Who's the Boss?

by Mona Shaw

Mike and I became friends in 2007, when I lived in Des Moines. He was a regular in a soup kitchen where I volunteered. The first time we met, he lumbered into my personal space, but it felt loving not intrusive. He looked me dead in the eye and demanded an answer to his question.

“Who’s the boss?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Who’s the boss around here?” he repeated.

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

“I am!” he chortled. “I’m the boss around here!” He laughed and thumped his own chest.

“Glad to meet you, Boss.” I grinned and shook his hand.

I was an immediate fan. No one knew how old Mike was. Mike didn’t know. He looked to be in his 40s. He was a little less than six-feet-tall, average build. He frequently needed a shower. He was African American as are many in any soup kitchen. The legacy of racism affects people of color in poverty disproportionately to the rest of the population.

Mike had an intellectual disability. I never knew what exactly. He had the vocabulary and mental capacity of an average four-year-old.

Looking back on it, I’m not surprised we became fast friends. Our broken wings matched. We both shared the frustration of the inability to communicate to others what we wanted them to know. Yet, we understood each other and had meaningful conversations that were looks and eye-rolls and gestures as much as they were words.

When Mike hugged me, which he did often, I always felt safe and loved.  There is something extraordinary about a hug that is just for the hug’s sake.

He was clever. The first time I gave him a ride home, we drove around for a good hour, while he gestured for me to take one turn, then the next. I was close to giving up, when he pointed to the entrance of a subsidized housing complex only about ten blocks from my place

“Here!” he announced.

As he left the passenger seat, he turned and grinned.

“Good ride!”

He loved going to church, and he attended several. He loved congregational singing. He didn’t know a single word of any hymn, but he would vocalize loudly and with great joy until the singing ended. This annoyed or left more than a few people feeling awkward, but it always charmed off my socks. It was just so happy.

We hung out almost every day. I would be writing at my computer, and he would just walk into my place and sit on the couch.

“Hi, Baby.”

“Hi, Mike.”

He knew I liked quiet while I was writing. So, he would watch PBS kids with the volume low. Out of the corner of my eye, I would notice him watching me out of the corner of his.

At some point, when I write, I reach a point where the juices dry up. In that moment, I put my hands over my face and take a deep breath.  When, this happened, Mike would come to me and drop my car keys or purse on my keyboard.

“Play now,” he would say.

Sometimes we’d go to the park. He loved the carousel; so, I loved it too.  Sometimes we’d go to lunch. He always wanted whatever I was having. Except, when we went to a buffet, then he’d load up on donuts and desserts. He would try to hide the vegetables I would sneak onto his plate under a napkin next to him in the booth.

I know I’m likely going to Hell for this, but one day while we were riding in the car, he smiled at me and said.

“You beautiful, Baby.”

“Yeah,” I agreed sardonically. “I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”

This became a routine for us in greeting each other.

“Who’s the boss?”

“You are! Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“You are!”

After that he’d introduce me as his girlfriend. I didn’t correct him because I could never think of a good reason to do that. The ascription came with no extra expectations from me at all. He never made any romantic, let alone sexual, gesture. It was more that he wanted people to know we were special to each other.

We had so many routines, like when he needed a shower.

“Mike, you need a shower.”

Mike would pull his t-shirt up to his nose.

“Stank! Ewweee.”

Going places with Mike was like walking next to Jesus when he rode into Jerusalem. It was a rare person who did not know him and didn’t greet him. Down every aisle of every store, throughout every shopping mall, any restaurant, or on the street, Mike was hailed.

“Hi, Mike!”

“Hi, Buddy.”

“Hi, Mike!”

“Hi, Buddy!”

“Hi, Mike!”

“Hi, Buddy!”

He was a true Des Moines celebrity. One day in the soup kitchen, another volunteer questioned why I was cooking something a certain way.  I was feeling impish.

“The Boss is my boyfriend, so I can do things however I want.”

“That’s right!” said Mike as he put his arm around my shoulders.

