roomthreeseventeen
Inaugural Dopey Challenge finisher
- Joined
- Dec 22, 2009
- Messages
- 8,756
Yesterday, I visited my friend Fred.
I met Fred for the first time when I was sixteen years old. My father, newly out of the closet, had joined the New York City Gay Mens Chorus, and sometimes, on weekends, he would take me to rehearsal. I would sit in the back, doing biology homework, while the guys fine-tuned (pun intended) their parts. At the time, the Chorus was a mix of younger guys and older guys, one and done types, and guys who had seen it all. The Charter members. Fred is one of those.
Way back in 1979, the summer before I was born, a group of eighty men came together in New York City to create the fourth gay mens chorus in the country (for trivia purposes, the first three were San Francisco, L.A., and Seattle). Under the direction of Gary Miller, the fledgling New York City Gay Mens Chorus, initially founded as a way for men to meet and sing together, promoting social change in the post-Stonewall era, quickly became a family. Within a few short months of the choruss first concert at Cooper Union in December of 1980, the first AIDS cases were reported in New York (although back then, there was no AIDS, only gay cancer and later GRID), and the functionality of the organization was as much that of a care giver as it was a performance group.
Fred was there from the beginning. He was a teacher who would later be one of only two teachers at the Harvey Milk High School, founded in 1985 as a place for gay and lesbian students to learn, half a decade before GLSEN, two and a half decades before GLEE. He was devoted to his students, who truly had nowhere else to go.
And every Monday night, Fred showed his dedication to the Chorus he so loves. He dutifully recorded every performance, from the small church appearances to Carnegie Hall. For years, he made rehearsal tapes, not only so that he could rehearse with them during the week, but so that anyone else who needed to catch up could sing along with them.
Fred was there unfailingly through every Chorus crisis. There were weekends, during the early 90s, where he would sing at the funerals of three men who had been singing beside him just weeks before, and then another two men gone the next week. Though he himself was sick, and battled through many times where he was told there was nothing that could be done for him, he never stopped coming to rehearsal, and believing that he d get through it, with the help of his beloved Chorus friends. He has said many times that it is the Chorus that keeps him alive, and I believe it. He said yesterday to a friend that the doctors have told him so many times in the past thirty years, that he was going to die, that hell believe it when he sees it.
Fred lost two husbands to AIDS, both of whose names appear on the Chorus AIDS Quilt. The quilt depicts the New York City skyline, twin towers and all, circa the mid-1980s, with the names of the men who the Chorus has lost (now more than 200) written in the stars that make up the sky. If two men on the quilt were a couple, their stars are touching. Every year, at the chorus retreats memorial service, Fred would talk about his husbands, and how some day he would have a star to touch their stars. Never one to self-pity, Fred continued to love after loss, and is today with his third husband, Wilfredo, of more than twelve years.
One thing that Fred has always been about, to me, is about doing whats right. After my father had been with the Chorus for several years, the membership council proposed to create an umbrella organization that would take the power out of the hands of the chorines, and put it into a semi-corporate group of benefactors. It was a big fight at the time, and Fred and my father were at the forefront of the opposition, along with another charter member named Manuel. And while they fought hard, they ultimately lost the battle. In retrospect, its pretty clear that their foresight was dead on. While one particularly amazing thing, the Youth Pride Chorus, came out of the expansion of the umbrella organization, the change largely negatively affected the NYCGMC, with financial repercussions that still overwhelm the group today. If you ever need to hear a strong opinion about the direction of the Chorus, Freds the man to ask. And while he may not agree with the direction the Chorus is going in at any point, hell always say that he supports the Chorus, that it is the most important part of his life. After more than thirty years, its still home. Amidst the turmoil of the past few years, even when other charter members left, Fred stayed. Even as my connections to the Chorus have loosened (having a Monday night class and a domestic partner of my own will do that to you), I know I can always count on Fred, an unflaggingly kind and funny friend who didnt care how long youve been away, but was always glad to see you and hear what youve been accomplishing.
