An excerpt
from
Defensible
Space
By Timothy
Anderson
This is an excerpt from a much larger essay
of the same title published in 2011. I read this portion of Defensible Space in
Santa Fe, NM as part of my graduation exercises associated with obtaining my
Masters in Creative Non Fiction from Seattle Pacific University.
Defensible Space is based on true events and is dedicated
to my longtime friend, Gert McMullen,
fairy Godmother to The Names Project~The AIDS Quilt
It is also dedicated to the memory of Vincent “Steve” Abyeta whose art is featured above.
~W~
I
sit inside the idling semi-truck, a long gleaming Peterbilt hood in front, twin,
chromed-exhaust stacks behind. The doors on the trailer are already closed. The
last, heavy, cardboard box of folded Name Project quilt panels already off
loaded. The truck is parked near the junction of Market Street and Castro,
hugging the curb. San Francisco traffic careens around me, without pause. I
smell exhaust, and restaurants, and a hint of the sea.
Somehow,
I must turn around eighty feet of truck. A load of Salinas Strawberries awaits
pick up then I will run them north to Edmonton, Alberta. Northbound, I haul the gift of California’s nearly year
round summer, renewing the weary culinary dreams of the still snowbound. Southbound I’ve just hauled death, symbolized by quilt
panels.
Gert McMullinstands cued on the curb, her long blonde hair flat, her skin and bones, a study
in emaciation at war with emancipation. I decide she looks part crazy,
appearing more fitting as a stand-in, lead singer for a girl band. She fearlessly makes eye contact with me,
waiting for my nod. I check my mirrors,
looking behind the truck, and when a lull appears, I lift my head.
Reacting
to my signal, she steps purposely off the curb, placing her fingers in her
mouth, and whistles. The world stops.
Everything is at attention. The noise, shrill, enforces interruption, pauses
sidewalk café gossip, parking, ticket officers mid write up, and most
importantly, south bound traffic. Blocking all three lanes of Market Street,
traffic stops as my airbrakes release with a whoosh, and at the last minute,
Gert steps back from my front bumper. I grab a gear, and all 40,000 lbs. of
truck groans against the torque of 525 Cummins horsepower.
Gert
parts traffic as if she’s Moses, standing within inches of the trailer, it
begins to turn around her as if she’s a traffic pylon. Slowly pivoting, the
truck catches blinding sunlight and initially blocks only one direction of
Market Street. She tenses, as if
awaiting a starting gun, and then, as if on signal, her prey in one direction
trapped, she struts parallel with my trailer, to the other side of the
arterial.
Now,
facing off against three lanes of northbound traffic, her shrill whistling
returns. Her pitch of God Awful mourning departing, repeats. The trailer groans, I “walk” a giant beast in
place, turning all 80 feet on a dime, the rear axles spinning around in place as
if doing an ice skater’s maneuver, and then, finally, rear axles conclude their
pivot.
Gert
faces off the motorists standing in the middle lane. Every driver and every
pedestrian, on each opposing sidewalk, freeze.
Like a magic barrier to mobility, her raised fist now commands all six
lanes of arterial traffic. Appearing so
thin a person could glance right through her, I see the impossibility of one
woman standing against huge forces. I see love. I see it isn’t always pretty.
~E~
The
quilt, that one brave candle, lights the darkness, like a miracle appearing
just after everyone has given up. Marking the final home of dashed hopes, the
Names Project Quilt is the way of reckless belief. The quilt stitches together
names--taking the form of friends, strangers, and estranged shirt tail relations.
Hand sewn, coffin sized panels now travel the nation, becoming historic, a
place where the war began--this remembering, this bleeding fabric, rises up for
those who stood down. When the quilt rolls into town, citizens weep in mass.
Gert
works all day, every day, for the project. It consumes her. Facing and
channeling grief, as if God called just her to dispatch the sorrow of the
multitudes. Loss became her resume. She gathers fabric, becoming guardian of
tens of thousands of lives. She is high
saint among mourners, and she could not know then, back in the early days, how
the pandemic would grow. If she’d known this museum of death would be her home,
living under siege, that ten, then twenty, and even thirty years later, the
quilt and her attachment to it would represent her legacy, her constant
companion, I’ve wondered-- would she still have volunteered to walk this road?
A
few years ago, while shopping at the Post Falls, Idaho Wal*Mart, I stopped mid
stride, startled by her familiar image peering at me from behind the glass
protection of a newspaper vending machine.