One day I was in a contentious discussion with another volunteer, Jim, about wealth.

I was insisting that wealth was inherently evil.

Jim believed I was letting jealousy influence my thinking. He believed in a meritocracy that rewarded people for ingenuity and hard work. The system may not be perfect, but there would be no progress without it.

People always look at me as if I’ve lost my mind, when I insist that intelligence is a privilege and shouldn’t be rewarded with material wealth any more than race or sex.

So, we did point, counterpoint for the better part of the afternoon. We were fixated on a popular television show in 2009, called “The Apprentice.”  I saw the show as an icon for how we foster a culture of greed and class supremacy.  Jim insisted it was a healthy example of rewarding ingenuity.

Jim was a kind guy, and he delighted in Mike almost as much as I did. He also knew how much Mike loved Hershey bars and Pepsi. In mid-sentence, he remembered he’d brought both for Mike.  He stopped, reached in his backpack and handed them over.

“Thanks, Buddy!” Mike was over the moon with joy.

Mike laughed. Jim laughed. I laughed. We all reflected joy in one another’s eyes. And then we laughed again.

After hugs all around, I just had to ask.

“Give me one GOOD reason Donald Trump should have a better standard of living than Mike?”

Silence.

“I can’t,” Jim finally said.

Mike passed away a few years after I moved from Des Moines. They don’t do autopsies on men from Mike’s side of the tracks, so we’ll never really know why he died.  I know I miss him and think about every day.

Mike’s life mattered. He was a walking, shimmering beacon of love and joy.  When I think of him, I always wonder why love isn’t our meritocracy.  What if love was the measure?

What if rather than spending every morning pleading with God in prayer to make me more effective in convincing others to care about the least of these, what if we lived in a world where that was our focus of attention?

What if instead of bickering about elections and political theory and describing the relative merits of candidates or philosophers and defending our fealty to them or other flavors of celebrities, we were talking about our plans to end human suffering?

What if the main news story was about efforts to end poverty and war for profit? What if we decided it was unacceptable to allow anyone to die or suffer pain because they couldn’t afford the medical care they need for any amount of time or for any reason?  What if we were hanging banners on turnpike overpasses demanding any end to racism, sexism, ableism, classism, heterosexism and transphobia?

What if we were advocates of unabashedly loving our neighbor as ourselves?

Mike’s life was a masterclass in that.

Red Baiting in the 21st Century

by Mona Shaw

Red baiting in this election is going to get someone killed.

The Red Baiters are getting traction, and it’s leading to things like this gem.

“BTW, If you think we are going to let Comrade Bernie and all of you little communist scumbags turn our country into the USSR, we arent going down without a fight. I think there is a good reason guns are and have been flying off the shelves for the past few years. There is a major storm brewing and people are going to learn what the 2nd Amendment is all about.”

This was posted by a Trump supporter on a Burlington, Iowa, Facebook page in a discussion about Sanders’ candidacy.

The blood this man is threatening isn’t just a wacko Trumpster call to battle. It’s a sentiment that’s being ginned up the Democratic Party establishment.

Every, single, time a Democrat insults Bernie Sanders for being a “socialist,” they trigger this kind of response.  You can’t demonize people for being socialists and not expect a violent response from those inclined to violence.  That’s how hate crimes are motivated.

Even so, the Democratic Party Establishment is wielding the “Better Dead than Red” sword with the ferocity that would leave Joe McCarthy feeling inadequate. Not since the nadir of the 1950s HUAC hearings have we seen such viciousness toward those on the far left.

MSNC pundits like Chris Wallace have compared Sanders supporters to brown shirts who would call for public executions.  James Carville has called for socialist Bernie to be stopped before it’s too late. Michael Bloomberg called Sanders a communist from a public debate stage.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read or heard some Democrat say, “I don’t want socialism,” when Sanders is the topic of conversation.