When I think about Fred, I think about dancing. Perhaps its a strange non-sequitur. The Chorus, being a gay mens chorus, from time to time has a lot of what they call choral-ography. Dancing in place, en masse, can get very tricky. People start on the wrong foot, they go the wrong way, they forget entire measures... etc. Its often pretty ugly in rehearsal. I dont know anyone who works as hard as Fred when it comes to having everything perfect. The man attends every rehearsal, every extra learning session, practices the steps at home... all because it has to look perfect. No matter how sick hes been, he knows where his jazz hands are supposed to be when the downbeat comes.
In the past couple years, as Freds health has deteriorated, his spirit has not. When one of the directors, Casey, who he adores, left the Chorus and started a smaller, outreach group, Fred was one of the first people to put his name in the ring. When he lost the vision in one of his eyes due to a detached retina, he had large print music made so his good eye could still read the music. He subjected Wilfredo to hundreds of hours of listening to him repeat his baritone parts, over and over and over. He was determined not to sing one wrong note. And he sang at every damn concert, from the front row.
Fred was diagnosed with liver cancer over the summer. After spending the past nine days in the hospital, he was released last night to palliative care. I got to the hospital to visit about an hour and a half before the ambulance came to pick him up. He was asleep when I got there, so I had awhile to chat with his partner, Wilfredo, who proudly told me how supportive the Chorus members have been, how Gary Miller, the choruss first director, had spent time with Fred the day before, how calls have been coming in from around the country, how the parade of Chorus visitors have brightened Freds stay.
When Fred woke up, he was sharp and funny, excited to be going home for his eleven oclock news, and, in his own words, his eleven oclock Wilfredo. I got to tell him about the musical Im working on, and he asked about my dad, his old friend. When his nurse, Maria, came in, Fred sang to her from West Side Story. When we joked that the ambulance driver was super attractive, he told me in no uncertain terms that he had a more attractive man who slept in his bed. I readily agreed.
I know the situation is bad, and that Fred has already given instructions for the songs he wants the Chorus to sing at his memorial, but part of me really wants to believe that hell go on fighting, as he always has done, for his life, and his family. Fred is the heart of the Chorus, in many, many ways. When we met, I was a little kid, closeted in many ways. Now, on the precipice of a career and partnership, I find myself older, but not necessarily wiser. Fred has always had his priorities straight. I wonder about my own.
I met Fred for the first time when I was sixteen years old. My father, newly out of the closet, had joined the New York City Gay Mens Chorus, and sometimes, on weekends, he would take me to rehearsal. I would sit in the back, doing biology homework, while the guys fine-tuned (pun intended) their parts. At the time, the Chorus was a mix of younger guys and older guys, one and done types, and guys who had seen it all. The Charter members. Fred is one of those.
Way back in 1979, the summer before I was born, a group of eighty men came together in New York City to create the fourth gay mens chorus in the country (for trivia purposes, the first three were San Francisco, L.A., and Seattle). Under the direction of Gary Miller, the fledgling New York City Gay Mens Chorus, initially founded as a way for men to meet and sing together, promoting social change in the post-Stonewall era, quickly became a family. Within a few short months of the choruss first concert at Cooper Union in December of 1980, the first AIDS cases were reported in New York (although back then, there was no AIDS, only gay cancer and later GRID), and the functionality of the organization was as much that of a care giver as it was a performance group.
Fred was there from the beginning. He was a teacher who would later be one of only two teachers at the Harvey Milk High School, founded in 1985 as a place for gay and lesbian students to learn, half a decade before GLSEN, two and a half decades before GLEE. He was devoted to his students, who truly had nowhere else to go.
And every Monday night, Fred showed his dedication to the Chorus he so loves. He dutifully recorded every performance, from the small church appearances to Carnegie Hall. For years, he made rehearsal tapes, not only so that he could rehearse with them during the week, but so that anyone else who needed to catch up could sing along with them.
Fred was there unfailingly through every Chorus crisis. There were weekends, during the early 90s, where he would sing at the funerals of three men who had been singing beside him just weeks before, and then another two men gone the next week. Though he himself was sick, and battled through many times where he was told there was nothing that could be done for him, he never stopped coming to rehearsal, and believing that he d get through it, with the help of his beloved Chorus friends. He has said many times that it is the Chorus that keeps him alive, and I believe it. He said yesterday to a friend that the doctors have told him so many times in the past thirty years, that he was going to die, that hell believe it when he sees it.
