you are 16. you are talking with a gay man in his 50s or 60s, a friend, huge and gentle with a scarf and short fluffy curls of gray hair, who has directed you in two plays staged in your mid-size artsy town. (he has not yet asked you to be in his production of The Laramie Project which will change your life. this conversation will also change your life.)
he is talking about theatre. he is talking about theatre when he was younger. he says, "of course, it was AIDS then." in the pause, you ask him. clumsy and quiet and 16 and "straight," you ask him. what was it like.
he takes a moment in which his face is not like a person's face. "there was a time," he says, "i'm not sure how long, years. when i went to a funeral every weekend." he tells you about two funerals in a day, and choosing between friends when you couldn't make it to both. he does not look at you, he looks at them. his wet grey gaze is so clear that you start to see ghosts. it will be years before you understand why it feels like your grief too. why the ghosts call you family.
happy pride, family. i love every single one of you
when i wrote this post, i didn't expect very many people to read it. i figured it wasn't the kind of thing people liked to read and reblog, but it was late at night, and i was remembering this person, and i was crying, and i had to write it out. so i did.
to this day no other post gets sent to me so often by friends who have encountered it as a repost on some other site. the idea that more than one hundred thousand people have read these words, and know this story now, and maybe feel as i did, is tremendously humbling and unbearably beautiful to me. even by accident, even just passing on a story that is not my own, i often think that it is the best thing i have ever done.
happy pride, family.