The irony, of course, is that Bernie Sanders isn’t a socialist at all. He’s a capitalist with a more progressive agenda than centrist Democrats.  His politics are no more “socialist” than were those of FDR.

DNC leadership knows this. Sanders has caucused with Democrats for decades. They’ve appointed him to policy leadership posts.  Sanders has been a darling of the Democratic party. He has been one of the most popular keynote speakers at Democratic Party fundraisers for years. He has faithfully serviced as their favorite sheepdog bringing home the progressive wing of the party.

This makes the DNC more culpable than ignorant Republicans for violence that comes from red-baiting. They know they’re lying.

The more you portray people as a threat to democracy and freedom. The more you accuse them of being dangerous to the public. The more likely someone will believe socialists need to be taken out.

The thing is. There are real socialists in the United States, millions of them. These are kind and decent people who share the belief that capitalism begets suffering, racism, inequality and senseless death.

It is reasonable for real socialists, communists, anarchists and mutualists of any stripe to be alarmed.  What’s next?  Will they be blacklisted again?  Put before tribunals as an enemy of the state again?  Incarcerated?  Or just shot on the street?

If the word “socialist” can be used to interfere in the democratic electoral process of someone who is not a socialist, what’s in store for those who should have the right to espouse actual socialist beliefs? Should they stitch a red patch on their clothing now, or wait until it’s required?

Howard Dean and the Art of Death

by Mona Shaw

It has always astonished me how much rancor you can bring down on your head simply because you don’t want people to suffer and die.

In 2009, I attended a lecture given by Howard Dean at the Unitarian Church in Des Moines, Iowa. He was promoting Obamacare, specifically its “robust” public option.

I was wearing an “HR676, Single Payer Now!” t-shirt.  HR676 was a bill in Congress that had been introduced by the late US Congressman John Conyers. I also handed out pamphlets on the bill and its benefits.  This led to me receiving no small share of dirty looks. However, it awarded me plenty of empty seats around me at the talk.

The effusive valentines to Governor Dean in his introduction led me to think that the presenters may be biased. The governor told us Obama’s bill was nothing less than the second coming. Even I was a little impressed. Still, I had questions.

For the Q and A, questions had to be submitted in writing and given to a staff person. I watched the staff person lay aside the questions I had submitted.  Still a few questions leaked through from others that led Governor Dean to respond more than once.

“The ACA can’t be everything to all people.”

The sad-faced nods of acceptance from the progressive Democratic audience horrified me.

The time for questions ended. I saw my shot. I stood and loudly asked this.

“Governor, how many people is the ACA willing to let die?”

All Hell broke loose.  I continued.

“I don’t want to be rude, but this is an important question. How many?”

“You are rude, ma’am,” said Dean, “I don’t respond to rude people.

While people grabbed my arm and escorted me out, I kept talking.

“There will be no public option at all. The health insurance industry will see to that!  And the premiums of the Market Place options will be far from affordable…”

I was called “Liar!” and booed. I quickly found myself on the side walk by the church.  A man yelled from the door, “And don’t come back here, EVER!”

I received many contemptuous emails that all began with, “I’m a progressive Democrat, but…”

My behavior was described as “unacceptable, shameful, and outrageous.” I was schooled on incremental change, the definition of “reality,” and the “art of the possible.” I was advised on what I would do if I “really cared.” Several said they wanted nothing to do with me ever again.

I don’t want to say the audience cared more about social propriety than the lives I was defending, but the thought did occur to me.

I’m still waiting for an answer to my question.

How many are we willing to let die?

Slow Boat to China

by Mona Shaw

I’ve never been to China. I never will travel there. But, most of things in my apartment have been.

Most arrived in bulk at some customs port. They tumbled through a scanner and landed in several destinations for a time until I gave up my debit card number and they came though my door.

