Wild Zero
ǝןʇıʇ ɹǝsn
I'm exceedingly open about my preference outside of Dimensions and really, why shouldn't I be open about what brings me joy? But as it's around the holidays I find myself reflecting on a deeper reason for my openness. It's intimately connected to other thoughts I always have around the holidays; memories of my uncle George, he passed away when I was 7, and our last Christmas together.
When you're a child from a big family you keep a constantly shifting mental ranking of favorite uncles, you might like your mom's younger brother more because he plays video games with you or takes you out to play basketball when he visits. The uncle who goofs on you might rise and fall in the rankings depending on the ratio of funny to mean spirited jokes. And if you're really lucky you might have one who talks to you without patronization but still knows how to be a kid; George was that uncle.
I didn't know our last Christmas was going to be that, I just remember being excited that he was taking me downtown to watch the tree lighting ceremony at the Prudential Center for what seemed like months. He picked me up at around 8am and we walked to the subway station, as we walked he told me the reason we were leaving so early was that he wanted me to help pick out gifts for everyone, Everyone? my voice trembled with being trusted with such a grown up task. Everyone George knew he was dying, nobody else did, so when he said Everyone he literally meant every family member even if it meant dealing with my impatient outbursts as we waited in several department stores for credit card applications to go through. For the most part the cards approved and from there I'd get to work in my gift helper duties, pointing out all the toys my sister and I wanted or helping pick which couch I thought my grandmother would like the most. Then we'd check out, cart and arms full of merchandise, cash register flashing numbers higher than any I'd seen in my 1st grade math class and the zip-zip of a manual imprinter signaling that it was time to leave. We crisscrossed the city for hours; Green Line to Orange Line to Red Line, bringing piles of gifts back to George's apartment until about an hour before the tree lighting ceremony.
That's probably the last memory I have of George before he got really sick. He was in the hospital for most of that spring and summer before passing away shortly after my 7th birthday in hospice care. Nobody knew he was sick until then because he'd been afraid to tell any of us, about his illness or sexuality as this was back when the two were foolishly linked to one another. George loved us, but he didn't know if we'd love him back had we known. I remember my mom telling this shortly after he went into the hospital and even at 6 I found myself disgusted by the idea that I or anyone I knew who knew my uncle Georgie would stop loving him for being sick or different.
The other thing that really sticks with me from my uncle's time living in the hospital was that his mind started to fade, he couldn't remember the names of objects or most faces (my mom explained ADC to my sister and I: You know how uncle Georgie likes to smoke? Ok, so because he doesn't know what a cigarette is called anymore he might call it a zebra but make a sign to show he wants to smoke, understand?) but he remembered my sister and I. I liked going to see him and seeing his face light up; it made me feel really special, just like when he'd given me all that responsibility as the gift helper. I'd ask my parents when Georgie was coming home virtually every day; gradually the answers shifted from when he feels better to maybe a few months to uncertainty. The last time we visited him at the hospital I knew he was going to die, my mom sat me down and let me know that Georgie was going into a hospice and what that meant taking care to use fluffy terms like drift away that made me imagine him sailing a skiff into forever.
We went to the hospital that afternoon, I sat down in the chair outside George's room and refused to go in after catching a glimpse of his bony frame lying on the bed. I stayed in the chair for an interminable amount of time while I could hear Georgie asking my parents why I wasn't there, staring at my shoes until I couldn't stand counting the number of stitches making up Donatello's staff. Looking at the patient chart high on the wall across from me trying not to cry as Georgie,who could hardly remember anything anymore, turned every conversation back to asking where I had gone and when I was going to visit.
I was terrified by the experience and refused to go to his wake or funeral and over years the memory took on all sorts of guilt and shame, as I matured my rational mind understood that my uncle's mental state was so diminished by his illness that he really wouldn't have processed our last visit, that he already moved on to an extent. But I still felt like one of the people he would have been afraid to tell, I felt like I had rejected and shamed him. And at some point as a young adult I realized that the only way to work through those feelings was being honest and open with the people who loved me. My uncle Georgie was afraid because he didn't know if he could be open with us and because of that fear I feel like I never got a chance to make the most of my time with him. And when I had a chance to say goodbye I was too frightened by the idea of mortality to step into a room.
