It has been about six weeks since my dad passed away. It’s a weird sentence to write and an even weirder feeling to have.
He passed away on July 7 at home with family around him. I wasn’t there because I was at home in Orlando, quarantined away and fighting COVID-19. I wasn’t able to go see him before he died and I didn’t go to his funeral. The last time I saw him was a few weeks prior when I went up to spend the weekend with my parents. He was weak but able to sit up at the table with us and talk and laugh. It was a good last visit. I’m not really sure what happens now. When something like this happened in the past, I would ask him.
My dad was always a calming, centering force for me in a family filled with people who are very passionate and loud. I remember holidays with relatives around the table, dozens of conversations going at once, and my father just listening. He talked and conversed, but he wasn’t in there trying to talk over anyone or cram a word in when he saw a break.
When I was younger I just thought he wasn’t very social, but as I got older I realized he was taking everything in. All the stories and the issues and the problems the family was having, he took that all in. He was processing it, working it out in his head and figuring out a way that he could help. Whether it was loaning someone a few bucks, helping them find a job or even opening our home to a relative who needed a place to stay until they got on their feet; my father was there to help without complaint.
He was that way with me and my siblings too. No matter how scared or panicked we were, he always knew the right thing to say or do to make it feel like everything was going to be ok.
The first time I ever had a panic attack, I was on my way to visit my parents. I had just found out that I was HIV-positive and, as I was coming into their small Georgia town, I started to have chest pains. My hands and feet were tingling and I felt lightheaded. I got to my parent’s house and burst through the door thinking I was having a heart attack. Mama saw that I was panicking and started to panic with me. She’s always been empathetic like that. She’s the one who will be there with a hug and won’t let you cry alone, but she matches your emotions so we both were in panic mode. Dad came over, hugged me and told me to lay down on the couch. He sat next to me, talked calmly and helped me through the attack.
Learning to walk myself through a panic attack is one of countless lessons he taught me. My dad was a child of the 60’s and 70’s. He was as hippy as you could be. He grew his hair long and marched for civil rights, equality and against the war in Vietnam. He despised Richard Nixon and loved Alice Cooper. One of the last things he wanted to do before he passed away was to have someone push him in his wheelchair and march with Black Lives Matter protesters through the streets of his small Georgia town.
I remember from a young age dad teaching us about the importance of family and friends; standing up for what’s right, even if what’s right goes against authority; and the best way to foster change in this country is knowing the facts and, most importantly, voting for those who know what they are talking about. He used to say that you can disagree with whoever and whatever you want to but if you don’t vote then you’re not allowed to complain.
It’s a mantra I have adopted myself and, thanks to dad, led me to vote in every election since Gore v. Bush, midterms included. Before he passed, dad saw that this country is on the edge of a precipice. He was no fan or supporter of Donald Trump. He wasn’t Hillary Clinton’s biggest fan either, we differed on that, but he recognized that she was far more qualified for the job and how dangerous Trump would be for the country and the world.
So this November, when I go into that voting booth, I will be voting in honor of my dad. I’ll be voting for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris because I know that’s what my father would have done and I know that’s the right thing to do.
As we ready ourselves to march to the polls, in this issue we chirp with a trio of rabble-rousers who also march for what’s right. The Chicks have released their first album in 14 years and they talk music, politics and being good allies with writer Gregg Shapiro.
We also check in with LGBTQ teachers in Central Florida and Tampa Bay about what fears and concerns they have about being forced into face-to-face classes during the height of a pandemic. In other news, the Orlando Youth Empowerment Summit heads to Zoom this year, Come OUT St. Pete launches a virtual drag contest and courts rule for a Florida student in a major win for trans rights.
