just so happened that neither of their boyfriends came along, so the closest things to escorts they had were Gina’s eight year- old son and Angels’ beautiful new baby. It was a very nice time with the majority of my immediate family (the empty space being the absence of Christopher), eating over delicious pizza that was cooked in a stove with a remarkable resemblance to a simple gigantic fireplace.

It was the next day, that Monday, that we had the Hawaiian dinner, which was a very nice visit with a good portion of both my immediate and extended family. Dad had told me at one point that it was not really intended to be a big family function, but that’s kind of what it ended up being anyway. Even Angel and Gina were both there again, which was apparently not part of an organized plan. It was nice to visit with all of them.

The dinner itself was not really my kind of food--I hate chili--and so I ate much less than probably anyone else there. I even ate less dessert than most of them, because of the two cakes I would only have a piece of one, because the other had coconut on it. Someone, I don’t remember who, just about had a heart attack over the unbelievable fact that I hate coconut--I think it was Aunt Raenae (or Aunt Arena, if you prefer). What I thought was weirder, though, was that [my cousin] Toni apparently does not like ice cream, and her boyfriend Tony apparently doesn’t like cake at all. (This Tony would eat no cake; that Toni took no ice cream. And so betwixt them both you see, they licked the platter clean.)

By the end of the evening, as usual, the last people still at the house were Aunt Raenae and Uncle Paul, and we all ended up sitting around the dining room table, finding everything we possibly could to laugh uncontrollably about. (In case any of you are wondering, Aunt Raenae managed to go the entire evening without peeing all over the dining room floor. She nearly lost it at one point, but she pulled through and we’re all proud of her.) At one point we spoke openly about the infamous Uncle Paul letter (which really has not been overtly discussed in the newsletter--but that’s okay), which led to the possibility of my putting embarrassing tidbits about people in here. Now, would I do that?

I noted at the time that it must be nice for Dad and these two of his siblings to live so close to each other. They sure seem to have a good time when they get together. I did also have a nice visit with Grandma (Grandpa, on the other hand, spent most of his time sitting in front of the television set downstairs.) It was nice to see everyone again, as always--and the next day I was headed back home again.

The weekend after that was the first one I actually had to myself since early August. It was so abnormal that I almost didn’t know what to do with myself. I certainly figured out something to do with that time . . . I just don’t remember what it was.

It was the weekend after that, actually from Thursday October 22 to Saturday the 24th, that Auntie Rose had her own important guest at her home in Port Townsend--her one and only permanently correspondent grandnephew, once again yours truly. By the end of the weekend, I had to convince her that I did indeed have a wonderful time there, and she said that she would like me to paste the section of my next newsletter on my weekend with her into my next letter to her. “But you can’t say anything bad about us,” she said. I guess, then, that it wouldn’t do to say she tied me up and tossed me into a basement closet for the weekend with nothing to eat but slices of German sausage slipped under the door . . . honestly, the weekend was somewhat more enjoyable than that.

In fact, I had a wonderful time there. I had not ever been to her Port Townsend home--which is actually on the other side of the peninsula on which the city itself is actually located, with a spectacular view of the Olympic mountains beyond a bay inlet-- but I would certainly not complain at the idea of visiting there again sometime.

Auntie Rose’s house actually kind of reminded me of the house my maternal grandparents once had in Magnolia here in Seattle, with a spectacular view out their front window--only this time, instead of the spectacular view of the city and the skyline in the distance, it was a spectacular view of a part of the bay and the mountains. The only buildings that could be seen were other little clusters of houses here and there, perhaps in three or four very secluded areas barely within view. Hardly noticeable at all, the houses are overtaken by the overall view, which is a breathtaking picture of a charming storybook setting.

I was told that this house was built to take the fullest possible advantage of the view, at the same time using passive solar features to augment the house’s heating system. There are no windows at all at the front of the house (which faces away from the view), and the back side is probably at least half constructed of windows, through which a good portion of the sunlight hits a wall comprised of rocks that came from Mats Bay (I think that’s where she said they were from) to help in the heating of the home. Not only do the rocks lend themselves to the aesthetic charm of the house, they also serve the double function of heating.

The first thing I did when I went out onto their deck was take a ton of pictures, to get a panoramic view of the bay and the hills in the distance, covered in the golden glow of the sunset. If there was ever an ideal place to stay out in the country, this would be it. It was so jarringly different from where I live in the city that it was actually weird, how quiet it was. Instead of a streetlight shining through my blinds in the middle of the night, I slept in such darkness that there was absolutely zero light for my eyes to adjust to (there were no streetlights at all up there). Instead of the incessant screaming sirens, there was the occasional rustling of grass. Instead of steaming sewage grates, there was an alternate drain field constructed at the insistence of state law in case water might start running uphill (uh . . . it’s a long story). Instead of large signs screaming notices of proposed land use action, there was miles of trees.

