David Joseph Wilcox, 1957-1996

Update 2008.01.23: Added brief history of the Pink Panthers and bibliography of articles from the New York Times.

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The jacket I wore while on patrol with the Pink Panthers in 1990 and 1991


My friend, David Joseph Wilcox, died 12 years ago, on January 22, 1996. He was 38 years old.

I'm actually writing this late at night, early in the morning of January 23. I can't sleep. I've post-dated this to January 22, Dave's mortiversary. We'll see if Blogger accepts it. [It did.]

Earlier this evening, I listened to a recording my partner, Blog Widow John, and I made, interviewing each other about our remembrances of Dave. Two years ago, on the 10th anniversary of his death, we went to the StoryCorps booth at the World Trade Center site - Ground Zero - in downtown Manhattan. In particular, we spoke about how Dave's death brought us closer together.

Dave moved in with John for the last year of his life. For many reason, it was a trying time for John, even apart from Dave's illness. When Dave died, John reached out to me, as someone who knew both of them for many years, for support. Though we had already known each other for over a decade, that was the beginning of greater intimacy between us than we had ever shared. Our relationship today arose, phoenix-like, out of our shared loss.

When I can figure out how to edit down the full 45 minutes we recorded into more manageable tracks and cohesive segments, I'll be able to make them available. What follows is the full text of the eulogy I wrote and read at one of Dave's memorial services. I have a VHS videotape of that which could be transcribed to digital video, but I can hardly be understood in it. I could barely speak.

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In Memoriam: David Joseph Wilcox
b. 15 November 1957, d. 22 January 1996

1. Prologue
   
2. Gay Cancer
   
3. Scapegoats
   
4. Grace
   
5. Panthers

In the Shadow (How shall my heart be reconciled to its feast of losses?)

Updated 2007.09.12: Added brief bio and link for Renee Barret-Arjune.

Haddadada the gargoyle stands watch behind the maple in my backyard.


I'd rather be writing about something else, but this presents itself right now. Better I write it while it's fresh, and raw, and resist polishing the life from it.

Earlier this evening, I learned of the death of John Larsen, someone I knew from my old days in the East Village. We were neighbors, bar buddies, and, for a hot minute, boyfriends.

In March of 1996, I had just started reading Walt Odets' "In the Shadow of the Epidemic: Being HIV-Negative in the Age of AIDS", the first book I read which gave voice to feelings shared by many of my cohort, gay men of a certain age: survivor guilt, and a spiritual crisis which has ravaged many of us. I wrote:

March 1996

so far surviving
what will it mean to be alive
having outlived generation after generation
decades of death
the explosion widening until, finally
and yes, with some grim, righteous satisfaction
finally noone can truthfully say
they are not also affected

imagine how it will be
when your closest friends are strangers
when long ago you gave up hope
of growing old together
as everyone you've loved, and despised
has died, seven times over
when you've learned, and loved, and lost
and learned, loved, lost
and ...
When each new friend is met with the knowledge
that they too will leave soon
but it no longer matters
because, you think, you've already grieved their deaths too

the corpses pile up
against the walls you've built around yourself
walking along familiar streets
past the bars, your old haunts
you see tombstones, crosses, ashes
and you're not safe, even in your own mind
especially at night
when the walls must come down
and you must remember the dead

you want to believe you've come so far
but it hasn't even begun

I moved to Brooklyn in June of 1992. I'd lived 13 years in the East Village, in the epicenter of the AIDS epidemic. My move was neither well-planned nor well-executed. I knew I had to move. I didn't know how important it would be to me for my survival, for my recovery. Though I could not surface the thought at that time, let alone voice it, I was also running, trying to run, away. I couldn't face any more death.

January 25, 1994

ghosts

glimpsed in a stranger's gait
darting behind another's mask
in that moment

for how long
must I never forget?

the epicenter
reaches to numbers inconceivable
my heart implodes

when darkness falls
how should I greet it

for a moment
I thought I saw you
but you left long ago

Reminders of the upcoming 6th Anniversary of 9/11 are piling up. My first day back at work from my North Carolina trip, I walked by the Deutsche Bank building - ruined in the attacks, condemned, and only now being dismantled - where two firefighters had lost their lives the day before. I could see the blackened scaffolding and walls of the building. I smelled the smoke, startled for a few minutes, taken back to the months after the attacks, when the fires burned for months, when we walked every day through the crematory of downtown Manhattan. I know - knew, met a handful of times - a woman, Renee Barret-Arjune, who died from injuries she received in the World Trade Center attacks. It's how we measure our distance from such things: who we knew, how many, how close.

