Sunday, 11 October, 1992

The group, now diminished to four people since 1988, marches through Washington, D.C. to continue the fight that it has been supporting for a decade. Having lost two members along the way, it is imperative to continue the struggle, and the struggle is now located on the streets flowing towards the White House, where people pour the ashes of their loved ones on the pristine, all American lawn where George Bush sits on his mighty throne and ignores them. They make speeches dripping with contempt for the government and remembrance for their loved ones in this political funeral staged as a big "fuck you" to the murderers sitting within the structure before them.

My own group is here to honor two wonderful lives taken by these murderers ahead, their bodies crumbled into ashes in the two wooden boxes we carry. Mac rests within my hands, while Leo rests in those of Charlie. It feels heavy against my palms, as if Mac's soul still rests inside and craves to be free to join us in corporeal form, as if he isn't the reason we're here. I make no note of this to my living friends, but I'm sure they feel the same. Funerals take a toll on all of us. Limbs feel more weighted. Minds do, too. But it's a burden we often carry by ourselves, as a personal process to get through grief, and a normality in humans.

I reach the black gate of the White House lawn and curl my fingers around one of the cold shafts, just feeling the smooth texture under my skin and breathing in and out, noticing every detail of life in this moment. Juniper, having already watched the act that I missed of Charlie dispersing Leo's ashes onto the grass, places a hand on my back in comfort and a subtle suggestion for me to do what Charlie has done, all the while knowing that I need to take my time, because Mac's death hit me the hardest after all we went through, and continues to hit me even five years later. Slowly, I open the lid to the box where the last pieces of Mac lie. I don't want to part with them forever, having them spread on the lawn of someone who hates him. That would be blasphemy, but Mac told me as he died that I needed to let go at some point. Maybe since I'm not going to, I can trick him into thinking that's what I'm doing by dumping his burnt body onto the grass of the White House. That's sort of what he asked me to do, anyway. So I fulfill his promise, but I cannot look. As much as I would love to deface the White House lawn and all that it stands for, this isn't just political.

Juniper attempts to meet my eyes to reassure me that she is with me, but my own eyes are only interested in the ground. She leads me away with the rest of the group, where other AIDS activists recite their eulogies for the people who now mingle with each other on the grass through the common fact that they are dead because of the same disease.

I have no idea what I want to say about Mac. Back in New York when I first heard that we would be attending this grand, public funeral, I decided to leave it to my present self to come up with something on the spot so it would be more authentic, but I have nothing in my mind but the words of these other people, and as I listen to them spout off love poems and tragedies much more profound than any written work, I find myself, in addition to feeling melancholy, feeling a bit envious of their talent.

We agreed that Charlie should go first so that I have time to collect my thoughts. He climbs the stage and starts his memorial for Leo, a solemn yet lighthearted supercut of the funny moments Leo created and the bubbling personality he maintained, and it lifts one of the layers of depression from my heart. The tears that cascade from my eyes are representative of both poles of emotions. But then it's over, and I, having listened to Charlie's speech instead of the one I should be creating, remember that I need to think of something within the twenty seconds or so that it takes me to mount the stage, clear my throat, and maybe wipe my eyes to buy me more time.

I scan the crowd while ushering enough oxygen into my lungs to calm me down. I find people who are understanding of my situation, who know how grief affects us and our ability to speak. I find people who are restless, anxious to perform their speech and get out of here to spare themselves the pain. I find people who are impatient, urging me with their body signals to hurry up. I find people who are visibly as broken as I am on the inside, their minds serving as both the victim and the perpetrator of torture. They cannot even behold me, but I relate to them the most. I somehow find strength in them, like I'm not alone.

"This eulogy is for Mac Bennett," I begin, a brave and unexpected start, and once again I am lost. I dig through my brain and use an introductory piece. "I don't know what he would describe us as, but I know for a fact that I was in love with him." I smile to myself. "From the moment I met him, I knew he was strong and rebellious and on fire inside, though I was none of those things. He inadvertently taught me to be more like him, and then everything crumbled to the point where being like him was detrimental."

I look for Juniper's comforting gaze. She gives me hope through just being the way she is, and I am incredibly grateful for all she has done for me, even if she is not aware of what she has done for me.

"Like the government, he was silent, and as it says in the ACT UP slogan, this silence led to his death. He pushed me away for so long, refusing help, and it did nothing except make the process of deterioration all the more painful." I glance down at my feet so that I don't look awkward just staring out into the crowd as I think. "I don't really have much to say, but I just want to reiterate that, um, fuck you, George Bush -- in the gay sort of fashion." I was planning on saying something inspirational, but I get far more applause this way, which briefly lightens the mood before I dive back into solemnity. "And death fucking sucks, especially when it's preventable. We often see the fun and flamboyant parts of gay culture, but in reality we're just a bunch of angry people who have lost what could've been preserved. Suffering is gay culture now, I guess..." I take a deep breath to prepare myself for the delivery of my closing words. "We've been in the shadows for too long, but we're at the White House today, out in the open for those murderous bastards to see us. Our time is now." I smirk. "Give 'em hell."

~~~~~

A/N: ugh im finally done hell yes

i procrastinated so much

hope u enjoyed

sorry for the (probably) numerous typos and unfinished sentences bc i wrote this chapter in two separate blocks like 3 weeks apart from each other but i'm too lazy to even read this chapter so whatever

leave a comment i love comments thanks

~Dakota