Robert Hamilton - Our Story: Coming Out in the Time of HIV and AIDS

OUR STORY

Coming out in the time of HIV and AIDS

Robert Hamilton

OUR STORY 2020 by Robert Hamilton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact Renaissance Press. First edition.

Cover and interior design by Nathan Frchette.

Edited by Myryam Ladouceur and Talia C. Johnson.

Legal deposit, Library and Archives Canada, October 2020.

Paperback ISBN 978-1-987963-91-5

Ebook ISBN 978-1-987963-92-2

Renaissance Press

http://pressesrenaissancepress.ca

pressesrenaissancepress@gmail.com

OUR STORY

Coming out in the time of HIV and AIDS

CONTENT WARNING

This memoir deals with illness and death, homophobia both outwards and internalized; transphobia, incarceration and the penal system.

This memoir is set in the 1970s and 1980s, and as such, employs a lot of the language that was used back then, and may not be current right now.

Joe, Ray, and Roger;

You may be gone, but youre in my art forever.

Friends and family;

Its a beautiful thing.

Drag Queens;

You are the colour in the rainbow.

Life:

You are but queer, arent you? Thank God.

This is but one story

My story

Among the many stories

That make up OUR STORY

About a time that was

So we dont forget

So we heal.

My choices, a career as an actor or studying fine arts, were not very realistic for a kid from a small, pulp and paper mill town in northern New Brunswick. On the other hand, the two-year Correctional Worker program offered at Centennial College in Scarborough, Ontario, was much more acceptable. When I told my mother I was interested in becoming an actor, she said shed be too embarrassed to admit that to anyone. One day, after coming out of the woods from a day of hunting with my father and uncle, my mothers brother, I mentioned my wanting to become an actor. My father said nothing. My uncle said actors had to wear makeup and I just wanted an excuse to wear makeup. If there was any suspicion in the family of me being a fruit, and there was, becoming an actor would have confirmed it. What I knew about being a fruit was derived from what I heard around me and it was definitely not what I wanted to be. Becoming a jail guard just made the most sense.

Halloween night, October 31, 1977 - Two months into my first semester and on the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I was invited to join a few classmates going into downtown Toronto to watch an annual Halloween spectacle that was apparently a must-see and guaranteed good laugh. We caught the subway in Scarborough, hopped off at Yonge and Bloor and walked down Yonge Street to where a large crowd had gathered, directly across the street from the St. Charles Tavern, a notorious gay bar. I had no idea gay bars even existed. Although the gay stirred within me, my knowledge of gay was zero. There was a mob atmosphere to the crowd that was fueled by hatred and bigotry and directed at the faggots and queers taking refuge inside the gay bar. As more people gathered, the uproar from the crowd increased. A guy rode his bicycle up and down the street and fixed to the back of it was a large vendor sign advertising FRUITS. Each time the guy rode past, the mob erupted into a collective roar of laughter and approval, me along with them. When a man walking on the opposite side of the street tried to duck inside the bar, a barrage of eggs, tomatoes, and whatever else was hurled his way. The crowd in unison cheered and jeered. What intrigued me was how normal the gay guy looked. I would never have guessed he was a fruit. Keeping with Halloween tradition, a procession of drag queens was supposed to leave from the St. Charles Tavern and parade up Yonge Street; an event some queens prepared for all year long. This Halloween night, the procession of queens didnt take place for fear of the mob waiting outside the taverns front door. Eventually, the police dispersed the crowd and we moved on, taking the subway back to Scarborough.

January, 1978 - As part of my second semester curriculum, I had a four-month field placement at the Toronto East Detention Centre, otherwise known as The East, a new maximum security jail with the capacity to hold a few hundred prisoners. It was paramilitary and staffed with many war veterans. Consequently, there were many goons on staff and it was definitely an US versus THEM mentality. If an officer showed any hint of concern for the prisoners, he or she would be labeled a social worker. I was definitely out of my comfort zone and in a sink or swim situation. Failure wasnt an option. I was eighteen with a baby face. Without the uniform, I would have been someones bitch in no time. Every criminal imaginable was housed there: rapists, murderers, baby killers, arsonists, hit men, and those in for petty crimes. It didnt take long to see that monsters seldom look like monsters, but more like you and me.

During one of my early days, a fellow classmate and I were taken to the segregation unit, aka the hole, where we were instructed on how to carry out a proper skin search. The two prisoners used as our guinea pigs were in seg because they were on suicide watch and would not survive one minute in general population. At the time, the two were amongst the most despised men in the prison, the city, the province, and possibly the country. A few months earlier, on July 28, the two prisoners were involved in the rape, torture and murder of twelve-year-old shoeshine boy, Emanuel Jacques. The boy was raped over a twelve-hour period and then drowned in a kitchen sink. His body, wrapped in a green garbage bag, was found a few days later on the roof above a Yonge Street body rub parlour. Their crime was front-page news and captivated the city. The men were known to have frequented the St. Charles Tavern and the gay community was viewed with guilt by association. The city and its people came down hard on the gay community because of these mens heinous crimes. When the two accused child murderers were let out of their cells, I was taken aback by how normal they looked. They didnt look like the monsters I had expected to see. Being on suicide watch, they wore heavy canvas smocks called baby dolls. The guard in charge of the unit ordered one of the prisoners to remove his baby doll and then step by step he demonstrated how to conduct a proper skin search. Never touching the prisoner, starting at the head and working down his body, ordering him to run his fingers through his hair, show behind his ears, open his mouth, lift his tongue, lift both arms to show his armpits, lift his penis, pull back foreskin if necessary, lift his ball sac, turn around and show the soles of his feet and finally, order him to bend over and spread the cheeks of his ass so it can be seen if hes trying to suitcase contraband. Never before had a man stood so naked before me. When walking away Im not sure what intrigued me most, that they were murderers or homosexuals? I would learn that many gay men around this time were falsely accused of such crimes.

Early Summer, 1979 - After successfully completing the two-year Correctional Worker program, I had no job offers, was still a virgin, and still very much in the closet. I had heard about a new remand centre opening in Edmonton. Coming from the Maritimes, the world ceased to exist beyond Toronto, so I checked for Edmontons exact location on the map and decided to fly there and check out job prospects. On arrival, I checked into the downtown YMCA. I had danced to the song by the Village People many times, but was oblivious to its gay reference, and oblivious to the Y being an excellent cruising spot for gay men.