But, before that, at the nascence of their creation, they were in human hands.  I stare at my coffee mug, and I wonder about the person who made it. Is she a she? Is she a child? Is she a grandmother? If she is a grandmother, how many grandchildren does she have? Boys or girls? Does she see them often? What kind of games does she play with them? Is she thin or fat? What was her day like they day she made this mug? Was she feeling ill? Did she have a backache? Was she worried about her children? Is he hair long or short? Does she paint her fingernails? Has she gone through menopause? How bad were here hot flashes?  Was she having hot flashes when she made this mug? Does she have a coffee mug like this?

Printed on the side of my coffee mug are the words, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Did she know what the words meant? Did she find them ironic?

This worker and I are forever connected by this mug. Our respective class stations will prevent our knowing each other. I wish this were not so.

A swift glance around my living room presents the spirits of dozens of workers, perhaps even hundreds. Human lives with human dreams and human hearts and souls. When I close my eyes, I can feel them here. I wish I could offer each of them a cup of coffee and thank them for my mug.

Beating Swords into Plowshares

by Mona Shaw

Many know about Dorothy Day’s work with the poor and her anti-war activism. Not as much is known about her as a brilliant intellectual and gifted writer. Her book All the Way to Heaven is one of my favorites. It’s just not merely food for thought, it’s an endless and sumptuous banquet. Her keen intelligence led to acts of profound and comprehensive wisdom.

Brian Terrell (a life-long Catholic Worker, who lived with Day) told me a story about Dorothy several years ago that has catalyzed endless insights as it continues to refuse to leave my daily consciousness.

It seems that one day at Mary House, a man arrived and gave Dorothy a valuable diamond ring from an estate.  Dorothy thanked the man and noted it was lovely and generous.

She, then, called to a homeless woman who was a guest of the house.

“Mary,” Dorothy said, “I think this ring will fit you.”

She placed the ring on Mary’s finger

“It does fit. It looks so pretty on you.  It’s yours.”

Unsurprisingly she was criticized for this. How much could have done for the poor if she had sold the ring instead?  But, in her infinite wisdom, she knew that selling this bauble would perpetuate it as a symbol of class oppression. She knew that long after the proceeds from its sale were spent, it would land on some wealthy woman’s hand as a flagrant witness of class supremacy. She resisted class inequality by taking one tiny weapon away from the war on the poor.  It was a brave, longer lasting, and more powerful gift to the poor.

This remains a prevailing guide in much that I do.

To Those Who Think I’m too Hard on Rich People

by Mona Shaw

There is no way to confront economic inequality without rich people feeling shamed. And even thin morality requires that economic inequality be addressed.

I am a low-income Iowa grandmother. I have absolutely no institutional power over the rich. Still, I wish no less for them than I wish for the poor.

Are the rich denied healthcare because they can’t afford it?  Is a rich mother tearful because she can’t afford to order out for a pizza for the kids? Are the rich signing up for Toys for Tots? Are the rich living in their cars even though they work full-time? Are the rich waiting in a long food bank line?  Are the rich agonizing whether to pay the utility bill or buy insulin? Are the rich doing a GoFundMe to pay for a funeral for their loved one who died because they bought shoes for their child instead of insulin?

There are millions of people working in sweat shops who have the intelligence to cure cancer. Yet, they are denied education, while the rich can buy the admission of their academically mediocre children into Ivy League schools.

The irony of rich people complaining about being shamed is not lost on me.  The poor are shamed every waking moment of their lives (and in their nightmares for that matter).  Everything in this culture suggests they are inferior to those with wealth. Every time a worker is expected to call a boss by their sir name, “Okay, Mr. Jones,” while they are called by their first name, “Get this done this morning, Judy,” is humiliating.  Rich kids are never bullied about their clothes, but poor kids are.  Rich are kids are never told they can’t be friends because they live on the wrong side of the tracks.

Every suggestion that the rich are in any way smarter or work harder or in any way more worthy is not only humiliating. It is a lie that wears on the soul in ways the rich can’t imagine. There is no meritocracy in America. This popular myth is still a myth. The poor and working-class are not only demeaned for their economic status, they are blamed for it.

