LOVE LETTERS TO THE POOR, CHAP. 7

Big City, scrappy survivors, a kinship of broken hearts

He was small in stature like me but often wore a formidable black leather motorcycle jacket, cut heavy, stern, close-fitting, not remotely fuzzy or tender. Amidst the merry band of gay men friends of my youth, D.M. was my dearest brother, wired like me.

One night I commandeered his jacket, worn with my men's Levi's 501 jeans ( back when button fly 501s were only made for men.) I wore that jacket, overwhelming to my own small stature, down to Castro St for a stroll with the gang.  Back then, I was playing at being the "androgyne", despite the longings of my core to be honorably united in a male/female dynamic. I unfortunately drove most away with my intensity.

What fond and yet sorrowful memories of friends long gone...

I was the unofficially titled " Mother Confessor " to my small mob of very rambunctious gay men friends, most of whom I unfortunately fell in love with. I endured plenty of crestfallen broken heart events over this unwise and naive maneuver, including with D.M. 

While my friends all ran to survive in various modes,  I was likely the poorest of the group. Survival strategies always involved being resourceful and creative. As I continue in this writing series to search for the core reasons for my persistent struggles over money, a large part is my own very intense nature, which has driven many away over the years. Based in unworthiness, I simply never hit the target, despite ongoing valiant efforts.

Meeting my gay men friends first in Seattle, we were a core group of rowdies, joined in fun and dancing at Tugs Belltown Tavern and The Monastery. Moving south to San Francisco in summer 1979, we continued the party at Trocadero Transfer and the Stud Bar.  The plague did not begin to seriously hit until early 1980’s. Sharing an apartment with a couple of roommates in Eureka Valley, I experienced the Castro before it became more "corporate."

Keeping my heartfelt friendships together with duct tape, it was growing increasingly difficult to maintain the continuity as we got a bit older and survival was harder. 

While the magic remained, I chased as much adventure as I could manifest. I vividly remember one amazing night with D.M. He once lived in a flat on Folsom St in SOMA, near the on-ramp to the Bay Bridge. After talking city life with him and drinking coffee in his tiny kitchen, he, being the highly unusual one, suggested we walk down to the side of the Bridge on-ramp and ramble up to watch the maelstrom of cars roaring by. Not thinking one way or another, I was up for the short journey.

The on-ramp had a small hillock of dirt that allowed us to stumble up to the side. Hidden by the night hours, we somehow made our way up the mound of dirt and lay on our bellies, watching the high intensity of thousands of cars flying by in front of us, heading east. In retrospect, I realize we could have run afoul of law enforcement...but somehow we did not get seen by the police. Just quietly lying in the dark, watching the incredible flow of commerce and the demand of "I must go there from here", the air that flowed from the vehicles was highly charged. We simply were entranced for a short few minutes by the river of metal flying by in front of us.  Stumbling back to his place, I gave him a hug and took a cab home.  While others may have had such an unusual San Francisco adventure, for me it took the ramble of running to survive, to create the highly unusual visit to the side of the flow of $$$...the entry to the very bold and blunt Bay Bridge. None of us had cars and did not drive any Bridge...but for me to experience from the unseen sidelines, I never forgot our scrappy "assault" on the roaring cataract of cars.

As the plague began to build and as my dear gay men friends began to sicken and die one by one, the starkness overwhelmed us all. Sitting the final time in D.M.'s cold hospital room, watching him on sterile machines that helped him breathe, I had to say a tearful goodbye to my beloved friend. 

Reality without the presence of God is particularly stark and one I am grateful to have had a respite I accepted, one that was offered by the sacrifice and the shed Blood of Jesus Christ for me. I am so grateful for the memories of my youth and also grateful that but for the grace of God, went I.

No more sorrowful wandering for me! I am sticking close to God and His Son like a stubborn burr in their saddles. THANK YOU, GOD FOR HAVING MERCY OVER ME. I will conquer financial lack one more penny at a time, with God as my Business Partner. Eternal riches is my main seeking point, beyond this temporary place!

Wendy Williams   March 29, 2023