It's been 17 years since I finally acknowledged to family, friends, and myself that I am a gay man. Like many of my brothers and sisters of our age it took much soul searching. I, and many like me grew up in an era when the word "Gay" was synonymnous with "AIDS".
Though I grew up near San Francisco, watching the macabre scene that was the 80's play out on my TV screen, I was largely untouched personally by the AIDS crisis. Born too young for the 70's and scared witless by the late 80's I didn't suffer the loss of a partner or loved one to a satin red ribbon. Though there was one man who I will never forget, and who's death gave me the strength to finally leave my closeted perdition.
I was 16 when, as part of my confirmation process I was in need of community service hours. I had chosen to volunteer at a local hospice, where a few AIDS victims were living out the last of their days. It was there that I met David.
I couldn't begin to tell you what David looked like. I don't recall if he was handsome or his nationality. I don't remember his age, or his skin color, or the shade of his eyes.
But I remember his voice.
My God yes, I still remember that deep and resonate, warm as a summer day in the valley, melodic voice. When I met David it was still strong enough to catch my note. When he'd ask for a glass of water or the day's paper, I'd get all warm and fuzzy in side.
And then he was gone. AIDS took David and so many young men like him. They left a hole in the world as deep as David's voice.
Years later in 1994, I was in college when a flyer went around my history class. the names project was bringing a few of the panels for display over the Cinco de Mayo holiday. I was still in the closet but by this time I was searching for a way out.
It was David who gave me the key.
So I tell myself, "I need to see the quilt. It's an opportunity to see a piece of local history." I arrive at the event early. A number of us students are there waiting for the ceremony to begin.
The quilt caretakers are reverent with their charge. They handle this living archive of those who've been lost with a purpose and solemnity that brings most of us to tears. Once the quilt has been placed, the crowd that has gathered is invited to meander amongst the panels and reflect.
I begin to wander about, noticing how colorful and beautiful many of the panels are. So many names. So many gone. So young.
Too young.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a particular panel. It wasn't particually noticeable. It was white without any adornment to speak of. I make my way to the panel feeling somewhat drawn to it. As I stand in front of it I make out the name.
It's David's panel.
I fall to my knees and cry tears that have been building since I realized a decade earlier that I liked boys. Cathartic, cleansing tears. Tears that dissolve my closet door forever.
My soul has been ressurected by savior with a baritone voice calling out from a silken shroud spread out under an early May sky. On my knees there in front of his panel, I promise David I will never live in fear again.
I will be true to myself. I will love freely. I will live with pride.
Pride.
