“A true friend accepts who you are, but also helps you become who you should be.” –Unknown
If you’ve read this article, you know that in Classical Greece and Rome, the encomium was, as theorized in rhetoric—the study of the art of persuasion—a speech in praise of someone. At that time and in those places, there was no universal education, so people were taught the art of oratory (as opposed to written communication). In Rome, especially, this was vital. Everyone had to serve in the Senate on a rotating basis. And in both Greece and Rome, citizens (adult males) had to defend themselves in court in litigious societies. Often encomia were delivered to laud famous, powerful, or rich men. But I want to tell you about three men who weren’t necessarily famous, rich, or powerful, but who deserve to be heralded: Chris Franks, Jay Dagenhart, and a man I know only as “William”.
In case you didn’t know: going to rehab sucks. At first. As the days go on, you realize it’s saving your life. But at the outset, you’re lonely, scared—no, terrified—annoyed, and confused. This was my state in November, 2005, when I entered Pride Rehab in Chicago to try, once again, to quit drinking. I had a single room right next to the Nurse’s Station. And even that I used as a source of comfort: “Help—and people—are always just 10 feet away,” I’d tell myself.
Chris
One evening, I left my room and shut the door behind me. It was time to walk to dinner. There was Chris. He was sitting on the floor next to the elevator…coloring. This was before coloring became a common therapy for adults, and I thought it was so cute. Chris was one of those people where, as soon as our eyes met, I knew we’d be good friends. And now help was not only 10 feet away, but 50 feet away too, where his room was.
Chris was very handsome. He was tall, strapping, and had very attractive features—dark hair and eyes (I would later find out this was due to his Greek ancestry/ethnicity). He was one of those people whose happiness was written all over his face. And he had a chin dimple, what we would call “a butt chin” as we became closer and closer friends over the next four weeks and bonded over this odd, shared physical trait.
He had a very deep voice, but it was so sweet and was imbued with kindness, compassion, and a real zest for life. At that first dinner (the food was really good there!), I felt like I was out in the real world having dinner with a best friend. And isn’t that kind of like the fun-nest thing ever?
And: A limerick about a great friend and local politician, Del. Eric Ebersole (D-44).
Every morning at six a.m. we had community meeting. There were different roles that people got elected for: meeting-leader, for example. A woman named Tara announced, “Meeting Leader: Akbi Khan.” I was stunned—and not in a good way. I turned to Chris, who was sitting next to me. I asked, “You guys picked me to be Meeting Leader—why?!?!” His reply was: “Because you’re awesome.” I had to give him a hug. And for the first time in my life, I took charge. Because Chris made me feel like I could.
His laugh: I am afraid I can’t do it justice. But it was so beautiful. It was loud! It was joyous! It was childlike! It was a hug, a hand-holding, and a kiss in sound waves.
He had been a high-powered attorney in Chicago, until he met methamphetamines and loved them and spiraled out of control—and ended up at Pride rehab with me. This is not a failing, in any of us who have struggled with addiction. I’m emphatic about that. It is absolutely not a failing, or a flaw, or anything to apologize for (if even if some of the things you did in your active addiction required an apology). This is something I couldn’t reconcile with AA and other 12-Step programs, what with their insistence on addicts “making amends”—apologizing. Why, unlike Chris, I’ll never be a part of them. I’m not sorry. I’m the one who suffered the most. I’m not asking for pity, I just want people to know: I’m not sorry. And yet I am, for all the things I did, the people I hurt, the damage I did. It torments me every day, even as I’ve found ways to cope with it that are healthier than diving further into substance use to quell the feelings of self-hatred that come when I ask myself, “How could I have hurt people this way? What kind of sociopath am I? Why should I go in living?” Whether addiction’s an illness or something else…well, I pretty much know without any shadow of a doubt that it is an illness. I would call it more of a disorder of the brain and other bodily systems, in which your “drug of choice” hijacks your brain. I absolutely loathe that term. When someone at Pride rehab asked me, as if she were asking what my favorite food was, “So…what was your drug of choice?” Chris leaned into me a little, offering his support, because he knew I hadn’t received that question well “Choice? I didn’t choose it. It chose me.” She was silent.
Chris and I had many therapy sessions together, life skills training classes, exercise time. And then it was time for us to leave. Here’s another thing about rehab you may not know: you form these deep bonds at an unnaturally rapid rate, and when it’s time for you to leave, you scribble down all your information for your friends and promise to stay in touch. But very often you don’t stay in touch. Most people want to leave that part of their lives behind them. But Chris and I did stay in touch. We loved each other—I felt like he was my older brother, but not because of his age, but because of how much he cared about me. He kept in regular contact, was always asking me to have plans, and he bought me presents on my birthday, and other holidays, and once just because.
What was even better was that he moved to Washington, D.C., and I lived in suburban Maryland just 45 minutes away.