Compared to the stigma of being gay or living with HIV/AIDS in the '80s being an FA is nothing. I'm out because it's the least I can do for a girl who gives me so much joy, because I love the amazing friends I've made since getting involved in this community, because honesty is the only way to live and for my uncle Georgie.
When you're a child from a big family you keep a constantly shifting mental ranking of favorite uncles, you might like your mom's younger brother more because he plays video games with you or takes you out to play basketball when he visits. The uncle who goofs on you might rise and fall in the rankings depending on the ratio of funny to mean spirited jokes. And if you're really lucky you might have one who talks to you without patronization but still knows how to be a kid; George was that uncle.
I didn't know our last Christmas was going to be that, I just remember being excited that he was taking me downtown to watch the tree lighting ceremony at the Prudential Center for what seemed like months. He picked me up at around 8am and we walked to the subway station, as we walked he told me the reason we were leaving so early was that he wanted me to help pick out gifts for everyone, Everyone? my voice trembled with being trusted with such a grown up task. Everyone George knew he was dying, nobody else did, so when he said Everyone he literally meant every family member even if it meant dealing with my impatient outbursts as we waited in several department stores for credit card applications to go through. For the most part the cards approved and from there I'd get to work in my gift helper duties, pointing out all the toys my sister and I wanted or helping pick which couch I thought my grandmother would like the most. Then we'd check out, cart and arms full of merchandise, cash register flashing numbers higher than any I'd seen in my 1st grade math class and the zip-zip of a manual imprinter signaling that it was time to leave. We crisscrossed the city for hours; Green Line to Orange Line to Red Line, bringing piles of gifts back to George's apartment until about an hour before the tree lighting ceremony.
That's probably the last memory I have of George before he got really sick. He was in the hospital for most of that spring and summer before passing away shortly after my 7th birthday in hospice care. Nobody knew he was sick until then because he'd been afraid to tell any of us, about his illness or sexuality as this was back when the two were foolishly linked to one another. George loved us, but he didn't know if we'd love him back had we known. I remember my mom telling this shortly after he went into the hospital and even at 6 I found myself disgusted by the idea that I or anyone I knew who knew my uncle Georgie would stop loving him for being sick or different.
The other thing that really sticks with me from my uncle's time living in the hospital was that his mind started to fade, he couldn't remember the names of objects or most faces (my mom explained ADC to my sister and I: You know how uncle Georgie likes to smoke? Ok, so because he doesn't know what a cigarette is called anymore he might call it a zebra but make a sign to show he wants to smoke, understand?) but he remembered my sister and I. I liked going to see him and seeing his face light up; it made me feel really special, just like when he'd given me all that responsibility as the gift helper. I'd ask my parents when Georgie was coming home virtually every day; gradually the answers shifted from when he feels better to maybe a few months to uncertainty. The last time we visited him at the hospital I knew he was going to die, my mom sat me down and let me know that Georgie was going into a hospice and what that meant taking care to use fluffy terms like drift away that made me imagine him sailing a skiff into forever.
We went to the hospital that afternoon, I sat down in the chair outside George's room and refused to go in after catching a glimpse of his bony frame lying on the bed. I stayed in the chair for an interminable amount of time while I could hear Georgie asking my parents why I wasn't there, staring at my shoes until I couldn't stand counting the number of stitches making up Donatello's staff. Looking at the patient chart high on the wall across from me trying not to cry as Georgie,who could hardly remember anything anymore, turned every conversation back to asking where I had gone and when I was going to visit.
I was terrified by the experience and refused to go to his wake or funeral and over years the memory took on all sorts of guilt and shame, as I matured my rational mind understood that my uncle's mental state was so diminished by his illness that he really wouldn't have processed our last visit, that he already moved on to an extent. But I still felt like one of the people he would have been afraid to tell, I felt like I had rejected and shamed him. And at some point as a young adult I realized that the only way to work through those feelings was being honest and open with the people who loved me. My uncle Georgie was afraid because he didn't know if he could be open with us and because of that fear I feel like I never got a chance to make the most of my time with him. And when I had a chance to say goodbye I was too frightened by the idea of mortality to step into a room.
Compared to the stigma of being gay or living with HIV/AIDS in the '80s being an FA is nothing. I'm out because it's the least I can do for a girl who gives me so much joy, because I love the amazing friends I've made since getting involved in this community, because honesty is the only way to live and for my uncle Georgie.