I would posit that the wealthy being shamed is relatively inconsequential karma.

I’m not worried about rich people. They have an entire system at their back, and they can afford to buy all the positive P.R. they want.  Indeed, the health insurance industry is spending millions right now to lie to the disadvantaged to continue to build wealth on their very ability to survive.

I’m also not worried about shaming them making them less likely to share their ill-gotten money.  If coddling and fawning over them led them to share, they’d have done it already.

I’m an advocate for poor, working poor, and working-class people. I’m seeking to flip over a system that hurts them. The rich don’t need me. And, I want to create a world in which the rest of us don’t need them.

Conjunction Junction

by Mona Shaw

“But” may be the cruelest conjunction in the English language.

My entire history of activism is comprised of one singular activity.  That activity is trying to convince privileged people that the lives of the oppressed are as precious and as valuable as their own.  The privileged are not easily convinced.

“I’m not racist, but…”

“I’m all for equality for women, but…”

“I support same-sex marriage, but…”

“The needy should get Food Stamps, but…”

“I’m against torture, but…”

“I believe in immigrant rights, but…”

“I support unions and workers rights, but…”

“Women shouldn't be sexually harassed, but…”

“Capitalism is unsustainable and flawed, but…”

“I’d love to have Single Payer or Medicare for All, but…”

These palliations are not only stored in the toolboxes of the right wing. I have heard everyone of these phrases emerge from the mouths of those who call themselves “progressive Democrats.” Every. Single. One.

I heard liberal Senator Tom Harkin say he supported the Ryan White Bill for those who “didn’t get AIDS on purpose.” I heard liberals defend Obama when he repatriated Central American children to their deaths. They did the same when Obama cut Food Stamps several times during his administration. Democrats defended their presidential candidates who opposed legalizing same-sex marriage through the 2008 presidential election. Obama changed his mind only six months before the 2012 election and only after public support reached 71%. Not to mention that both political parties still carry water for sexual harassers. I’ve lost count of how many “progressive” I’ve heard criticize how poor people spend their money.

Many attempt to camouflage the intentional dilatory toward justice with absurd and meaningless old chestnuts. I call these the “Death Pass.”

"Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.”

“You don’t build Rome in a day.”

“I believe in incremental change.”

“My plan is better than their plan.”

“We can’t be everything to everyone.”

“You don’t speak for all oppressed people.”

“Some oppressed people are okay with this.”

“Don’t be a purist or extremist.”

“I believe in compromise.”

I call these the “Death Pass,” because they all agree to let some people suffer and die. They all permit some degree of injustice.  They dehumanize the lives they do not value as collateral damage in deference to a force that is the author and generator of human oppression.

I see this in the lack of outrage in healthcare plans that promote a public option or are labeled with the misnomer “choice.”  There is not a negligible difference between and Single Payer unless you believe the difference between living or dying is no big deal. Every plan but Single Payer requires payment in order to have access to healthcare. People who can’t afford to pay still will suffer and die. Still, when I ask those who push compromise how many they’re willing to let die, they become very angry with me, rather than outraged that lives are being lost. It is that lack of outrage I find most heartbreaking and demoralizing.

Let me restate for clarity. Any plan that allows even one person to suffer and die because they can’t afford medical care is a blatant crime against humanity. Justice demands no less.

It should be noted that anything less than Single Payer is egregiously sexist and denies reproductive rights to poor and low-income women. Thanks to the Hyde Amendment, poor women have never had access to abortion if they couldn’t find a way to pay for it. Of course, that would presume that the lives of poor women are as valuable as the lives of their economically advantaged sisters.

Make no mistake. This is not about who you vote for. It’s about what you stand for. There is no excuse for not standing for justice, if justice is where you want to stand.  There is no excuse for ameliorating crimes against humanity.  One person dying in this country because they can’t afford the medical care they need is a moral crime.  Any attempt to minimize or equivocate this fact is collusion with evil. As Martin Luther King, jr. said, “Justice delayed is justice denied.”