Chris entered recovery like he did everything, full-force and take-the-reins. He was secretary of a local NA group and went to meetings so many times a week. He was very organized at everything he did, and it was no different with arranging meetings. We talked mostly online at this point. And we kept saying we’d get together. I saw pictures of him growing thin (normally, he was well-built and fit), and I worried. And I’m so mad at myself for not getting together with him more often. What I would have wanted was to see him every week, at least. He had a partner whom he lived with. And I thought he seemed happy. But every once in a while he would say something like, “Akbi—all I have are these tiny victories.” To which I said, “That’s all anyone has, Chris.” I was going through my own stuff, which I guess is why I didn’t get out to see him. No excuse. None.
The few times I talked to him on the phone were a year or so into his recovery, and I could hear an unmistakable “not-Chris” in his voice. He seemed sad. At least, I thought, he didn’t dive back into the high-powered attorney world he used to live in that I felt like was too much for him, because he was a sensitive, beautiful soul. He was too tender and fragile in a wonderful way for that lifestyle. But he was so smart, I feel like he must have been very good at it. I’d look at him and think, “Yale. He definitely went to Yale.” He actually went to Northwestern and then got his J.D. at Georgetown University. I believe he did practice law again in D.C, actually, but eventually ended up doing paralegal work. And he was so much more relaxed and content than I imagined he was as a lawyer in Chicago. He had this childlike—not childish—quality that always draws me to people, to Chris. He tried new things, made new friends—because he knew whatever it took to help you not do drugs and live was what you had to do. The world needed—needs—Chris Franks. He was very humble, but not in a tedious or martyr-ish way. He just was because he knew ain’t nobody so special. But that knowledge and acting from it makes you special. Chris was special.
He wore these thick, cable-knit sweaters. There was one I always picture him in when I think of him, which is often. It was red, black, and beige. Complicated and complex, like him.
Related: Another person I loved who’s no longer here…but what a guy!
This is why…this is all why…when I learned he had died of an overdose…a part of me died. No. No, the world cannot not have Chris in it. It’s not far. It’s incomplete. And I felt so mad at myself, because maybe I could have been there for him. I should have, goddamn it. I love you, Chris. You saved my life. I’m sorry I couldn’t save yours. But I really believe, in death, that you’re closer to me than in life, in a strange (but wonderful) way. You’re in my heart, and there you shall always live. Sometimes, as zany as it sounds, I talk to him. He had a way of looking at me that made me feel heard—his big, dark eyes practically drank in my words. And feeling heard, by Chris, made everything better.
Jay
I actually don’t know what my friend, Jay, did. I don’t think I ever knew. He had very delicate features, a pointy nose and chin. His eyebrows were slim, but not groomed. And he had a small pucker: a lovely visage, all-around. I went over to his house one day, and we were having a great time—or we thought we were. We were doing GHB and meth. We went outside and ended up getting gay bashed. Like actually, physically bashed. This horrible person punched him in the face. And I remember looking down and seeing his blood on me, and I was in an odd way glad. He was HIV-positive, I wanted him to know his blood on me was OK with me.
We went inside his house, and did poppers, still convinced that substances were going to help us have fun. Another friend of his came over. His friend cradled Jay in his arms as Jay cried. He recounted how his brothers, who’d gone to military school, loved him and supported him. The idea was, why can’t everyone do the same—just be cool? I sometimes worry for myself that the screwed-up coping mechanisms I have because of homophobia and transphobia will, even as I’ve healed so many of them…well, I worry some of the damage can never be undone. I think that was at play in Jay’s life. I could always see the little boy who wanted to be loved in him. He, like me and so many other gay men and trans women, just didn’t know how to get it.
“Chemsex “is a term used to describe the practice of having sex while high. Chemsex isn’t just getting intoxicated and having sex. chemsex is related to particular cultural features unique to gay men [and trans women] that may complicate their enjoyment of sex. These factors can include society’s negative attitudes towards homosexuality [and transsexuality], the trauma and stigma of the AIDS epidemic, and sexual performance expectations,” according to a study by the Ontario HIV Treatment Network. Drugs helped us embrace sex. Gay men and trans women may seem comfortable with sex, given our seemingly fearless behaviors in relation to it. But we’re often not. We’re acting out.
But the abandon, ultra-hedonism, and our often indignant attitude about our “right” to be careless about sex stems from our feelings growing up that our sexual proclivities are wrong and not being able to engage in them with the ease that our hetero counterparts did. It’s an in-your-face flouting of the sexual mores we feel oppressed us. Substances–chems–foster an abandonment of feelings of inadequacy, illegitimacy, and inhibition endemic to gay men and trans women (Jay and I, respectively). It feels like liberation, but it’s an enslavement. As Irving, a character in “Faggots”, a novel by Larry Kramer, the pioneering gay rights activist says to a friend”: “You have never found love from one of your boys. You only allow them to break your heart. When will you cease this foolishness.” Kramer’s book was a groundbreaking, if sanctimonious and full of vituperation, novel designed as a warning to the promiscuous gay man of the 1970s and 1980s. Something bad was coming, he warned. And it did: HIV/AIDS.
