Paul

I did a lot of performance art in my college years, once I decided I was going to take peoples secrets and put them on a massive piece of water color paper. I would use a dip pen and ink, I truly liked to make things as difficult as possible back then. I love the randomness of a dip pen and ink, and I'm not exactly a coordinated person, so the random spillage was an unintentional but kind of lovely touch.

I digress I sat in Washington Square park with a sign that said "Tell Me a Secret".

I heard both breathtaking and heartbreaking words that day, stories of betrayal and assault, and secret goals that my collaborators hadn't told anyone yet, even a planned marriage proposal. It was a perfect sliver of the human experience. I dutifully took them down word for word, prodding a little to get my collaborators to open up a bit more, for the most part I was passively listening.

Towards the end of the day an older man came up to the edge of the grass, I was sitting under the tree, trying to keep my already fried skin from burning further. He walked with a cane, I told him that I could come to him, but he insisted that he would come to me and sit with me like everyone else. My friend and I helped him down and he started talking.

He joked that his story was almost a cliche, that it was every gay man his age's story. He had moved to New York City in the late sixties, because his family in the south kicked him out when he came out to them. He mourned the continued hatred in our world, and wished out loud that love was unconditional. He told me that most of his friends had died of AIDs, he was one of the lucky ones, one of the only ones left, he made it out of the eighties alive and without the virus. He had marched for gay rights, he had rubbed shoulders with some of the most respected queer activists as they risked their lives for the rights that I have today.

When he was done, as I helped him up, he said "Thank you for seeing me". I could not express in that moment the gift he just gave me. I told him that his existence, the life he lived was the reason it was no longer illegal for me to get married. I was seeing and listening to a queer icon, a true elder, whose life had gone completely unnoticed. He felt it was important enough to tell someone a bit of his story to risk a little pain.

Paul is special because even after all the hatred and vitriol he's experienced in his life, he still wanted to hug me. He still wanted to share his story because he knew how important it was. His eyes were still kind, his voice still gentle, even when he was crying. He even told me to "give them hell", he did not specify who the "them" was , but I think I have a few pretty good ideas.

There are few left like him, AIDS took a whole generation of our gay men. Hatred made sure that I at 30 am not considered young for a non binary person. 82% of trans youth have thought about suicide between 32%-40% have attempted.

At a time when LGBTQ lives are on the line in a very similar way, though it is legislation not a virus this time, especially our trans and nonbinary siblings, I think we should think about Paul. While he is an inspiration and a beautiful generous soul for sharing his secrets and story with me, he also made it very clear he was lonely in his old age. He walked away a little lighter, he told me so, but he wasn't sure how much longer he wanted to stick around. He had fought his whole youth to have his friends taken from him by a virus that was not taken seriously because of who it was infecting.

Paul, I don't know where you are, but that thirty minutes with you, writing down your story, it made me go learn about my past. It made me learn about queer history. You opened up my world to things like ballroom and queer literature. You stopped my willful ignorance because things were better. I am a better person, and a more free person, because of your existence.