Fred lost two husbands to AIDS, both of whose names appear on the Chorus AIDS Quilt. The quilt depicts the New York City skyline, twin towers and all, circa the mid-1980s, with the names of the men who the Chorus has lost (now more than 200) written in the stars that make up the sky. If two men on the quilt were a couple, their stars are touching. Every year, at the chorus retreats memorial service, Fred would talk about his husbands, and how some day he would have a star to touch their stars. Never one to self-pity, Fred continued to love after loss, and is today with his third husband, Wilfredo, of more than twelve years.
One thing that Fred has always been about, to me, is about doing whats right. After my father had been with the Chorus for several years, the membership council proposed to create an umbrella organization that would take the power out of the hands of the chorines, and put it into a semi-corporate group of benefactors. It was a big fight at the time, and Fred and my father were at the forefront of the opposition, along with another charter member named Manuel. And while they fought hard, they ultimately lost the battle. In retrospect, its pretty clear that their foresight was dead on. While one particularly amazing thing, the Youth Pride Chorus, came out of the expansion of the umbrella organization, the change largely negatively affected the NYCGMC, with financial repercussions that still overwhelm the group today. If you ever need to hear a strong opinion about the direction of the Chorus, Freds the man to ask. And while he may not agree with the direction the Chorus is going in at any point, hell always say that he supports the Chorus, that it is the most important part of his life. After more than thirty years, its still home. Amidst the turmoil of the past few years, even when other charter members left, Fred stayed. Even as my connections to the Chorus have loosened (having a Monday night class and a domestic partner of my own will do that to you), I know I can always count on Fred, an unflaggingly kind and funny friend who didnt care how long youve been away, but was always glad to see you and hear what youve been accomplishing.
When I think about Fred, I think about dancing. Perhaps its a strange non-sequitur. The Chorus, being a gay mens chorus, from time to time has a lot of what they call choral-ography. Dancing in place, en masse, can get very tricky. People start on the wrong foot, they go the wrong way, they forget entire measures... etc. Its often pretty ugly in rehearsal. I dont know anyone who works as hard as Fred when it comes to having everything perfect. The man attends every rehearsal, every extra learning session, practices the steps at home... all because it has to look perfect. No matter how sick hes been, he knows where his jazz hands are supposed to be when the downbeat comes.
In the past couple years, as Freds health has deteriorated, his spirit has not. When one of the directors, Casey, who he adores, left the Chorus and started a smaller, outreach group, Fred was one of the first people to put his name in the ring. When he lost the vision in one of his eyes due to a detached retina, he had large print music made so his good eye could still read the music. He subjected Wilfredo to hundreds of hours of listening to him repeat his baritone parts, over and over and over. He was determined not to sing one wrong note. And he sang at every damn concert, from the front row.
Fred was diagnosed with liver cancer over the summer. After spending the past nine days in the hospital, he was released last night to palliative care. I got to the hospital to visit about an hour and a half before the ambulance came to pick him up. He was asleep when I got there, so I had awhile to chat with his partner, Wilfredo, who proudly told me how supportive the Chorus members have been, how Gary Miller, the choruss first director, had spent time with Fred the day before, how calls have been coming in from around the country, how the parade of Chorus visitors have brightened Freds stay.
When Fred woke up, he was sharp and funny, excited to be going home for his eleven oclock news, and, in his own words, his eleven oclock Wilfredo. I got to tell him about the musical Im working on, and he asked about my dad, his old friend. When his nurse, Maria, came in, Fred sang to her from West Side Story. When we joked that the ambulance driver was super attractive, he told me in no uncertain terms that he had a more attractive man who slept in his bed. I readily agreed.
I know the situation is bad, and that Fred has already given instructions for the songs he wants the Chorus to sing at his memorial, but part of me really wants to believe that hell go on fighting, as he always has done, for his life, and his family. Fred is the heart of the Chorus, in many, many ways. When we met, I was a little kid, closeted in many ways. Now, on the precipice of a career and partnership, I find myself older, but not necessarily wiser. Fred has always had his priorities straight. I wonder about my own.
Penny