Jay and I had talked about how drugs–he was more into meth; I, GHB–were like a magic pill one might encounter in a sexy Willy Wonka factory. One pill or dose and the shame we struggled with, the self-hatred that crippled us, the fear of being vulnerable in romantic situations…they all slipped away. And it felt right, I said to him, because this is what it seems like what life was like for our cishet (cisgender, heterosexual) counterparts. We agreed that maybe it wasn’t that simple. But maybe it was. And it was our right to feel all the same things the cishets felt, and do all the same things they did. It didn’t matter that we needed drugs to be like them.
Like Chris, Jay got into recovery and was doing amazing. He was on “The Oprah Winfrey Show” talking about his journey to sobriety and how he was helping other gay men break free of methamphetamine addiction. He had a website: jaydagenhart.com. And one day when I Googled it and it was gone…a chill went down my spine.
Jay was born on June 9th. And so was I. I believe strongly in the power of the heavens, unseen forces in our lives, and that these sorts of similarities say a lot about the connection two people share. And honestly, June 9th Geminis are the best! You were the best, Jay…ARE the best. Because I know you, too, are still here, even if I can’t hug you or hold your hand like my friend William did for me.
William
I met William at Montgomery County Detox in suburban Maryland. The first time I saw him, I was absolutely stunned. He was a dead ringer for someone I care deeply about and who is one of the kindest, most generous and caring people I’ve ever encountered: my friend, Joshua Poole. They both had dark hair and eyes, sharp cheekbones, and straight noses. When you looked in their eyes, you saw the kindness and wholeheartedness you’d wish to see in everyone. But only some posses it. And even fewer show it. Josh and William were like that. For the first day I met him, I kept asking him if he were Josh. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t! They looked exactly alike.
Anyway, after we introduced ourselves, William took my hand. No one had ever, ever held my hand before. The feeling of his skin, his pulse, his warmth: I don’t know how I could have survived that stint in rehab without them.
Something else about rehab: no one goes on a happy whim, saying, “Oh! I’ll just get better today!” You enter rehab leaving some sort of wreckage of a life behind, loved ones you’ve hurt, opportunities you’ve squandered, and hope you’ve lost. You’re forced in by a life in tatters. It’s an emergency. And you hate yourself for getting to this place in life. But William didn’t let go of my hand the entire time I was at Montgomery County Detox. He must have when we went to our separate rooms to bed—or even the bathroom. But I can’t imagine my ten days there without him holding on to me.
One day—like many other days–I was despondent about some drama I’d left behind in my home life [specific]. I wondered if it would get better, if there were a way anything could ever be better again. William, holding my hand, looked in my eyes and said, “Don’t worry. I promise it will be OK.” And then he kissed me. A peck that turned into a few seconds during which I knew everything was OK, as the electricity of human connection brought me back to life.
That evening William and I sat in the common room watching TV—and holding hands. A counselor came by and instructed us not to touch each other. You’re never allowed to take a friendship to the physical level in rehab. Things are already too complicated, and that will just make them more so. We looked at each other and smiled as the counselor walked away. But William’s hand, his lips, his eyes full of kindness and how they held on to my own made me certain that, despite all my mistakes, my damaged relationships, my interrupted life, things would be OK. There were people who loved me, like William.
One day he got a diagnosis of Oral Herpes. I was there when he got this diagnosis, one delivered in an oddly public manner by his counselor, Miss Latrice, a thin, black woman with short hair and big spectacles. She always pronounced, “Klonopin”, “Kwonopeeyun”. William seemed like he knew he had Herpes, but the words still stung, I could tell: “Your Herpes test came back positive.” He had a blank expression. I squeezed his hand. I wanted him to know that what had happened to so many gay men wasn’t going to happen to him. I wouldn’t abandon him, or keep away from him, or not let him touch me. He wouldn’t look at me, so I turned to hug him. We laughed. And we loved, and I’ve never—before or after—met anyone like William.
It’s
Then he was gone, leaving as mysteriously as he came. No matter. He, like Chris and Jay, is always in my heart. And my memories of all three them buoy me, even after all these years. A friend’s daughter once said of a friend she’d lost, “Love never ends”. I hope that’s true. No–I know it is. Physicists now say that time as we’ve thought of it for so long doesn’t exist. It’s our memories of a series of nows. I love this, because it makes me feel like Chris, Jay, and William will always be here in my memories of our “nows” together.
I’m grateful for your readership! Check back with me each week here at politicalpoetrypastiche as my linguistic, literary, and generally loquacious involvement in local politics takes on a mélange of prose and poetry genres. After all: All Politics Is HoCo-al™. Join me on Facebook here, find me on Twitter at @politicalpoetr3, and follow me on Instagram using the handle @politicalpoetrypastiche.