Remembering

Tonight turned into a Go Fish/Word game shouting/Life playing adventure. I shall post our Life tomorrow when I have the energy to load the pictures of our rather crammed car.

For today... I'm posting a bit from Are. Because, well, I can. Also, because I was playing the random Coyote Ugly CD I found in my car today and came across my fair song from 2002 "Please Remember". The same song that the junior class of 2001-2002 used to commemorate Mandy following her death in 2001. Anyway... for the fact that I neglected my remembering this year.

....the opening monologue of Are.
Growing up, I knew the word “gay” existed. I mean I knew “they” were out there, but I never paid much attention to the concept of people loving within their gender; it just wasn’t something I’d ever actually seen. At least not until much later, when I found myself seated at a dinner table on a cruise ship: across from me a young man sat discussing the meaning of the ring on his right hand, although only after much prodding from myself and the rest of the girls at the table. “This is something my, uh, ex-fiancé gave me,” he’d said, “but we broke up before it was made final. Too much pressure... They said I should keep the ring, you know, to remember the person by.” In my naiveté, I cocked my head to the side and asked quite bluntly, “So do you like boys or girls?” He stared at me for what seemed like hours, terrified that I was about to shout his secret to the entire ship. Then he finally replied in a hushed voice, “Boys... Is it that obvious?” I shook my head, attempting to reassure him that it was only the manner in which he spoke of his fiancé that caused me to ask.
At the time, I didn’t understand his fear at “being found out”; in fact, I thought his fear was pretty irrational. But, now I understand. You see, I know now, because he is, was, one of my closest friends. I understand, because even now, looking at the pictures of his latest trip to New York City, the smile on his face is strained, his eyes not quite as full of life as they were at that table, his shoulders seem heavier as if he was burdened by something that no one else could carry. Because, in a way, he was.
These images are all I have left of him, these random memories: me gripping the door handle of his precious Saab, praying that he’ll slow down, with ‘La Vie Boheme’ from RENT blasting in the background – my first experience with the musical that now seems to be my life; racing him around the lake, struggling to stay balanced on my new rollerblades while he whisks away from me, well into his second lap, literally skating circles around me, or curling up in the booth of our favorite Mexican restaurant listening to him moan about the boyfriend of the week; him arriving at my house to pick up my failing computer, only to return it the next day running faster than ever, laughing that all it needed was a rest from me; him teasing that all he needs to find a boyfriend is to drag me out with him – if a guy speaks to me, he has to be boyfriend material for him, right?
I understand more now exactly why he was terrified of being found out. He was afraid that people would view him differently, I understand, but I was never more acutely aware than the night he called me, his voice shaking, and asked me to come over to his apartment. When I arrived, he motioned me inside and sat beside me on the couch. He looked somber. I was confused; I mean normally our “serious” conversations were held over chips and salsa at our favorite restaurant, not curled up on his couch. Quietly, he murmured, “I need to tell you something.” “Okay…” I replied, “What’s up?” I wasn’t prepared for his next words: “I’m HIV positive.” I stared. “It’s not true,” I told him. Over… and over. Funny, isn’t it? He ended up consoling me that night. He was brave, solid, in the face of so much uncertainty.
So then came the next stage of our friendship, where I watched his dealings with the medical staff and his eventual decision to no longer stay on the medication that was keeping him alive – he wanted to die on his own terms. These years weren’t all about the illness – there were the random calls, like when he first moved to Virginia on a new job assignment and called me one afternoon to say “Hey, are you near a computer?” “Yeess…” “Um, can you go to walmart.com and find the nearest Wal-mart for me?” “Where are you?” “Uh, I’m driving down this street…” which led to me frantically typing various addresses and trying to find both the nearest store AND directions from wherever he happened to be at that moment. But it also included me, from hundreds of miles away, staring at the images of his face, listening to his exploits with seemingly idiotic medical staff, with his new partner, Michael, who cared for him in his darkest hours, when he feared no one would go near him again, and me, utterly helpless to do anything. I remember all too well the call that came one summer night; of standing beside my car wishing upon any star I could find that it was not the truth, that he and Michael were playing some great, though horridly not funny, joke on me, and he would come on the line at any second, laughing at my gullibility, and perhaps a bit hurt that I believe that the almighty had fallen.
I remember a week later, curled up on a different couch, deep in conversation with another friend about an all too familiar topic, pressing the ignore button on my cell phone when Michael called for the fourth time that day, figuring that yes, he wanted to talk to me, but I could always call him back when it wasn’t one o’clock in the morning. Then, hours later, I, shocked, listening to the message that Michael committed suicide. I blamed myself for months before I realized that nothing I had done that day could have changed his mind. There’s nothing I could do. Nothing – because society had already made their decisions that much harder for them to survive without fear of repercussions.
This story may seem irrelevant, and maybe it is, but it’s something that shouldn’t be buried anymore. For too long, the idea has been that so long as these so-called deviant members of society can be swept under the rug, forgotten, everything will be okay. It’s not true. It never will be. They don’t deserve it. They deserve to have their stories heard, to know that people at least accept even if they don’t understand, to not live in fear of public opinion suddenly turning and the persecution that could soon follow.
I’m not saying that life is necessarily easy for any one of us. That’s the point. Every single one of us deals with these events in every day life. We all deal with temptation and heartache and abandonment. We are all, essentially, human and thus have to deal with the complications of growing up and making our way in this world. And, no, I don’t think that it’s necessarily society’s fault that my friends aren’t here anymore. I understand and accept that events that were sometimes completely of their own control led to their deaths. But, I also think that if we all were a little more accepting, a little more aware, these events wouldn’t even have the possibility of occurring.
Sometimes I feel almost as if I’ve seen too much in my life, like at twenty that I have lived every story possible, that through the lives of my friends I could explain any possible emotion present in human condition. Sometimes, I felt like my brain might explode from my ears at the sheer pressure of it all.
Since you’re along for the ride with me now, I assume it would help you to understand who I am right? I’m Jaime. Affectionately, sometimes even possessively, termed by many of my friends as a “fag hag” or “fairy princess” – you know, the lone straight girl in a sea of gay men? Apparently every gay man needs his hag, or so I’ve heard. Now, this isn’t something I set out to accomplish. I didn’t wake up one morning, burst into the kitchen and exclaim “Mama, I want to be a fag hag!” No it wasn’t like that at all. It just happened.
It’s exhausting. My life is marked by drama and AIDS tests and murder attempts and rape and drugs and fear, and none too infrequently, the possessive friend who wants no other gay male to come near me. But my life is also marked by friendships that run deeper than any I’ve ever known, by the love that flows from our makeshift families, by the utter protectiveness of my friends when I’m too tired to bother protecting myself.
My friends are some of the most affectionate, loving people I have ever met, but this love sometimes comes at too high of a price. Where emotions run high, often so do tempers, which leads to hurt feelings and flying liquor bottles – because you know it’s not a party until the entire group has consumed far more alcohol than is conceived “safe” by the Surgeon General, at least any that I’ve ever heard from.
These people just happen to be my friends. Every one of them has his or her own story to tell, his or her own successes, failures, and struggles have marked the person he or she has become, and the people that we all will become in the future. But their stories are not mine to tell, they are the only ones who can do justice to their tales. So now it’s up to them.