History has proven again and again that human rights were never advanced by hedging the requirements for justice. It has been advanced through great sacrifice by those who wouldn’t leave out any of the oppressed in that quest. Martin Luther King, jr. didn’t just advocate civil rights for some people of color. Alice Paul didn’t get arrested asking for suffrage for some women, and Harvey Milk wasn’t assassinated because he wanted some gay people to be treated like human beings. Eugene V. Debs didn’t spend six months in prison because he only wanted workers rights for Railroad employees.

This is about whose side you are on and if you have the moral courage to make a loud, public, and undiluted demand for justice. There are no “buts” about it.

AIDS Memories

Michael and I in 1981

by Mona Shaw

World AIDS Day hit me harder this year than it has in decades. I don’t know why.  I jotted down these memories as they came to me.  This is not a historical account of all that happened even in Iowa during that dark time. It’s not even the tip of the iceberg of all that took place. They are just a few things that I remembered during a day of deep and painful grief.

Imagine awakening one morning and realizing more than 30 of your friends have died. Friends your age and younger. Vibrant adults in their 20s, 30s, and 40s.

Now imagine that isn’t the hard part. Imagine your friends were killed, not by a crazed gunman, but by the president of the United States, while an entire nation stood, watched, and did nothing. And, it’s not just your friends, tens of thousands are dying across the nation. And, still, nothing is done.

Imagine being criticized for caring about them. Imagine being punished or persecuted for trying to get others to care.

This was my first direct experience of facing the reality that some lives don’t have value. It’s not that bad if they die, perhaps even preferable.

I remember the first time I heard about it in the early 80s on NPR.  It was a mysterious disease that had killed a few dozen gay men in California. Very soon the disease was called GRID, Gay Related Immune Deficiency. Like others, I wondered if this wasn’t an overaction and a reason to criminalize sex between members of the same sex. When my best friend Michael picked me up for lunch, we talked about it and agreed it was probably just Anita Bryant drivel trying to scare us from having sex.

Very soon, members of the LGBT community would learn that the matter would shed far more horror than we could have ever imagined.

By February 1, 1983, 1,025 AIDS cases were reported, and at least 394 had died in the United States. Reagan said nothing. On April 23, 1984, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention announced 4,177 reported cases in America and 1,807 deaths. In San Francisco, the health department reported more than 500 cases. Again, Reagan said nothing.

We knew then, we had to save ourselves. Up until then gay men and lesbians were rather separatist. This galvanized us. Lesbians were among the first to organize care for men affected.

I cannot overstate how homophobia brutalized the discourse and the efforts of the day.  To show sympathy for those dying was considered support for gay people. Few wanted anywhere near that scarlet letter, no matter how they may have personally felt.  Most dismissed the crisis as getting involved in controversial politics. We were told it was unreasonable for us to ask, let alone expect, their support. The disdain for such a request was palpable. Ironically, we were accused of only caring about ourselves.

The dying men were political collateral damage. Not only was there no compassion for them, the hatred for them and all gay people exploded exponentially. A significant source of Reagan's support came from the newly identified religious right and the Moral Majority, a political-action group founded by the Rev. Jerry Falwell. AIDS became the tool, and gay men the target, for the politics of fear, hate and discrimination. Falwell said "AIDS is the wrath of God upon homosexuals. It’s God’s way of weeding his garden." Reagan's communications director Pat Buchanan agreed that AIDS is "nature's revenge on gay men."

I remember being outraged after hearing Falwell say that one morning on the radio. I exploded in the presence of a faculty member in my office.

“Come on, Mona,” he said. “If you want people to respect your opinion, you have to respect theirs.”

I was furious. “I’ll be damned if I ever respect that opinion. How many homophobes are dying because they’re homophobes?”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” he said, “That’s why you people aren’t getting any traction. You have too much anger and hate.”

