Perhaps the grisly details of Matthew Shepard's murder prompted me to attend his outdoor memorial service in my own hometown. I acknowledged that I needed something unidentifiable to cope with such a shockingly indelible example of homophobia run amok. The spiritual bent of a candlelight vigil would be a little nauseating, but it was, after all, a memorial, and healing had to start somewhere. From my back row center seat, I watched a family of six (two parents and four adult children--three young men and one woman) select the spaces to my left and spread a quilt over a portion of the lawn at my feet. Although the relationship dynamics were a little vague at first, I sensed that only two of the "kids" belonged to the parents. The other two were their partners.
Instead of an unruly chorus of indignation, our featured orators were an offensive cabaret of victimization which droned on and on from the microphone at the podium. To keep my temper at bay, I studied the boy-boy pair nearby. They both appeared to be just beyond the typical age for a college student. The brunette was working the musician aesthetic. His long hair was pulled back away from a handsome face and a pair of golden brown eyes that appeared to be illuminated from a flashlight dropped inside his skull. Perhaps the gold in his eyes was merely a reflection of his radiant partner. The blonde by his side was traditionally beautiful, clearly an athlete possessing a comfortable facility with each secret behavioral code whispered to every man but me. His bones seemed to be as supple as gossip, as if vinegar filled his veins instead of blood. A sullen vampire, a jack-o'-lantern, and a rubber skeleton--icons from a Halloween that Matthew, our bruised and bloodied scarecrow, did not live to see.
The golden boy changed his pose frequently seeming either restless from the interminable inactivity or anxious to qualify for an imaginary Abercrombie & Fitch Utopia. Eventually I picked up on the purpose of the shifting arrangement of his body parts. The boys were finding different ways to discreetly touch each other, rarely breaking contact completely. First, a denim-sheathed knee pinned a compliant thigh. Four pale knuckles then summoned the courage to coax one incorrigible pelvis toward a momentary calm. Finally, a sweatshirted deltoid embraced, and braced, a flanneled latissimus dorsi. This dance of tiny intimacies was more therapeutic than any misguided speech delivered from the bandstand.
We stood and held our candles aloft, which must be the traditional conclusion at these ceremonies. I shifted my eyes briefly to the left in time to see the jock and the musician, my favorite flavors, finally side by side, uninhibited and glowing from within and without. Emboldened enough to wrap arms around waists, they were a couple for the world, for themselves, for now. I would like to have seen their faces. Voices of protectiveness and jealousy, foreign and familiar respectively, resounded through me at that moment and periodically for the next few days.
If I were the type to speak to strangers, I would have advised: "Take care of each other, boys. Wrap yourselves tight into that quilt before you forget how cold it is out here."
Lobby/Permanent Collection
The Tim Kramer Memorial Auditorium/Sculpture Garden/Topiary Maze
Wellbutrin Cafe/Gift Shop
Audio Guide