Death of Gay-friendly Father
My ex-lover’s cat, Rama, died. I’d cared for him 18 years. I went out to a gay bar I’ve been going to for decades, Dempsey’s Brass Rail in Spokane, WA., although not a ‘bar=person.’ I just needed the comfort of friends, my ex-lover absent for a decade.
I was doing some house-sitting in Spokane, why I was in the city, months of Nov-Jan., off and on, a couple weeks here and there. While in town, I visited Dempsey’s, my heart ‘dead,’ as far as looking for romance goes, nobody and nothing ‘attractive’ to me, in years. And met a Drag Queen, not much of a fan of Drag, but with each visit, this particular performer warmed my heart, gradually healing wounds, bruises I thought were unhealable.
I watched him perform, talked to him a few times, met him, enjoyed everything about it, though did not become ‘close,’ but after Rama died, I thought I might like to try to be his friend, to get to know him. It took me a couple months just to admit to myself I was attracted. I thought that part of me had died too.
At Dempsey’s, an old friend Mark was there. I was there to have my heart warmed, and excited to tell him, and he interrupted to break it, telling me how Father Gigl SJ, PhD, was in intensive care. He’d introduced me to him not last decade, but the decade before. I kept trying to change subjects, because the news jolted me, threatened to erase the healing of my heart that I’d been struggling to heal for years. But he’d tell me to ‘listen,’ and I know it wasn’t to be mean, but because nobody had heard him and he was worried and grieving. So I did, I listened, and consoled as best I could.
My favorite performer came on-stage, and even so, I listened.
At the Care Center, the next day and every day, I held Father’s hand as he lay dieing. We had a very personal, confidential friendship, confidants with one another, my theological background and his own butting heads, he ashamed of my ‘gayness,’ embarrassed to be around me in the presence of ‘straights,’ due to all the insinuations, raised eyebrows, accusations and outright hateful rumormongerings. I knew that. I always struggled with it. It hurts.
And so I struggled with it, as he did, while holding his hand while he lay dieing. Every day for a couple weeks, I’d hold it together, emotionally, uplift he and I, telling him about one of the most wonderful people I’d ever met, someone with inner beauty, cute in and out, in so many ways, things I’d noticed right off the bat, every time he performed, when we’d chat briefly, occasional hugs of hello or goodbye.
And even while dieing, Father was ashamed of my ‘gayness,’ embarrassed that some stranger, a nurse, an aide, a visitor, might accuse him, judge him, because of me.
Every day, I told him more. Little at a time. I told him the first cute thing I noticed about him, “MFRK,” a stage-name, Miss Freedom Rights Kaine, was that he moved quickly, not a fake ‘majesty’ holier-than-thou ‘get-out-of-my-way’ while blocking isles or doorways or stairs type o person, but one that waited patiently, then moved quickly through openings in the crowd as not to disrupt or bother any one. And that is so cute.
And I told him that he doesn’t have that fake smile of self-important types, that he smiles genuinely, a wonderful smile, the smile of a cute person, someone I admire.
And I told him he was physically attractive too, and, whispering, softly, I told him he even has a cute little butt.
Father shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting around the room momentarily. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. “That’s enough of that,” he muttered. And the shame he felt for me for geing gay, burned in me.
I’d start over another day, because in telling him, while holding the hand of a dieing man, one of the hardest things a person may do in life, my love for MFRK helped me through, and more importantly, constructed a bridge over a massive divide between clergy and Gay, something all of our long confidential discussions over the years could never do.
The fourth cute thing I noticed about MFRK was he was attentive to the room, noticed who was doing what, not for attention to see who was ‘admiring’ him, but obviously because he was aware of more important issues, security, safety, and who may need assistance, or just a friendly encouraging word.
On some days, Father couldn’t stop moaning, the pain too great. I’d try to tell him wonderful things, anything to take his mind off the misery.
The fifth cute thing I noticed about MFRK is his kindness and respect for others, which relates back to the fourth cute thing, a sign of wisdom and compassion, concerned that the actions and words of others, including his own may cause discomfort, so out of respect he strived to be aware of that, and that quality of human existence is so cute, very cute.
The sixth cute thing I noticed about MFRK, was he has a unique and cute dance style, a discipline all his own, not something he ‘just happened’ to ‘discover,’ nor copied from a video, but an intense admiration of the art, and years of working at it, and that is so cute.
Father smiled. He was listening, even through the pain. He appreciated that. Was he starting to see? Was the other-side of that gulf visible from that figurative bridge?
He thinks Gay people are ‘weak,’ and ‘undisciplined,’ and need beg ‘forgiveness’ for their ‘sin.’ I think different. He never wanted to hear it. He just ‘knew’ what was ‘right,’ according to his Jesuit training, and all else was ‘bunk,’ not even ‘worth’ listening to.
“There can’t be a place called ‘Heaven’ without MFRK in it, Father, without Gay people in it, Father, our love is just as real is anyone else’s, our art, our history, our compassion, our talents, our existence just as EQUAL.”
And we’d had that discussion many times before, different words, different days, different moods, different circumstances. While dieing, those words, those thoughts, regardless of words, might have greater significance.
I told him the seventh cute thing I noticed about MFRK is how he sits, cute people sit a ‘certain way’ no matter how relaxed or poised, and he’s just cute.
He laughed, and I know it wasn’t at me. He knew. He understood. He was ‘getting it’ about me. And I cried, hugged him, told him I loved him. Then he got irritated, and said he wasn’t going to listen to anymore, stuggling with inner=pains.
I told him MFRK also displays another cute quality, he listens.
He laughed. Heart melting.
I sang him “Our Father,” and no matter what anybody says, under those circumstances, softly in his ear, anybody that says it’s “not appropriate” is just plain wrong.
And I sang it every day to him, because that’s what connected him to Earth, to humanity, what he knew most, and I took years of my life to learn about it, all of it, in respect not just for him, but for Jesuits the world over, with just as much scholarly diligence as the numerous other religions I have studied, seeking the ‘root’ which had gone ‘bad,’ fomenting hatred of Gays.
The Good Works of humans, the Human Family, what I call the HumanityFamily, is made by HANDS, and I told him MFRK has cute hands too.
He smiled. Looked me in the eye, touched my cheek, “You love him.”
“Uh,” I hadn’t admitted it yet, I choked up, “I guess so, Father.
“Doesn’t matter how he feels, you keep loving him, never stop.”
“I won’t, Father. I won’t. And he’s forgiving, Father, the cutest part of being cute there is.”
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