You learn very quickly if you’re a serious activist, that playing nice is the thing that never gets any traction. You must rattle cages. You must cause trouble. That’s the only thing that ever effects change. Once these efforts break a crack in the opposition, the “reasonable” people like to show up and take over. But they won’t make that crack.

What happened in those years flows through my soul forever now like a sea of sorrow and despair. And hope. And love. Nothing happens without hope and love.  Memories will surface at unexpected times seeming non-sequiturs of justice that have yet to disclose their connection.

I remember.

I remember David Ellingsworth, getting royally pissed at me for calling a recent political win, “a start.”

“I am out of time, Mona! Don’t you get that!”

We were at an AIDS fundraiser at a local gay watering hole called 6:20. I watched him sing, “Stormy Weather” with his heart on his sleeve. I grabbed him and hugged him when he was finished.

“I’m so sorry,” I wept, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he patted my back, “I’m sorry too. It’s just so goddamned hard.”

I remember holding his mother Carol by his lifeless body in his coffin. She was inconsolable, but brave. She patted my back the same way he had.

Not everyone was lucky enough to have a mother like Carol. Many who died were rejected by their parents. Some died alone. Others were held by those who stood in as their surrogate families.  There were many, many saints.

I often stare at a photograph of my closest friends during the 70s and 80s. We're  

camping up it with coconuts shells in our shirts at a barbecue in the 80s. There are eight of us. I’m the only one in the photo still alive.

I remember the first memorial service I went to for a friend named Kerry Grippe in 1986. Kerry was a member of the piano faculty at the University of Iowa School of Music. A bottle of hand sanitizer was hung on his office door after he disclosed his diagnosis.  His lover, also a good friend, Allen Greedy gave me a framed fabric painting because I read Kerry’s poems at the service. Allen died about a year later.

Kevin Reeves was another close friend. We lived together. He was the best surrogate father my older son ever had. We were the First Family of Theatre. We had the sign on our front door. It was non-stop singing and slapstick in our home. Parodies of songs, often at my expense. He could sing, act, and played a mean piano. He killed Thomas Jefferson in his performance in “1776.” He promised me he’d be careful. He promised me. We lost him in November 1996.

I remember the first World Aids Day. Then it was called “Day without Art.” There was a choral and orchestral concert that day being given the University of Iowa School of Music. I was the School’s P.R. director. I knew the choir director couldn’t cancel the concert, but I asked him if choir and orchestra members could wear red ribbons.

“Oh, Mona, don’t do this to me,” Bill Hatcher said. “I don’t feel comfortable using my concert to make a political statement.”

“Bill,” I said, “People are dying. We have to do something.”

We looked at each other silently for a while.

“Oh, screw it,” he said, “If anyone wants to wear a ribbon, it’s okay with me.”

When I sat in the audience that night, practically everyone on stage was wearing a red ribbon. I wept, of course. I felt a corner may have been turned somehow in the struggle.

I know Bill took a hit for his decision, as did I for instigating it.  I am confident neither of us regrets the decision today.

I remember going to my third funeral in a week. I usually went to funerals with my close friend, John Harper, a gay man and a faculty member in the English Department.  I sat in the car thinking about not getting out. John looked at my quizzically.

“I don’t think I can hold another grieving mother in my arms right now,” I said. My bottom lip was quivering like it does in the cold.

“Sure, you can,” he said, “We have to.” And he took my hand and held it through most of the funeral.

Thank, God, John is still with us, and we have a lot we remember. I remember John returning from a trip to San Francisco in the late 80s looking pale and stricken.

“It’s like a holocaust,” he said. “The windows of clubs are totally papered with photos of the dead. There are thousands. Death is everywhere. It’s swallowed everything. I’ll never be the same.”

Survivors guilt among gay men was a very real thing. “Why him and not me?” was often heard. I remember Ozzie Diaz Duque reading a poem he'd written about it and one the many, many vigils.

I remember a woman becoming furious when the word “holocaust” was used to describe the epidemic or gay men in concentration camps in Nazi Germany. “In the holocaust,” she explained, “People were killed for no reason.”

