We pulled into the parking lot of the arena ten minutes before curtain call. “Is that the place? God it looks like a factory,” said the young gay gardener who was my date for this Prince Purple Rain tribute concert. “Inspired by the fertilizer plant down on the river,” I said. Neither of us is a particularly critical guy, not the catty kind of gays you see on TV. But truth is truth.
I’m 59-something, and he’s 26. Since we had garden plans, I thought kicking it off with the Purple Rain reenactment show by Black Jacket Symphony would be fun.
“My Mom loves Prince,” he said proudly, “I know a lot of his music.”
Standing in a long line at the temporary bar inside the bland beige-carpeted auditorium, I told him, “Look at these people. Damn, you’re the youngest person here.”
“Yeah, these are your peeps,” he said.
The woman in the seat beside probably went to high school with me. She wanted to chat, which I love. We did that till the lights went down and Prince lept into “Let’s Go Crazy,” then she wanted to dance. The symphony performed the entire album, just like a concert, glitter, lasers, smoke and black lights. After “I Would Die for You,” the stage went black, then deep purple light filled the auditorium.
The next song, the pinnacle of the performance, “Purple Rain,” started out just fine. I mean, for others, it was awesome. Southern Party Girl to my left and Young Gay Gardner to my right stood, swayed, and sang. I bawled. I almost left, so I didn’t bring the others down.
Later, at Capri Lounge, I felt like I had to explain that it’s not only a mournful song, but it is a song brutally woven like barbed wire in my heart muscle. Tearfully tied to the early days of AIDS. During that song tonight, I closed my eyes when he sang, “It’s such a shame our friendship had to end.” While everyone around me sang, I closed my eyes to the dark and saw them all in a dark purple haze.
The entire generation of creative, boundary-pushing gardeners just before me died. Mike James, Jerry Sedenko, Bob Hayes, the list of my friends and mentors is too long. They’d come of age in the 70s, determined to build or bulldoze social barriers. They found rare plants, created new styles, and revolutionized gardens. They were my older brothers, strong and more confident, bold and more beautiful than I. They were men I wanted to be, but then how the fuck did I find myself helping them teeter on walkers, insert catheters, take injections into frizzled veins and count out a rainbow of horse pills.
When every voice around me sings it, I see them. They are laughing in the purple rain.
I want this young man to know that. Not the sadness or anger. But I want him to know that we lost an entire generation of creative horticulturists. Those older guys and this younger guy are why I decided years ago to speak, write, and live as an openly gay man. There are too many people trying to ban our books and hush us up, and we are in real danger of going back to days of hate and hiding. I want young people to enjoy where they are but understand that it is a fragile position.
On Sunday, I’m doing something that just a year ago, I could not have done. I’m reading from my book Garden Disruptors, in the Capital of South Carolina, in a new store on Main Street called Queerhaven Books. Just two blocks away, the Capital building of the state swarms with the same sort of hateful people who promulgated, praised, and prolonged AIDS. It’s a beautiful building but a hideous symbol of hate.
Though ignorant politicians are having a day, we know that love and knowledge can overcome.
While I never had to be really in the closet, I’ve seen massive changes in my town. I know the stories of what it used to be like. Join me if you can, and please share your stories of gay gardeners of Columbia in the comments. I’d love to add them to my archive.
Here is a link to my Gay Gardener stories on Substack. Three favorites are;
What Happens At Camp Creek Stays At Camp Creek — A story of three folks on a traveling construction who, though very different, love and care for each other. This one is sort of magical fiction.
Old Gay Hippy Hikes — A story of the ridiculous situations we find ourselves tromping and screwing through. It starts off with a headstrong, slightly stoned guy saying, “Naked hiking is fine up here in the mountains. All the guys do it.”
My Gay Uncles; Backstory from Garden Disruptors — Introduction to how I brought in my gay uncles as a Greek chorus, a flamboyant one, but a group who directed my life.
My husband Tom and lots of old friends will be there. Come join us, or please read the book, which is available on my website or Amazon.
Sunday 4/28 at 1 pm, Queer Haven Books, Columbia, SC. That will be a great place to be.
Jenks, this made me remember the summer of 1990 when the first S Carolina Pride March was held in Columbia. I was with a small group of women from Clemson/Anderson/Pendleton. We we scared but determined to march. The bible beaters and KKK were threatening to be there and be an ugly presence. But we marched and marched proudly. All of the ~3000 marchers. Only a couple of pathetic bible beaters were there along the route and they were definitely pathetic. It was such a thrilling feeling to march up to the statehouse on that beautiful summer morning.
I know you will have a great time on Saturday!!