I don’t know how anyone could stand to stay in such a place for more than two days, it’s got to be incredibly stressful. It’s amazing how many people choose to live with that stuff!

This weekend was also the first time I was given a real chance to meet Uncle Imre properly. He is a very charming Hungarian with an obvious heart of gold, who is old enough to be so set in his ways that he doesn’t seem to understand a lot about how people my age tend to regard their world, which is one much different than the one he grew up in (when Auntie Rose told him I would not be eating any meat because I’m a vegetarian, he jokingly offered me some carrots for dinner). It was often rather difficult for me to decipher what he was saying through his Hungarian accent, but the one thing that was always clear was his genuine sincerity, which is so typical of foreigners and so seldom found in Americans (especially the ones my age). He has apparently lived in this country for around fifty years, but luckily he found Auntie Rose to keep him from being corrupted by the darker side of American culture.

It was, actually, interesting to see for the first time how Auntie Rose interacts with her husband, which revealed things about her that I had never had an opportunity to witness before. Nothing bad, I wouldn’t say that--it’s hard for me to describe. It’s just a very different context and it made me look at her in a slightly different way. Part of it, I think, was how Uncle Imre always addressed her as “Mommy,” and it made me think of her as less just one of my aunts than someone with her own family history. Her children have been grown and out on their own for as long as I remember (apparently it was my dad who taught his cousin Valerie to walk--when he was nine years old), and up until now I had always seen Auntie Rose from the context of my own family--this time I was seeing her from the context of hers.

That first night, Auntie Rose brought out a large cardboard box full of photos, and I went through all of them. Then we watched about half of The Sound of Music, apparently Uncle Imre’s favorite movie of all time--which makes sense, that being the most popular box office hit of all time when it came out, and the last movie to break that record that would be considered a genuine family film.

The next day, Friday, Auntie Rose took me around the town of Port Townsend, where I saw for the first time the lighthouse that was the subject of a story I once wrote at the age of 13, nine years before I actually visited the place. It was about a person I knew who told me she once lived in the house there, and she swore it was haunted. Auntie Rose was interested in the fact that I had written about that lighthouse, and so I sent her a copy of the story written in 1989, complete with 1998 footnotes.

Port Townsend is a quaint little town that I could not see myself ever actually living in. It’s a pleasure to visit, though, and I never once found a place that did not yield a lovely view. The town has some very nice architecture, and a park with the sea as a backdrop view. I forget what the name of the park was, but it was apparently where my Aunt Penny was married, and it was most certainly a very ideal place for a wedding. When Auntie Rose left momentarily for the restrooms, I sat on one of the swinging benches and looked around at the well-maintained park and the ocean view--and then Auntie Rose was ready to leave before I was. I could have just sat there for hours. But we had more to do.

We had lunch at a place called the Old Alcohol Plant, which had very distinctively yummy food and yet another great view of the water. It’s easy to see why fifty percent of the population lives within fifty miles of coastline--anyone who doesn’t must be sick in the head.

On the day that I was to leave, Auntie Rose and Uncle Imre took me to the Suquamish Indian Museum, right on the other side of Bainbridge Island, which was very interesting indeed. Afterwards we had a nice picnic outside, on a table protected from the rain by a maple tree. I had the privilege once again of eating the bread they had, some French kind that none of us could pronounce--which I liked so much that they let me take the leftovers home with me. They then drove me to the ferry terminal on Bainbridge Island, at which I caught the ferry back to Seattle.

The trip back was different from the way out there, because when I left Seattle on Thursday I went along with Auntie Rose on her normal two-hour commute, which she takes once a day (staying overnight in a downtown hotel on Monday and Wednesday nights, and not working on Fridays). Her commute consists of one ferry ride, two bus rides, and one car ride (when Uncle Imre comes to pick her up at the point where the bus gets closest to her rather secluded neighborhood). My trip back consisted only of one car ride and one ferry ride--and of course the usual walking from the ferry dock. That half- hour Bainbridge Island ferry never seems that long, and it’s always an enjoyable trip, as long as you can stay inside (on the way over there, Auntie Rose and I had to wait outside before the ferry docked so we could get off as soon as possible and make it to the bus).

