By Deborah DeSilets
In Tallahassee, 5 miles down from the capitol steps, down on the Perry Highway near the old Nichol’s store where the Wal-Mart is today was my family “compound” where a row of families grew up under the shadow of the Dixie Motel and a few sharecroppers’ homes were in the rear. We lived in a green sharecropper’s shack for the first five years of my life. Over the bridge through the wild flower path along where the hanging, weeping wisteria languished upon limbs of crepe myrtle and near to the pear orchard was where a house was framed by a wall raining honey suckle. And there above this wall was a window, Ronnie’s window. My friend Ronnie lived in a bubble. He was a hemophiliac. At five years old this was a big word for me but “bubble” I understood. Ronnie waved to me from his second-floor bedroom window; appearing to hang from the panes like a monkey in a cage. White, frightened and frail he smiled at me as I waved, and then I would kick up leaves and roiled in them squealing. Ronnie watched as I played not just for me but for him too. He was on quarantine from life as any scratch or bruise might kill him. He was ok with it; and this daily frolicking was the best I could do to reach out to a friend I never touched, never talked to. But for Ronnie I danced. And well that was in 1963 and the whole world was dancing with Camelot. Just forming on the horizon were the greyest clouds.
In Miami Beach, in 1993 I sat alone on my rooftop penthouse apartment waiting for the news to arrive. I had known that Glenn was going to die. Mom and dad had been crying, my three boys were sighing, as circles were coming down the line. That day I vowed to never forget his golden hair. And I dyed my hair the day Glenn died a golden blonde. And I lived as he did more out loud; he was one of the first gay men on the 80’s to come out and contract the aids virus. In 1994 Glenn passed after a nine-year good fight. In 1997 as a tribute to my brother I dressed and outfitted a Miami Gay Street Gang in my ethereal clothing designs and we staged a theatrical performance at the first Aids Awareness Ball held at the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach. That performance showcased the collection I had been working on and was called simply THE VIRUS. The clothing was in four colors: a tied died and stained affair in light summery greens; a pink and grey which “bruised” the fabric, a black and a white who represented the last stages of the virus as we saw it… the black was death and the white were the angels. In the entire ensemble the message was clear: It did not paint a pretty picture until the angels came. And they all danced.
In 2001 Mom and dad attended my son’s graduation from the Citadel. I was with my family, sons and girlfriends for a four-day road trip and celebration. We never missed a Dairy Queen if dad was awake. And when we came home the fun continued when Mom called to say dad, “Had written for her his last song.” She didn’t say latest and I questioned that, but still she asked me to take down the song and “make it pretty”. And I promised then I would. When I was called a few weeks later by my brother to tell me Mom had passed I asked him to “Please tell me it’s not true. Please!” But it was. After the funeral Dad and I arranged to sing their love songs and record a final tribute to mother. Dad had never loved another and in free conscious he could sing of their love.
In 2006 I opened ZEBRA recording studio in Little Haiti intent on recording an album in tribute to my sister Anne who was passing due to influenza. No, Anne did not want me to come home as see her; “Why now,” she asked, “Was it because she was all torn and broken”, and she reminded me that she had sent me coal for Christmas once. Didn’t I get it? So now I would send music inspired by the rebel bands that we inspired in our teenage years and music so we could dance. “Pawnish Queen” and 2 other albums: SEX$WAR and WARTREATY poured out and my nephew would sit with his Aunt Anne, share the music and call me with her reaction.
In 2010 I received a call from my father. He said, “I am passing Deborah, please bring me my music.” And I stopped what I was doing in Miami and I came home to father before he passed away. I had a chance to share his music once again with him. With Dad again, he hailed my hand, and not recognizing me asked: “Muriel was I too hard on you?” And I answered, as if from Mother, “Harvey, not more than my love could bear.” And with that we danced to the life and live they lived.
Grief has wrenched music and dance from me and made me face grief head-on. Time reveals this as I see in retrospect— through my looking glass— glimpses into time. So folks, it’s all here and there. A record of what Time Reveals. If you would like to share with me my music and see the pictures write to me. These stories are there to share. And now more than ever is a need to let the grief rise to our music and let’s dance.
DEBORAH DESILETS SINGS at [email protected]. Or let me make you a mask, a hat, a dress to live life’s dance in!