A headline from the Coeur D’Alene press featured beneath it a photograph
of Gert. Still dangerously thin, her features aged and her hair falling
haphazardly over her shoulders, the expression peering back at me seemed just
as determined, although a bit more exhausted than my last sight of her. The
story mentioned the Names Project’s relocation from San Francisco to Atlanta,
yet Gert appeared still attached to the project, still following her children,
all those quilt panels, into the next chapter of the never ending
pandemic.
~~~
It
is 4 a.m. Gert whirls around me, dancing
as if she’s walking on air, lit by strobes, inspired at 134 beats per
minute. Welcome to the Pleasure Dome. We
dance, she among the few women allowed, surrounded by shirtless, starry eyed men. Dawn breaks outside but we remain sweaty in
the darkness. The Pleasure Dome is in a forgotten part of town, a foreboding,
converted warehouse south of Market reclaiming industrial blight.
My
friend Jon is spinning, exalted in the DJ booth. Porn stars man the bars. Water
flows from plastic bottles and I close my eyes as a surreal-colored disco light
descends from the ceiling. The light is
brilliant, and I welcome this artificial vision of heaven, spinning and
rotating amongst us at the most human level. This, the Pleasure Dome, is our
interpretation of the celestial, the multi-colored lights, our gay equivalent
of the Holy Spirit. Only upon entering
these spaces could light engulf us, transcending our soon to be decimated
bodies, while blocking out the already gentrifying industrial reality outside.
Gert flitters to my left. She appears and then she is gone, disappearing into a
sea of men, all moving, even if only briefly in this moment, at the same
heartbeat. I smell cloves. I smell
sweat. For once, I can’t smell fear.
Gert
reappears. A sea of flesh parts before her, and her long hair is suspended
amongst artificial Technicolor-like-dust. Catching light, she’s backlit with
abandon, and energized with the purpose-filled determinism of this briefest
allowance of escapism. Gert raises my arms far above her head, then she bends
backward, stretching us together, until we are both leaning over, I’m falling
into her and she’s suspended beneath me, her eyes wild toward the unknown, and
then again, as if by instinct, her entire frame is rising, challenging the
night to end, daring dawn as she again releases me.
Just
as she’s already released a thousand other loves, only to disappear. I lose
sight of her, she’s already moving deeper into the immense warehouse dance
floor. But in my mind, I still see her
in that moment, grinning and laughing, daring to push away the infinity of
death, disappearing behind perfect muscular, sweaty men, emerging a few songs
later, now towing some gorgeous man behind her, already aware that he too will
soon be lost to her. I see her. I see my friends. In that moment, we flee an
ominous reality bearing down on us like a mountain range collapsing against a
fragile plain. Thus it was in the beginning. But in that place, oh just for a
moment, we could forget. We had the luxury of blindness to our future. We had yet to remember that time is fleeting,
and that we must stitch together most of these names before the disease took us
as well.
~S~
One
stitch at a time, a quilt panel is held, sewn, folded, ironed, and released. At
the termination of the display, panels are lifted in unison, and folded back
into repose. Later Gert and her volunteer army will repair damaged panels. To
create a story on fabric, in the shape of a coffin, allows no emotional
distance. Touching all this sacred fabric, by hand, by its nature, violates
every “personal and professional boundary”. Gert holds them all. Still.
~T~
At
the quilt displays, we read the names of the dead. New panels are accepted.
Teary-eyed lovers, siblings, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and strangers
sheepishly step forward, holding their bundles in hand. Stitched in grief, and
worried over.
Was
the panel done the way he’d wanted it to be done? This satin, was it the right
choice of fabric?
Does
the Gold shine as much as she did?
Was
that blue the right color? Because you know, he’d know if it wasn’t. Hadn’t he’d always known the right color?
Maybe,
don’t you think, shouldn’t the piece of black leather harness, that ick part of
his life, be left out?
Friends
gathered. At the leather bar, the
community center, and the county fairgrounds. Motorcyclists, warehouse loaders,
and mechanics drink their Bud as they sew. Mothers drink tea. Needles appeared
loaded with thread, maybe deciding to include the harness, after all. Also making the cut, the red hanky, worn on
the active left side, finds a home attached to jean fabric. Maybe the explicit details aren’t too much
because they will never be enough to bring him back.