I remember sitting and trying to list the names of friends I’d lost. I got to 33 and had to stop. Only to remember several more later in the day.

I didn’t only hold grieving mothers because their child had died. I held one after a woman at his funeral told her, “You must be heartsick knowing that your son is burning in Hell for all eternity.”

I remember flying off the handle at “liberal” Iowa Senator Tom Harkin who did vote for the Ryan White Bill, then later reassured a disgruntled constituent by explaining the aid was for those who hadn’t “gotten AIDS on purpose.”

I remember standing at vigils in all kinds of weather while we read the names of those we’d lost. Many I did not know. At each vigil, the list was longer. It took hours to read it.

I remember being told I had “gone too far,” when in a speech in Des Moines I referred to our governor, Terry Branstad, as “murderer,” because he resisted any funding in Iowa for AIDS treatment or research. I still stand by those words.

I remember giggling with Rick Graf about his large poster on a street corner in Iowa City. The poster was a chart of AIDS funding and listed several items. At the top, above the figures, were the words, “in Millions of Dollars.” There were two columns, one for federal funding and one for state funding. Each item had a great big “Zero.” Rick irritated as many people as he charmed in this day. He had a talk show on Public Access called, “Silence Equals Death: So, I’ll Just Keep Talking, Thank You.”  Rick died in 1995.

I remember the AIDS quilt. I remember traveling to D.C. for its last complete showing on the Capitol Mall in 1992. (It turned out there would be one more.) My best friend lived there. I stayed at his place. Michael had AIDs.

My bargaining with God had failed. I told God that I would give everything I had to the movement if he would just spare Michael. 

Like with all justice movements, you don’t get anywhere without some civil disobedience. ACT-UP had stepped up to the plate on that one, and we joined several actions. My favorite was when several thousand of us wrapped a red ribbon around the White House. It took a lot of ribbon.  Afterward, there was a rally in a green space behind the White House. A woman was distributing Xeroxed copies of George H.W. Bush, who was still president.

“Why are you giving me this?” I asked the woman.

“It rained last night,” she said, “You may want something to sit on.”

We put more hope in Bill Clinton, who would soon be elected, than he would come to deserve.

We sang while waving our fists in rhythm.

“Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah,

“Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.

“Hey, hey, Goodbye!”

I meant to join in during the “Die In.” But as I began to lie back, I saw Michael. He was lying motionless, his eyes closed. I chose to just look at him instead. I knew I was losing him. I didn’t want to lose a moment of looking at him while I could.

Michael was/is the best friend I will ever have. I knew that then. I know that now. He was one of the friends some never get. He got me. He loved me so much and unconditionally. He thought I was “It.” He would go along with my every Quixotic mission, and he promised me as long as he had a place, I had a place. We had been close since we were 15. We lived together, ate together, slept together, lost in love together and hitchhiked together. He saved me time and time and time again. He was my safety net, my soft place to land. I could not, would not, imagine a world without him.

Michael died on the phone with me. I was supposed to visit him the following weekend, when his lover Aaron phoned me in a panic.

“He’s in horrible pain! He’s waiting for you. I can’t take it. He wants to die at home, but I have to put him in the hospital! I can’t do this!”

I asked Aaron to give me a minute. I spun in the room in the worst kind confusion. I called Don Engstrom, a friend whose advice I trusted. His partner Rick Graf had died the year before.

“I think, Mona,” Don said, “He needs you to tell him it’s okay to go.”

I phoned Aaron back, and asked him to put the phone to Michael’s ear.

I told Michael how much I loved him that he was the best friend I’d ever have. I told him I didn’t want to lose him, but that I would be okay. That if he needed to go, it was okay. Then the phone went dead.

In about ten minutes, Aaron called back.

“Michael asked me, ‘Did Mona really say that?’ I told him you had. Then he closed his eyes and died. 

It was December 26, 1996. We were both 45.