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Memorial March and Nobody Came? |
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By Randolfe H. Wicker
Last year, I avoided the duty by taking a few days off and going to Florida. I have had all the most important people in my life die of AIDS: my life mate, my mistress, my adopted son, my best friends, employees, etc. I guess you could say I have reached the point of wanting to "forget the pain" that I have endured. But, here I was on the Friday night before Gay Pride Day in New York City carrying a wreath with a red ribbon made out of red carnations down Christopher Street to the memorial service outside Bailey House at the end of Christopher Street right next to the Hudson River. As the time for starting the march approached, CoCo, a somewhat transgendered HIV positive black queen on parole, volunteered to help me lug the unwieldy medal frame and red-ribbon bouquet down Christopher Street. Every year the turn out for this event diminishes. People don't want to remember. They want to forget. As we marched down Christopher Street, the gathering crowds of "Gay Pride 2002" looked on in bewilderment. I don't think most of them realized that they could have joined us for a memorial service down at the point where Christopher Street met the Hudson River and where Bailey House, a residence for terminally ill AIDS patients is located. The service was mercifully shorter than in the past. Most of the program was filled with pages of names, few of which I fortunately did not recognize, of those recently claimed by AIDS. There were those traditional denials of death: Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glint of snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn's rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled fight I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there, I did not die. I have merely awakened from my dream of life. (Anonymous)
During the memorial service, attending by less than a hundred people (compared to thousands who attended similar services in the past). Names of those who had died of AIDS were read while the Lavender Light Gospel Chorus sang and speakers spoke.
The back of the program had a glowing picture of Marsha P. Johnson with a quote from Sylvia Rivera attached to it: "I'm tired of sitting on the back of the bumper. It's not even the back of the bus. It's the back of the bumper. The bitch on wheels is back" The master of ceremonies apologized for the mistake. Actually, Sylvia would have been charmed and Marsha would have been flattered. No one seemed to notice that Reverend Sam Igram, the Baptist who was supposed to lead 'interfaith prayers" failed to show up. I wondered if he realized most of those in the audience would be gay and had simply dropped out. Sheri Kaplan, founder of a support group for heterosexuals with AIDS got a warm reception after describing her mission as one of enabling heterosexuals suffering from AIDS to meet and interact. She proudly declared that a dozen members of her Miami-based group had gotten married. I really wanted to go over and talk with her about that.
CoCo and I carried the red ribbon wreath down Christopher Street. At the end of the service, we traditionally take it to the Hudson River and toss it in. Unfortunately, most of the Hudson River is fenced off to the public at the moment. I asked Beverly Rotter, the organizer of the event, where we were supposed to throw it into the water. She assured me that "the police" would "lead the way"/ Now, during the service, we had a special moment of silence for the officers of the Sixth precinct who died. Much praise had been heaped upon the Sixth Precinct for making this march possible, etc. Every time the crowd applauded mention of the Sixth Precinct, I felt a bit compromised. The Sixth Precinct never investigated Marsha P. Johnson's death. Indeed, the Sixth Precinct did nothing to protect me when members of the Taliban stalked me. But, politics are politics. You kiss their ass and they protect you.
Now, here I was with Coco carrying the wreath to the Hudson River with a small crowd faithfully following me but not knowing where I should really be going. A volunteer ran across the street and asked the Port Authority police where we should go. They didn't seem to have a clue. In fact, they actually looked hostile and replied that they "didn't know". In fact, they looked like they didn't like the fact we were even there. That was my "lost moment in history". I should have said: "Fuck you!" and smashed them over the head with the red ribbon flower wreath, invoking: This is commemoration of Sylvia Rivera! But, being a nimbi-pansy fairy, I didn't. Instead, I lead this sad procession of mourners many blocks south where we finally had access to the river. As we stood ready to toss the wreath into the Hudson River, some environmental-friendly mourner asked: "You aren't going to toss the wreath in with that metal stand attached are you?" Well, I was certainly ready to do so but this challenge set others into motion to "unwire" the red-ribbon wreath from the metal frame that supported it. Those who chose to accompany us to the river continued to pour onto the pier as we "unwired" the wreath from its metal support. Then, on the count of "one, two, three" Coco and I tossed the unwired, all-natural wreath into the Hudson River. It landed on one of the mooring ropes of the boarding ramp. So, the red ribbon wreath hung between land and water on the ropes as if in a state of suspended animation. It didn't sink or float out to sea. It just sat there. Ah, an extended lifetime for a fleeting memorial to AIDS. Looking back, I really think I should have "seized the moment" and just smashed those nasty Port Authority Cops over the head with that red ribbon wreath. That way I wouldn't get drafted next year. And Sylvia Rivera would have been so proud of me.! |
A wonderful group of people, The Mother's March Against Aids, recruited me to carry the red ribbon bouquet at the head of the march down Christopher Street to a platform outside Bailey House where they would hold their umpteenth memorial service remembering those who died of AIDS.
Randolfe H. Wicker 