In any case, it was a wonderful weekend, as has been every weekend for the past two or three months. It’s one of my biggest problems, all these wonderful weekends. It keeps me from concentrating on many of the other aspects of equal or higher importance in my life. But, like Grandma said when I saw her, I now have a social life that I never had before, and it’s kind of long overdue. This constant activity certainly can’t last forever, and I plan to enjoy it while it lasts. Then again, who knows what might happen?

I am leaving tomorrow for Olympia again, for my Halloween visit--yesterday or a few days ago to any of you reading this. I have a working plan for the following weekend but do not know if the idea will materialize, and after that things will slow down a bit. I go to Spokane for Thanksgiving, and I am certainly thankful to know that Mom will be with us for dinner at Christopher’s house, so that side of my entire immediate family will be together for the first time since my mother’s wedding in May of 1997. I will be at Dad’s for Christmas, because Grandma and Grandpa will be there and that in itself makes my visit mandatory (not that I mind visiting any of the other people . . .).

This week I have been rather busy. I planned on getting this newsletter out in the mail today (as I write, this very moment, it is Thursday October 29), and there’s a slim chance that I still might--I’m going to try. The problem here is my supposedly wonderful new computer. I had about thirteen pages written in a file saved on disc as of yesterday morning, and I navigated my way back in there with the intention of having the writing done by the end of the day, so I could easily have it mailed today. However, as soon as I opened the file, the screen froze. You wouldn’t believe the lengths I went to to try and remedy this problem--speaking to my mom and her husband, who know a lot about computers through their incessant trial and error, which yielded not solution; I ended up calling tech support for Sony products, only to wait tens of minutes on hold so someone could end up saying they didn’t know what to tell me. I was convinced that this was thirteen pages, right down the drain, and right at the time when I was supposed to be finishing this stupid thing. The idea of starting all over from page one did not appeal to me.

This frustration occurred on a day that I also had to take not only one, but two trips to the vet, which coupled with the fare for four taxi trips cost me more than $250. I took both cats in, Peng for his vaccinations (thank God he is now done for the next year), and Batty for his urinary problem. They wanted to have a urinalysis done, but Batty would not cooperate, and so I had to leave him there until they could get a urine sample from him. I took Peng home and spent more time on the phone trying to solve this problem with my newsletter screen freezing.

I tried all sorts of things, trying to work with a three-second window (when I opened the file, it would stay workable for about three seconds before freezing). I tried selecting all and then copying within those three seconds--which I managed--and then pasting it elsewhere, and trying to open it there. I got about four different version of it in different areas on my computer, and all of them simply froze the same way when opened. I could have made much better use of this time by just giving up and starting over, but I just hated that idea way too much.

Soon enough I had to go and pick up Batty; they said his fat was just too much for them to get a needle through to his bladder, and so they had to run a catheter through his penis to get the urine. That could not have been something he enjoyed, and it was probably more expensive--ah, the joys of feline obesity! At least they got it, and they told me there was nothing serious showing up, but signs of possible small problems, which meant sending him home with two tons of medications yet again. This sure was a horrible day for my computer to ruin my life.

Finally, last night, I thought I found a solution. Within that three-second window, I was able to navigate to the print windows. Then I was actually able to start printing the pages--though I could only do them one at a time, which meant hitting ctrl+alt+dlt to exit the frozen screen and re-opening the file for that three-second window each time--and many times I did not get to the right print window before the screen froze, so I had to make many, many attempts at this. I got all the way up to page seven.

It was page eight that started the problem--and even now, I never got that far. So I did, indeed, re-write pages 8 through 13, but at least that was better than having to re- write all of them. If there are more typos and spelling and grammar mistakes than usual on pages one through seven, that is because my only option was to print them out without any spell check. All the following pages have been written in a separate file. I suppose this whole thing may have been a blessing in disguise, because when I am forced to re- write, then I am without fail not prone to write with nearly as much detail. You see how long this newsletter already is, it would have been even longer if my computer had not wiped out those pages. I’m am not about to go thanking my computer for doing me any favors, though, because naturally I would prefer that it would not do such things in the future. I did absolutely nothing to cause this machine to do that to me. And this is the wave of the future!

Anyway, I would normally re-read the newsletter to see if I want to make any changes or extra editing, but with my apologies I won’t be doing that this time, for the sake of saving time. I’m not sure I will even get all of this newsletter posted on the internet. I’ll just be glad to finally get this thing finished (maybe it’s because it’s my thirteenth newsletter that I had such horrid luck with it?) and out in the mail. I would also usually have the images and graphics in color, but I do not have the time this month to re-print them all out of my printer; I will have to take this to Kinko’s and make multiple xeroxes like I did in the old days. In case anyone has not yet figured it out, this newsmonth is ending on a bit of a bitter note for me.

