From: bcapps@agora.rain.com (Brent Capps)
Subject: Redemption
Keywords: lost muffinhood
Organization: Open Communications Forum
Date: Sun, 27 Sep 1992 01:14:05 GMT


When I am sitting in quiet contemplation, I sometimes reflect on how
little it takes for life to go spinning off along an unforseen path.
It's like the flapping of butterfly wings in Beijing that causes 
the snowfall in New York.

rjwill6@PacBell.COM (Rod Williams) writes:
>Activists burn out all the time.

That simple statement unleashed a flood of memories for me, of a person
I once held and loved and now is dust.  Patrick Williams was a remarkable
person full of zest and love and a fierce dedication to return something
to the community that had given so much to him.

I met him after I moved to Dallas in 1985 to take my first job after college.
He was an inspiration to me, a one man whirling dervish of creative energy
who helped found gay theatre companies in Rochester NY, Phoenix and Dallas.
Pat believed that everyone who took something from the community had a
personal obligation to give something back.  Barry and I became close
friends with him and his longtime lover David.

Even after his diagnosis, he continued to fight, turning his energies
to helping others with the disease.  Toward the end, Pat would lay in
bed and cut letters out for someone else's quilt, long after he had
ceased to have any feeling in his fingers.

On January 7, 1989, Patrick ended his struggle.

On that same day, my struggle of a different kind began.

For several years before I met Pat I had been a college activist, a veteran
of many bitter battles against the 'phobes in Oklahoma.  We mostly lost,
but never gave up.  When Pat was diagnosed I redirected myself towards doing
something about AIDS, becoming a buddy and active in GUTS (Dallas' version
of ACT-UP).  But when Pat died he took a part of me with him.

I was tired of picking myself up off the floor after the lastest
emotion-wrenching bash against the community, and I resolved that I wasn't
going to let it get to me any more.  I wanted the pain and sense of loss
to go away.  I wanted to stop being surrounded by death and get on with my
own life.  I just wanted to avoid confrontation and for people to leave
me the hell alone.

I began, imperceptably, to creep back into the closet.

I threw myself into my work with the gusto of one who can find no other
purpose in life.  As you might expect, it gave me little satisfaction,
and I felt increasingly isolated and lonely, even from my loving husband who
did his best to help me.  By the time we'd moved to Oregon I was beginning
an extended mid-life crisis.  I was too young to be feeling this old.

Then came Measure 9.

I don't think that many people outside of Oregon can fully appreciate
the toll this thing has taken.  We've been fighting it for almost a year
now, since the OCA began pushing it as a petition drive.  By now we're
all very tired and unsure of where we stand; we can't trust the polls
and we can't derive much comfort from the fact that the establishment
"who's who" has universally villified it.  We just don't know where we
stand and we'll be on pins and needles until it's over.

Since the Republican convention it has really gotten bad here.  Barry now
has chronic insomnia, I am plagued by nightmares every night.  Most of
my friends are in a similar state of anxiety.  I've never been so scared
in my life.  We sent all the money we could afford and then some, but I knew
I wasn't doing enough.  Yet here I sat, unable to take the first step.

Then in late August a friend told me about agora, a public access internet
news feed.  I started reading soc.motss again for the first time in 4 years.
Ancient memories, long thought extinct, began to stir.  I saw things
happening and people moving with a purpose.  I heard stories I *hadn't*
heard a hundred times before.

I read about people experiencing joy, pain, the nervous fearful excitement
of coming out for the first time.  I basked in the warm reflected glow
of the love many of you feel for each other.  I remembered what had
been forgotten.

markm@ogicse.ogi.edu (Mark Morrissey) writes:
>One of the very interesting properties of this system is
>that it is entirely possible to become 'younger' as time progresses.

I couldn't agree with you more, Mark.  The most beautiful emotion in
life is redemption.  I owe you and many others a debt of gratitude for
getting me to wake up and live again:

   To Trey and Nelson, for helping me to remember what it was like to be
   young and queer and proud of it.

   To Mark Morrissey and Mara Chibnik for their patience and wisdom.

   To Rod Williams for challenging me to scrape the rust off my
   thinking-apparatus.

   To John Dorrance, Tim Pierce and J. N. Shaumeyer for reminding me
   to have a sense of humor.

   To Bil Snodgrass and the Portland Gay Men's Chorus.  It's going to be
   hard to sing in Springfield with a lump in my throat.

   To Matthew Melmon and Bob Sarver for showing me the damage internalized
   homophobia and bitterness can do to your soul if left unchecked.

   To Jake and Ron and Bob and all the others who have debated and
   flamed and emoted and challenged and argued and shared a little
   of themselves in the process.

   And most especially to Dorsie Hathaway and Suzanne Chiles and Alan
   Batie, without whom I wouldn't have this feed in the first place. 

I'm a muffin all over again.  And it feels wonderful.

Now if you'll excuse me I've got some volunteer work to do down at
No on 9.  I've got a lot of lost time to make up for.  I've also
got a quilt to make.

-- 
Brent Capps           | 
bcapps@agora.rain.com | Know what to kiss, and when
bcapps@atlastele.com  |
Newsgroups: soc.motss