~I~
Eventually,
not even the acres of fields surrounding the nation’s Capital Mall can contain
our display of lives taken from us too soon. Presidents Regan and Bush I will
fly over the display but they will not land among us. Twenty years later, Washington
DC will represent one of the most infected cities on the planet.
~L~
My
friend Lane and I are traveling 90 miles round trip, from Pend Oreille County
to Sandpoint, Idaho, and as we drive through the night to see the movie Milk, I
gaze up at stars. I remember the night of Harvey Milk’s assassination. I lay in
my bed, violating lights out and curfew, the AM radio antennae propped against
the window. I dare and strong arm the signal to come in clear, listening to the
shock of radio newscasters, reaching me in Nowhereville, Oregon, via the
longshot clear channel radio signal of San Francisco’s KGO.
I
still remember static-filled accounts of the riots that follow, the candlelit
marches, and just years after that, the seemingly immediate onslaught of AIDS. Cleve
Jones, the founder of the Names Project, was among Milk’s best friend.
Still-living, he becomes a historical icon. His early activism inspires a
supporting character in the film based on the life of Harvey Milk.
The
film will win Oscars, but as Lane and I enter the theater, surrounded by
liberal heterosexuals in a former brothel town’s historic Panida Theater,
patrons move over a couple seats to give us room. Or maybe to give them distance from us, the
assurance afforded by defensible space.
I remember being the only two guys sitting together. I remember the curious
looks.
I’ve
met Cleve Jones, I’ve shaken his hand and stood beside him at beer busts to
fund the Names Project, held at a Leather Bar, the San Francisco Eagle. I will volunteer rides in my truck to raise
money. Lesbian’s want to know about the engine. Men gaze longingly toward the
sleeper. Nearly everyone at that fundraiser is now dead. The San Francisco Eagle is now closed. Even
then, many from those beer busts already knew they were dying.
Tonight,
I will remember, as the credits roll at the end of the movie, that gays have
always known more tragedy than elation.
That we’ve had too much worry and not enough time to live and that at
the same time, we’ve lived too much life, with not enough worry. Both contradictions remain my reality.
~L~
My
friend Steve volunteers at the Names Project.
He is already sick. I stand beside him looking at art he’s created to
publicize the first showing of the Quilt in Washington DC. I am 21 years old, almost 22. He is my
mentor, and in my hands, I hold the poster sized image he’s created for that
first display on the Capital Mall. This
moment, the Names Project’s Quilt’s unveiling on the National Mall, becomes a
starting point of American Dialogue. We
are already several years into the epidemic. President Regan is oblivious. He does not acknowledge this moment; among
historians his lack of attention standing out as the darkest domestic stain on
an infamous presidency.
The
print I hold, Steve’s art, features six determined subjects, sitting in a half
circle. Each of these diverse quilters is portrayed with intensity. A long
haired woman sits beside a grandmother and seated on the opposite side, a man
in a button down shirt lifts his needle. They sew quilt panels together and
even then the Quilt is portrayed falling out, uncontained over the Capital
Lawn.
Steve’s
art is his looking glass. In each of his subject’s expression, I see love,
sadness, loss and hope. In my friendship
with Steve, I feel all of these things as well.
A
reproduction of his art, one I’m sure he stole from the project’s sales
inventory, still hangs in my hall. He had so little money, an artist so broke
he resorts to thievery; stealing his own work.
~~~
“Driver, can I see your log book?”
A
good-looking, blonde, Oregon DOT officer is standing at the edge of the
Kalamath Falls, Oregon scale platform.
Shining a flashlight into my eyes and peering up at me, the officer
steps up onto the cat walk above my fuel tank. Behind me, the refrigerated unit
roars, and the tractor engine fan kicks on. I can barely hear him.
I
grab my clip board, my log book attached to it and just as I pass it over the
window of the truck, handing it to the officer, I realize I’ve filled out the
wrong dates. Even worse, I’ve failed to show the required “pre-trip inspection”.
The final gut wrenching revelation? By
the look of my comic book, and the previous date, I have perfected time
travel. I stand guilty of being here two
days in the future.
The
officer holds the flashlight over the paper work and looks up at me quizzically.
“Driver, do you realize that…”
I
interrupt, already visualizing the massive fine and log book ticket about to
bear my name and driver’s license number.
My heart sinks further, as I realize that even if I’d left that morning,
logging today’s actual date, there’s no way that I could depart Bellingham and
made it to K Falls, legally, in one day. Not only can Officer Robert Redford
cite me for falsification of logbook, he can also write me for speeding.
