Tales of a Librarian

We were there to defend Max’s right to exist in public. That’s what this bathroom stuff is really about, because let’s face it: If you prohibit someone from using a public bathroom, how much is he really going to be able to exist in public? He couldn’t go to school, he couldn’t see a movie with friends, he would have to worry about being able to find a bathroom to use every single time he left our house. The Texas Legislature is trying to erase my son and shove him into a dark corner — and no one does that to my baby, even the Governor of Texas. […]

Max knows what’s at stake. We don’t talk about it much, because he’s 9, and social justice and gender identity aren’t really top of mind for him. But even without all the lengthy, adult conversations, he gets it. Max wanted to be present that day, to speak to our legislators face to face and remind them that he is important, too. So I proudly brought my baby with me, to show him that it’s important to stand up to bullies, even if some of those bullies work in marble offices in your state capitol.

It was a long day, and I was proud of his composure and courage. We do things big down here in Texas, and our state capitol building is no exception: with wings, extensions, chambers, and security at just about every turn, it can be intimidating even to enter the building. When the legislature is in session, the building is crammed with elected officials, their staff, interns, lobbyists, reporters, and constituents from every corner of the state, and the noise and crowds are overwhelming, especially for a kid like Max, who is only half the size of everyone there.

Local reporters who had been following these “bathroom bills” closely had also been following us around all day, too, and Max was on his best behavior because of it. After the hot outdoor press conference with cameras trained right on his adorable freckled face, the noise and commotion happening inside the building, and the frustration of having to articulate to grownups that the only people who are bothered that he’s transgender are the very people who swore an oath to protect him, Max had had enough.

Exhausted, he sat his little butt down, confessed to me how tired he was, and asked if we could go home. So I did what any loving mother would do: I canceled the rest of our legislative visits, wiped his tears, and took him out for ice cream. That’s what parents do when their kids have a tough day. That’s what you see in this photo.

100 Reasons to Stay Alive~ Just a friendly reminder in case you had forgotten all of the wonderful little things that makes life worth the struggle~

Wrote up this list as an additional page on my blog and will be adding more as time goes on. If you have any suggestions you want to see on this list, feel free to message me. 

The Gay Men’s Chorus posed to illustrate the impact of AIDS. Those dressed in black, with their backs turned, represent those who had died. Today, all their backs would be turned because the obituary list is now 47 names longer than the chorus roster. For each man singing these days, more than one chorus member has died of AIDS.

More from the 2006 article:

There is a common saying backstage before the curtain rises on the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus:

“I sing for two.”

For each man standing, one chorus member has died of AIDS.

A quarter-century into the epidemic, the list of the dead is longer than the living: there are 210 singers and 257 obituaries.

As AIDS devastated San Francisco, the Gay Men’s Chorus suffered some of the city’s largest group casualties.

“If AIDS never happened, we’d be two or three choruses by now,” said Bob Emery, 77, who is among the four active members left from the original 1978 roster and has been living with HIV for 26 years.

[…]

At every rehearsal during the 1980s and early 1990s, there were announcements about who was in which hospital room and when the next memorial was scheduled.

“I could see all these people dropping all around me, and there was no official response from any health department at any level,” said Tony McIntosh, who joined the chorus in 1985 and lost 25 friends to AIDS. “It was maddening. The chorus gave us an outlet for all that anger and relief from the feeling that nobody in the world seemed to care.”

Singing became survival.

[…]

As AIDS took its toll, the chorus members used their concerts as a forum to bring a sense of urgency about the epidemic to the public. Their music became more somber, and they began adding AIDS requiems to their programs. The chorus also became the only place for the members to talk openly about HIV and AIDS. The men shared tips on how to get into clinical drug trials and serenaded friends through their last breaths.

For men who were fighting for their lives alone, estranged from parents who had turned their backs on their gay children, the chorus became family.

[…]

“We’re starting to go to less-gay places like Modesto and perform now,” said 21-year member Tom Burtch, keeper of the “Fifth Section,” a list of every chorus member who has died. The chorus publishes the list in every concert program.

In February, Burtch added the latest AIDS victim to the list, 48-year-old Robert Frey of San Francisco.

Not long after, Burtch overheard one of the new chorus members in his twenties whisper to another during rehearsal that he’s never known anybody with AIDS or HIV.

“It’s mind-blowing that we’re in the same room with youngsters who have no idea of what we’ve been through,” Burtch said, “I went over to the guy and introduced myself.”

The current Fifth Section list on the chorus’s website now contains 282 names.

Today, the chorus is planning a 2017 outreach tour in response to Trump’s election and the “increase in dangerous and divisive rhetoric against vulnerable minority populations” in the United States.

For anyone who needs a little hobbit courage today, and every day.