I expect to have a great time in Olympia for Halloween this weekend, though, which of course you can expect to read in next month’s newsletter.


the writing history

I did not get published this month. Much of this is my own fault, though I would be happy to find ways to blame other people--like the incredibly unorganized George Bakan. I actually did write something in hopes for publication, though, and he was the man who I sent it to. Uncle Paul was the first person to give me feedback on the idea of putting some other writings of mine into this newsletter, which he considers a good idea apparently. I had originally planned on starting with some poetry, because I didn’t want to jump right into fiction just yet. However, since this newspaper piece I wrote has yet to be published (which it probably never will be), I thought I would share this one with you first--and the fact that it includes original poetry just happens to be an added bonus. I could set it up with explanations for you, but I think the piece taken on its own is pretty self-explanatory. So here it is:

Late in the month of September, 1998, there was a large gathering of people in the city of Seattle to come together and “stomp out AIDS.” Having moved to town only months before, this was the first chance I ever had to take part in this walk. I seized on the opportunity, and found myself rather impressed by the sense of togetherness in this community, with so many people coming together for a common goal to not only raise money to help get the human race closer to a cure, but to further the quality of life for all people, no matter what their background or genetic make-up happened to be. More than just a fund raiser, it served as a collective effort to end prejudice and pain for something more and more people believe is one of the most worthy causes in existence. That gigantic crowd, walking together, was a symbol of love and togetherness so powerful that a given person does not often have the empowering opportunity to be exposed to.

It was a bright sunny day, people were ready to have a great time, and there were lots of smiles. There were speeches beforehand that focused on the idea of making progress, and how all the people there were helping to make such a thing possible. There were cheers both then and near the end of the walk, when people were nearly worn out for walking so very far--this was, indeed, the longest walk I had ever taken.

But it was fun, and it brought needed attention to a needed cause. The general feel throughout was one of making things better both for individuals and for the world as a whole.

People would sometimes stand alongside the line of people walking by, and cheer them on. Near the end of the portion of the walk that went through Myrtle Edwards Park, a group of students from the same high school were cheering the rest of us on: “Come on, you can make it! You’re doing great! Only several more miles!”

At the time, I simply walked past with a faint smile at the young woman’s deliberately inadvertent joke, and walked the rest of the way--which was, indeed, several more miles. Ever since then, though, this has been something I can’t seem to forget: in so many ways, in so many places, we have come a long way, and yet have so far to go. What else can we do but be optimistic about how far we have come, whether it’s AIDS or civil rights in general? Of course we should celebrate the progress we have made, and to make ourselves feel better about the many winding roads ahead, we tell ourselves there are only several more miles.

And suddenly something happens in the somewhat low-profile state of Wyoming that makes the national news. The jovial tone of the collective community comes to a jolting halt, and the mourning begins. One has to wonder: how far have we really come, exactly? Who the hell put the car in reverse when I wasn’t looking?

I got a forwarded e-mail on Monday the 12th of October announcing a candlelight vigil that was to be held in the memory of Matthew Shepard, the gay man who was beaten and eventually killed in Wyoming, that very night. Tell all the people you know and get as many people to come as possible. Bring a candle and matches.

I knew no one locally to tell, but I walked to Seattle Central Community College from downtown, with my own candle and matches. At the time I did not have any idea what this was for, exactly, with the exception of the limited amount of information I had gotten from the phone number given in the e-mail: a gay man was the victim of a hate crime in Wyoming and had died that morning; this vigil was to honor his memory.

I just stood out in front of SCCC, under my umbrella and holding my candle. An amazing amount of people came to take part in it, and I was able to get a few details about the story behind this by eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. The best I could gather was that there were accusations of Shepard making a pass at someone in a bar. Another person talked about what they called “the homosexual panic defense,” saying how “frighteningly often” a person is able to get away with murder by saying it was because they just couldn’t handle having a gay person make a pass at them.

I just moved on, trying to overhear other conversations. I never got much more information before we began to herd ourselves down the street on Broadway, in a sea of raincoats and umbrellas. I simply walked along silently with my lit candle, thinking about the misfortune of people like Matthew Shepard and ignoring the pleas of a young man cutting through the crowd and asking for a dollar for the bus because he supposedly just lost his wallet. I wondered if he had any idea what we were there for, and how inappropriate he was being. I noticed that police cars were blocking intersections so that we would not have to stop at lights, and I overheard drivers complaining about it.