“Officer,
I can explain…”
“Park
your truck. In front of the scale. I
want to see your permit book, your bill of lading, and, of course, your
driver’s license.” He smiles. A model quality, giant, evil, handsome-as-hell,
you are so mine, love ya mean it and hey, you didn’t need those next three
paychecks anyway!
I’ve
just made his day.
I
park, assemble the paperwork, and walk back toward the scale house, site of my
pending execution. I can’t believe I’m
such a dumb ass.
Should
I tell him? About the call that I’d always dreaded? The one that had finally
come? That my best friend Steve is dying, and that I gave up my vacation, to
grab any load I could, and that I’d not slept in 36 hours, but that if I didn’t
hustle, Steve would be gone before I made it to the Gay Bay?
I
open the door. The officer sits alone at
his desk. Thankfully, no other drivers
are in the scale house. I hand him my
driver’s license.
“So it’s Tim, huh?”
“Yes,
officer.”
“You
know you’re five hundred pounds over on your driver axles?”
My
heart quits.
“Five
hundred?”
“Yep.”
I’d
just fueled at Mollies Truckstop sitting not 500 feet north of where I’m now
detained. I began to calculate how long
it will take to burn off enough fuel to be legal again. Eight pounds per gallon
times six miles per gallon…
The
officer hands me back the bill of lading: McDonald’s muffin dough from
Bellingham, bound for Stockton. “And
according to this…”
“I
know.” I interrupt him again. “Officer, I know. I can’t legally be here, even
if I had the right day on my log book. But I can explain, I have an emergency.
I’m…”
He
still has my license. My permit book. He’s looking at me, leaning over the
counter, his pen in his hand, a partially filled out citation awaits his
completion. “Go on…”
“I
know you’ve probably heard it all. But I swear I’m telling the truth. My best
friend is dying, in San Francisco, of AIDS. I got the call early this morning,
and I’m just trying to get there. To say goodbye. I don’t know how long he’s
got.”
I’ve
just outted myself. I’m sure of it. I feel sick. I’m very much aware that Steve
is failing. I am about to have multiple, high-dollar citations, and that long
after tonight, I will still have to cross this same scale, several times a
week. My life is going to be hell. Marked by a badge happy feast of citations.
This scale will stand as a unique memorial to Steve Abeyta and the crashing of
my MVR.
The
officer watches me, pen suspended, my license held against the top of the
stainless steel
citation clipboard. The same citation book that remains propped
open by his other hand.
“I
believe you. No driver would admit to a story like yours.”
He
begins to write on the citation. “Tell
you what. I’m in a generous mood. Here’s
what we’ll do. I am going to write one
and only one citation up with the wrong infraction number. All you have to do is request a court date
and contest the ticket. It’ll be thrown
out.”
He
points to the place where on the infraction is listed the address of the court.
“You’ll have to come down here for a hearing, but that way it’ll stay off your
license and it won’t cost you anything. I could cite you for numerous
violations.” He makes eye contact. “But I won’t.” I decide I could marry this
man of the law.
He
pauses still holding my gaze. I fill in the silence with the weakest “Oh
Kayyyy…”, kicking myself for sounding like such a dork.
“There’s
a catch.”
I
swallow.
“You’re
going to bed. I want your butt parked at
the rest area south of town. For a full
eight, you got that?”
I
nod.
“I’m
not telling you when I shutting this scale down, but when I do, it would be
best for your sake, that if I get a hankering, say to patrol south of here,
your lights out, getting shut eye in that pickle park. We do understand each other, right?”
I
nod again, salivating over my license, which he still holds. Firmly.
“A
full eight hours. I’d hate to call
CHP or the Shasta Scale on you because I come bearing warm coffee and you’re
awol.”
He
hands my license back to me, and quickly finishes the one and only citation.
“Now get out of here.”
I
take my license and the citation from him. As I turn to open the door, he adds,
“And, Tim…I’m sorry about your friend.
Tough times are these.”
~R~
Steve
dies. I barely make it to San Francisco in time to lay with him, holding his
decimated body in my arms. The Quilt is displayed once more on the Mall without
him.
It
is now too big to be displayed, anywhere, in its entirety.
~E~
Gert
stands in the doorway of The Names Project. We stand beside her watching the
animation of the Castro.
A
man approaches wearing a plaid shirt and a dirty green baseball hat. The hat proclaims “Nothing runs like a
Deere”.