Earlier this summer, Eleanor Traubman of Creative Times gave me a little gem of a book, The Wild Braid: A Poet Reflects on a Century of Life in the Garden. It's by and about the poet, Stanley Kunitz (1905-2006), written with Genine Lentine and with photographs by Marnie Crawford Samuelson. When we met at the Flatbush meet-up, she recommended this book to me.

I've estimated that half of everyone I've ever known has already died: from AIDS, chemical dependence or overdose, or suicide. I should have expected to feel resonance with a centenarian gardener-poet writing at the end of his life. Here's an excerpt from Kunitz' "The Layers":

When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.

Kunitz closes more hopefully:

no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

This evening, fresh with the news of a death of a friend, I look behind. Nor am I done with my changes.

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Renee Barrett-Arjune worked as a compensation accountant at Cantor Fitzgerald in Tower 1 of the World Trace Center. She grew up in Brooklyn and lived in Irvington, NJ. She was active in the church where Blog Widow John worked at the time; I met her a couple of times through him. She was 41.

Her name is inscribed in a bronze panel - #N-48 - along the North Pool of the National September 11 Memorial at Ground Zero. The names of Cantor Fitzgerald employees and consultants make up 34, nearly half, of the panels surrounding the North Pool.

I and the Bard: IATB #49 is up on Via Negativa

A carnival for the birds, I and the Bird #49 is up on Dave Bonta's Via Negativa. I submitted my recent bird sightings and Dave linked to my post about the Cedar Waxwings.

But not in an obvious way. Dave did something unusual with the contributions this time. I'll let him explain:

Poems, like birds, are everywhere; it’s just a matter of training ourselves to recognize them — a metaphor here, an alliterative passage there, and something lovely dark and deep lurking just beyond. And with a little bit of editing, the English language naturally resolves into a rough iambic pentameter…

Each line in the “found poem” below is a link to the post I lifted it from. I’ve altered nothing but the punctuation, and I’ve included an audio version for those who may have trouble hearing the poetry at first.

It was hard to recognize my own words in this context:

Who knows how they knew they were there.

Out of its original context, it reads more like a Zen koan than a sentence from a blog post. I don't want to spoil the accidental poetry of that line by explaining it.

Go check out IATB#49 for all the poetry. I recommend taking the time to listen to Dave's audio recording. He has a poet's voice.

Poem: Speak for Yourself (Blog Against Theocracy #1)

Speak For Yourself

how many voices have you silenced?
whose truth do you fear?

what sends you running for shelter
in your god's shadow,
clinging to the hem of his rotten shrouds,
praying to him for the bad words to stop?

your ignorance is vile
dangerous
violent

you would see me struck down
silence my voice, my truth
to preserve your fragile ballast of lies

preaching vainly of greater good
you bring greater harm

there isn't room enough in hell for both of us

you go first

(April 1992)

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I had wanted to start posting for Blog Against Theocracy yesterday, Friday, but I was too tired. I have lots of material, too much and too varied to organize into a linear presentation. This will be the first of an indefinite number of, let's say several, posts this weekend. My instinct is that a larger number of shorter posts will serve this topic, and me, better.

I just woke up, restless, unable to sleep. The inner monologues was ranting loudly, the rage and anger in my head railing against an unnamed "you": You hate who I am, You hate what I am, You hate me, You want me dead.

Then I remembered I'd written this poem. The subject of the poem was ... well, maybe I'll get to that another time. Suffice that it was someone whom I did not choose to have in my life at the time, and is no longer.

Thank god.

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Related posts:

• Blog Against Theocracy, March 28
• Blog Against Theocracy #2: Childhood
  

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Links:

• Blog Against Theocracy
• Americans United for Separation of Church and State
  
• First Freedom First
  

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