We ended up at a church just a little ways down the road, and this massive crowd that I was a part of slowly filtered inside. By the time I got in, the only place for me to sit was in one of the balconies, and once we all found seats we heard music by the Men’s Chorus. First was their “subgroup,” Zipper, who sang briefly before a few selections by the larger choir were sung.

I was nearly overwhelmed by the size of this choir. All these men sitting behind the pulpit, who I had at first thought were merely some of the crowd that had just come in--and then they all stood up to sing. I never thought until this moment how very powerful it can be to hear so many voices sing together. Some of them were crying, as were many people out sitting in the pews. I still did not know what the whole story was behind the Matthew Shepard incident, but there was a feeling of grief in that building that was so real, and so heavy, it was almost tangible. It was as though I could reach out and touch it, though I can’t say that I had a burning desire to, and it was something I began to feel. I almost broke down myself, over a vague story with missing details that did not make the tragedy any less real.

The choir sang a song called There’s A Man Going Round Taking Names, a rather somber number that initiated a new wave of sorrow over the crowd. In the middle of the song, different individual men repeated the few words of the song at different intervals, each cutting into the middle of the other in a seemingly random way that must have taken great precision. It very clearly conveyed the feeling of sudden loss from the least expected places, and of the inevitable grief to follow.

Then they sang a more uplifting song about young lovers, as a prayer for the younger generation that will have the chance to find love that Matthew Shepard never had. The conductor of the choir seemed on the verge of choking up a couple of times himself.

The real heart wrencher, however, was when Zipper got back up again to sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow--stepping over an oblivious small child who was rolling around the floor in front of the steps to the pulpit. For me, that child was the perfect example of innocence that the rest of us still need to work so hard to protect, to ensure that these tragic incidents will one day come to a stop once and for all.

And then the song began, and it was beautiful--and made me think of the same song being played at the funeral of one of my grandparents. It is perfect in the light of the loss of a loved one, to help the rest of us move on, and to make us believe that the one we have lost has moved on to a better place--which obviously lies beyond the rainbow. This was a rendition I had never heard before, with each singer exchanging words within the lines almost like they were verbally playing catch with them. What a perfect way to say that we are all in this together, we all feel the same grief, and we all feel the same sympathy for the family who has outlived the deceased.

Finally, the entire choir stood up and asked everyone in the church to sing We Shall Overcome. It was one of the most powerful things I had ever experienced. Even as individuals we can still work together for the same common goals of peace, love, and understanding--which of course still lies several miles ahead at the end of the road we are not through traveling. As we all stood there, and everyone sang together, some crying, there was actually a sense of hope in there. There is great power in numbers, and this was one of the very most effective ways to show it. The way Matthew Shepard, and others like him, had to die is simply something that can no longer be tolerated. The miles lay ahead, but even if someone else put the car in reverse, we simply need to turn the car around--it’s not so hard to make progress while others think they have convinced us to keep going backwards.

I walked home from this vigil with a new sense of community, and of potential for moving on. Sometimes tragedy makes everything crumble, and sometimes it makes us stronger. The latter case is what seems to be happening here. I went home, and I wrote the following poem, in honor of Matthew Shepard:

Shepherd

There’s a target at the end of the night
There’s a tunnel at the end of the light
There’s exhaustion at the end of a run
There’s a kind of peace at the end of a gun

Guard me, guide me, to what’s inside me
Take me away from reality
Tend me, serve me, what I’m deserving
Not this artificial equality

There’s an open gate in the middle of nowhere
There’s a kind of fate for one who goes there
There will come a time of understanding
Maybe not today but I’m still praying

Lead me, teach me, come on beseech me
This is not a place where you can change me
Show me, save me, from why you’re angry
What if I said that I can set you free

There is still a future at the end of time
There’s a hope beyond the contrary sign
There’s more than memory of fighting hate
There’s still a road to equality states

It guards you, guides you, to what’s inside you
So we won’t have to cry any longer
It shows you, saves you, from all that ails you
Grieve of loss makes the rest of us stronger

Join hands, remember the man
Only several more trials
Join hands, remember the men
Only several more miles


. . . Well, here we are on page twenty, so I’ll take that as perfect indication to close the newsletter. Twenty pages is plenty for a newsletter that almost didn’t make it out at all, I should say. Let’s all pray that these near crises don’t continue to happen in the future.


matthew mcquilkin

(10/29/1998)


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