My
friend Rob taps me on the shoulder, and points me toward him. “Tim, check it out. Fish. Out of Water.
The
man is clearly lost. He keeps looking up at building numbers and turning, as if
he’s a sort of misguided human weather vane. He does not return the eye contact
of the parade of men on the street who seek his. Soon enough he is standing at our door, still
looking up, verifying the numbers, and looking down at a scrawled address. He
seeks out a person in charge, and lucks out, as Gert corrals him. The farmer
thrusts a haphazardly folded fabric into her somewhat unexpected arms. She
ushers him in, and his eyes dart frantically, surveying the stacks and stacks
of Quilt panels. The posters. The books. The VCR tapes chronicling the project’s
history. Steve’s art.
The volunteers sorting through the chaos are
too busy to notice his awkwardness. The
man sees my Peterbilt baseball hat, looks surprised. I wave, sheepishly.
He
speaks quietly, but at first only to Gert.
His face is reddened from the sun, and he still has a toothpick dangling
out one corner of his mouth. It moves up and down as he speaks. Gert waves me
in close, as the man falters. He’s a father. Hails from a dot on a mid-western
atlas, and grows grain. He points at the bundle Gert holds, explaining that
he’s presenting us this quilt panel. He’d sewn it alone, late at night from a
lone, bulb-lit, barn-housed work bench.
“Don’t know how right that stitch is.” He points at the middle of the fabric. “I’m
no sewer.”
Gert
smiles. “It’s fine.”
“He
was a good kid, my son. Good with the
other kids. Good with the animals. Maybe not so good with a wrench, but he had
try.” The man swallows. Composes.
“Don’t know how or when he got it, this . . .”
The
man fights for words, standing alone amongst all these strangers. I feel his embarrassment lost in the lobby of
a big city, fancy place, a place he never thought he’d be standing in. “I’m not sure if it’s good enough. But I had to…you know, for him. My boy.”
Gert
places the quilt down and begins to unfold it. The man won’t look. He faces
away, anywhere but at the panel. He
speaks again. “I almost came to Kansas City, when you were there, but too many
people know me in that town.”
He
and I again make eye contact. Sizing me up, curious and surprised at a guy like
me--my presence, here. Me dressed almost as if I could be jumping out of a Kansas
grain truck, running into the Quik Fuel for a cold one in his home town,
dumping a load of wheat at the elevator.
He’s
still talking, “I’d first heard ‘bout the quilt on a radio station I sometimes
get out of Denver. But I didn’t think I could go through with it, didn’t know
what to put on...”
The
quilt panel is beautiful. Our eyes
water. The man, very quickly, looks at his creation. Then he looks away.
“I
did this between my pay job and farming. His momma had left us before…so I
sewed in Wintertime, after shifts at the grain elevator, after harvest slowed
up, so I think it’s mostly finished. I think it’s him. He’s my only kid. Always will be."
Gert
is now refolding the panel. No one says anything, and the street noise outside
is smothered by the man’s grief.
“I
loved him. Didn’t deserve this. But, I guess, no one does.”
The
farmer doesn’t stay long. He tells me he
needs to get back home, before he’s missed by his neighbors. He tells me to
stop in sometime, that he’ll buy me coffee. He says he needed to make this last
trip with his son. That they’d always talked of California, imagining a place
of sun and warmth and beauty. “I just
never thought I would see it alone. Especailly not cuz of this.”
~M~
I
meet single mothers, devastated at losing their brightest star. I meet widowed wives, their spouse already
gone, their time also now short. Sometimes
husbands and wives arrive bearing their own panels, created by one for the
other, in preparation for what both know lies ahead. Sometimes siblings arrive,
acknowledging a death the rest of the family will not.
“He
didn’t die of no cancer. Wasn’t like
that. Was that other thing that took
him. Mama wouldn’t tell no one. She wouldn’t take him to no doctor ‘cause she
knew before he did. The night sweats,
that’s what it was. She knew.”
Some
people bring finished quilt panels and stay on to volunteer themselves. Most of
the volunteers will themselves die. By
volunteering with the quilt, their service eases their own transition or erases
a few transgressions they’ve committed.
Some
of my friends will make their own panels. Convinced no one else will.
Others
drop off their contributions and never return. Volunteers sometimes die without
anyone, estranged and rejected by every member of their family.
