I have to confess that I rarely feel compelled to celebrate Jim Lunsford.
Birthdays, graduations, opening nights. Life events like these are certainly just cause for most folks to create some celebratory fuss. And, God knows, I do love a good party. But for me? Feh. Nothing I have achieved has ever really inspired me to want to draw attention to myself and say, “Hey, this is worth celebrating!” Nope. When I find myself facing a personal milestone, it is my modest habit to consider the occasion more subtly. More introspectively. Less like a milestone and more like a steppingstone. And along my life’s path, some of these steppingstones have been arduously carved and carefully placed by me. Finally receiving my bachelor’s degree, for example. Others I have stumbled upon unavoidably. Like turning forty. In either circumstance, I have opted to move gently from one stone to the next. Traversing each of them as a kind of private, transitory foothold. Meager places appropriately suitable to briefly pause, quietly reflect, and then move on. Rather than an appropriate spot to stop, hang out, and party.
In retrospect, my bad.
As the inevitability of turning fifty-years-old began to loom large on the horizon, however, I began to reconsider my past relationship with birthdays – specifically the landmark years. I had no clear memory of any particular childhood soiree. You know, with the colorful, pointy, cardboard hats. And as a closeted, young, goy boy, a Bar mitzvah, quinceañera, or sweet sixteen was never really in the cards. My recollection is that 18 and 21 passed without much fanfare as well. I did arrange a fun bowling party when I turned thirty. And the year I turned forty, some of my immediate family joined me for my annual birthday pilgrimage to Vegas. A trip I make every fall with a small group of poker buddies; some of whom also have November birthdays. Celebrating my passing years in sin city as just one of the girls in a group of gambling, birthday-gays has become a cherished and comforting tradition for me. And yes, certainly a celebration of sorts. Albeit shared with a handful of sister Scorpios.
But fifty. FIFTY. I thought, shit. I really should do something. Something special. I should do something that will pay appropriate homage to this oh-so-major milestone. A milestone – that as a long-term survivor of HIV – I often assumed I would never reach. Suddenly, I was inspired. Fuck it. Yes, I decided. I wanted to brazenly celebrate Jim Lunsford. I wanted to do something that would undeniably say, “Hey, this is worth celebrating!”
So, in my head, I began to plan the perfect extravaganza. In addition, I discovered that Paul was making some semi-secretive plans to whisk me away somewhere for a quiet weekend. Yes. A party with my friends and family, followed by a private romantic getaway, seemed like the ideal, half-century, celebratory scenario. Ideal, that is, until people around me began to die. Not since the apex of the AIDS epidemic had I experienced such a brief period so crowded by death.
A so it was, a little à la Harold and Maude, that these fatal events played out in the days that led up to my fiftieth birthday…
First to go was Mel. Mel was the husband of my high school drama teacher, Barbara. Barbara, the infectiously flamboyant, earthbound angel who helped me transition from a shy, stuttering, freshman to a confident, sassy senior. Barbara’s entire family, including her husband Mel, were an ever-present supportive presence during my three-year stint at Cleveland High. So, when I heard of Mel’s passing and pending memorial service, I knew that I wanted to attend. Yes, to pay my respects to Mel; a man who had so selflessly allowed the woman that he loved beyond measure to spend much of her time and energy in the service of young people. But also, I thought, it might be one of my last opportunities to see Barbara. A woman who gave generations of mixed-up kids like me a presence, a passion and a purpose. And instilled in me personally a strength that I would need to survive the unfathomable challenges soon to come.
Then came Mary. Or, then went Mary, as the case may be. Mary was a small, whirlwind of a librarian. A woman that I had the pleasure of working with on several projects during our relatively brief tenure together in the university Library where we were both employed at the time of her passing. She was friendly, whip-smart, and refreshingly to the point. Sadly, after the sudden onset of some strange neurological symptoms, subsequent exploratory brain surgery, and a very short fight – although robust, I have no doubt – Mary was gone. It seems we often learn much about people after they die. Eulogies are usually chockfull of interesting, hidden tidbits. Unique, buried treasures unearthed. Surprising gems that really only serve to make us wish that we had taken the time to know the deceased more deeply when they were still alive. It turns out that Mary was a skilled and highly respected quilter. So, it seemed appropriate that Mary’s premature passing served as a stark and timely reminder of just how delicate the thread is that keeps us connected to life.
Finally, there was Marian. Marian. The Georgia preacher’s wife who was gracious enough to conceive, carry, deliver, and raise to exquisite maturity, our Paul. The man that I am now blessed and proud to have and hold – ‘till death do us part. Marian’s illness came on quickly and her untimely death followed very shortly after. Much to my regret, I was never fortunate enough to have met her in person. However, if a child can be seen as a reflection of their mother’s spirit, Marian’s loving light must have shone with a particularly divine brilliance. Simply for the gift of her son, I am forever in Marian’s debt. So, on the very day that I turned fifty, I felt humbled, proud, and honored to be sitting graveside in Georgia with Paul at Marion’s funeral.
In the days following those three funerals, I confess that I found some measure of dark pleasure in the absurdly sad events that surrounded the fiftieth anniversary of my birth. There was a time when I likely would have been afraid to admit that to anyone. Now, however, I believe that what I refer to as a dark pleasure is really nothing more than my ever-growing respect and reverence for the steadfast consistency of life’s poetic irony. You see, in the end, I had the kind of birthday that I am really most comfortable with. One where the attention is not solely on me.
Still I can’t help but fantasize about the milestone birthday celebration that might have been. Given the opportunity to try again, I would like the occasion to manifest as something like a fun and casual dinner party. A very intentional gathering together of the most important and influential people in my life up to that point. We would all eat and drink and laugh and reminisce. Inevitably, of course, there would come some point in the evening where I would be prodded to speak, or feel compelled to say something – just before desert would be good.
Maybe I would even take the time to write something out. You know, just to be sure that the essence of my sentimental message was not irreparably marred by some botched, spontaneous, rambling oration. Come to think of it, perhaps I would request that someone else simply read some sort of prepared statement for me. A safeguard should I become overrun with emotion. Would that seem too weird or pretentious? Probably. But screw it. It’s my party.
To the best of my ability, I would compose something both heartfelt and humorous. I would try to artfully fold sentiment and gratitude into some kind of alliterative analogy. A movie metaphor perhaps. I think I would like the not so subtle reference to my career dreams: past, present and future. I know, Clash of the Titans! Yes. I especially like this allegorical option because it would appropriately cast the loved ones gathered around me as an all-powerful pantheon, and me as a very young Harry Hamlin in a skimpy toga. #nailedit.
At first, my family and friends might scoff at a reference that imbued them with godlike qualities. In my fantasy address, however, through my surreptitious and skillful wordsmithing, I would make it sincerely clear – that is exactly how I regarded each of them. The pillars of my temple. The residents in my Mount Olympus. Each one, in some unique way, fired to a gleaming brilliance after bravely passing through some scorching flame. Flawless? Hardly. But as such, their glorious imperfections serving only to make them godlier. Finally, in my presence all at once would be the people who most made me. In some way or another. By holding, nurturing, caring, scolding, giving, supporting, allowing, trusting, inspiring, teaching, releasing, knowing, forgiving, and loving. Inarguably, heavenly influences, all.
And before the night was over, we would, of course, raise our glasses in celebration of me. But also, in honor of the three wonderful spirits who helped make my actual fiftieth birthday slightly noir and entirely fitting.
Huzzah! To Mel, Mary, Marian, and me.