Members
of the project arrange for their memorials, pass a hat to pay the costs, and
will later gather in a coffee shop or bar, and because this is a ritual now,
sewing boxes emerge. They take up familiar needles, beautiful threads, and
model in real time Steve’s first poster.
This
is how we clean our bodies, this is how we bury our dead. This is how we mourn,
holed in the back booths of bars, bowling alleys, and other dives.
I
learn, after repeated attempts, that stitching a stranger’s life together is
not so easily accomplished. At times,
just a name flows across the panel.
Other times, beautiful, colored links emerge, portraying a life
shortchanged. I become skilled at marking what I know, the high points of a stranger’s
life, by visualizing a quilt panel. How I’d do it--if I only knew how.
I
will start a panel for Steve. Once, twice, three times. I buy the fabric, and a
woman at Fabricland offers to help, but because I can’t face the depth of his
passing, I will never call her.
Fabric
unravels, frays, and fades. The panel remains unfinished, haunting me. It has
remained this way now over two decades.
At
times, some quilters find it difficult to let go of a panel, realizing this just
as they enter the Names Project headquarters, that their work now represents a
final link to a last shared moment. They are flighty before us, nervously
looking around the lobby, the permanence of the street at their back, and
suddenly racked by sobs, they ask for additional time. A Kleenex. Or the return
of the panel itself. Taking the fabric back.
~E~
In
the beginning my dispatcher keeps routing me back to San Francisco. The Dyke is my shepherd, she Lays me over in
the gay bay, tells me there is no freight. She always knew. About the other
freight I carried. I find parking for my big truck in the old industrial
neighborhoods, the already gentrifying South of Market District, I come farther
and farther out of the closet.
I
am too young to be so shell shocked. I
am out of the closet but wishing back in it. My beautiful friends dance while
they are dying, as if out of a movie scene on the deck of the Titantic. Even as the ship, our lives, begins to list,
and even as reports of horror and grief rise from decks below, I don’t yet see
the full-on terror--just replace the four string quartet with a synthesizer and
140 beats per minute; replace the luxury of tuxedoes with sweat, fog machines
and laser lightshows. My friends dance until they can’t and then the braver of
them return to these, our midnight palaces, sometimes in their wheel chairs,
sometimes covered in KS Lesions, and sometimes, they return carried by
survivors, in a casket.
My
roommate will die while I’m on the road. He dies alone. He never tells me he is sick.
I
have never finished his panel either.
~M~
A
woman enters the Names Project building. She seems lost.
Gert
approaches her, “Can I help you?”
The
woman holds out home baked cookies.
Looking over Gert’s shoulder, at first, I don’t really know what I am
looking at.
“I
thought you might use these for a fund raiser.
Each cookie is an exact replica of a quilt panel. You could sell ‘em, at the showings.”
Turning
away, I don’t want to see whatever comes next.
“Oh
wow. Thank you. That is so thoughtful!” Gert’s voice rises behind me, above the
traffic outside. “Did you make these yourself?”
~B~
I
lift quilt panel filled boxes into my “refer” trailer, a big refrigeration unit,
looking like a metal tumor, looms on the front of the trailer. It is 1991. The
boxes of fabric weigh more than some of my recently departed friends. My trailer is capable of keeping hundreds of
bodies cool in a natural disaster. But in this disaster, all the bodies I carry
need no cooling.
~E~
It
is a cold December night, after the showing wraps up and the exhibition halls
clear. The coldness of the Seattle Washington State Convention Center matches
the sterility inside my trailer. Closing the trailer doors, I stand on the ICC
bar. I spit on my fingers. I began to
write in the stainless steel doors, against the grime, the dirt, until the
stainless steel that my hand traces, is mirrored in shine. My face and the city
lights reflect behind me. In big bold letters, the doors of my Semi Trailer
spell it all out, messy and dirty, but yet shiny and beautiful.
“Remember
their Names. The Names Project. Silence Equals Death. This trip is for you, Steve.”
And
then I am off, into the night. My CB radio is my constant back up vocalist.
Joining the army of trucks rolling southbound for California, I put the gear
shift into the last big hole and hit the hammer lane.
All
I receive in feedback, via CB channel 17 is a few “10-4’s” to break the silence.
~R~
Epilogue.
In
the summer of 2012, in conjunction with the return of the International
Conference on AIDS to the United States, the full Names Project Quilt returned
to Washington DC. During late July, over 47,000 Quilt Panels saw daylight on
the National Mall and throughout Washington DC.
We still remember their names.