Memories: Remembrance of Berth

In the early 90’s at the Schomburg Center of the NY Public Library in Harlem, the black gay collective of writers known as Other Countries celebrated an event to commemorate Gay Pride. It was announced that the great science fiction writer, Samuel Delaney, was going to read from his work. I was immediately interested and mesmerized by the discovery of a “black gay science fiction writer”, so I took the subway all the way up to Harlem to join in this celebration.

I arrived early, and lots of other people did as well; the hall of the auditorium where the reading was going to take place was crowded with plenty of beautiful men. Standing among them I saw this person with a smile on his face and felt an immediate unknown connection towards him. Next to him was an Asian guy who was very attentive to any comment, or movement made by this attractive black man. I noticed some tension, so I tried not to look towards him, but it was useless for I kept looking; some kind of spiritual ritual was about to take place and I remember vividly the chanting, the incense and the spirit of jubilation of the crowd gathered in the corridors of this auditorium. Joining in this celebration was really difficult for me. I was a recent immigrant to New York and my English cultivated in academia from pure texts and literature didn’t allow me to decipher most of the words being chanted, sung or simply shouted so I was about to leave the place and miss the reading and other more conventional happenings of the event. However, the smiling and attention from this man made me feel welcomed. To make me feel even more welcomed Mr. Gorgeous pointed a small camera at me and asked my permission to take a picture. I was taken aback and totally unprepared for a gesture like this to happen. He took his picture and left to take care of the business of the event. I didn’t see him again that evening. Now thinking back to that moment, I think that because of his kindness, he probably noticed the puzzlement in my face when I was about to leave, I became part of this group of gay men of color celebrating Gay Pride in our own way.

A year or so later, as a member of a Latino delegation I participated in a meeting at the Gay and Lesbian Center. I arrived late because the room location of this meeting was somewhere in the east wing, which I didn’t even know existed. In this small room under the name “Gallery” of the old Center on 13th Street, a group of 10 or maybe more people, were discussing feverishly the establishment of yet another organization. From their so well connected and rounded up conversation I just remember the topic: funding. I couldn’t pay less attention. My mind wasn’t in the dialogue, but in the face of the man doing the talking. In my brain the question was not where were they going to find the money, but where have I seen him before? His face was familiar to me, but from where, I couldn’t recall? In the middle of his almost scientific speech about this boring topic he turned to someone and suddenly smiled. That was it. I immediately remembered that this was the man with the camera @ the Schomburg Center. I was amazed at the lethal combination of his looks, the depth of his intelligence, the suave conversation and the impeccable articulation of his words and ideas. I was like a nail pulled towards the magnetic head of a hammer. I felt an urge to talk to him, but I couldn’t gather the necessary strength, besides he didn’t have a camera this time. I missed another opportunity to meet him.

Other meetings took place, other Gay Prides passed, a People of Color Center was established in Brooklyn and maybe years went by and I never saw the Man with the Camera again. I got briefly disconnected from the gay movement and didn’t see Bert until one lucky Saturday afternoon @ a reading of “Other Countries” in the Audre Lorde Project. This was my chance, I said to myself. So I went and said hello and asked if he remembered the photographic encounter, Kodak moment and everything, we had had some years ago. He said he remembered me. Then I asked him if I could get a copy of the picture and he promised he would give me one.

In the summer of 1999 walking down Fifth Avenue I found him once again. He was standing in front of the Flatiron Building. It was one of those perfect warm evenings, with clear skies and a nice breeze. He was, as usual, friendly and told me a little about some changes in his life regarding his day-to-day. How he had started to teach kids and forgotten about his law degree practice. In the brief exchange, I managed to tell him that I had dropped out of the “gay movement”. I detailed how my lover and I had been beaten up. I also told him that surviving this gay bashing perpetrated by 7 people of color on a September Labor Day afternoon had scarred me forever. He was shocked and sympathetically agreed with my decision to take a break from the politically charged atmosphere of the “gay movement”. Just like the first day I saw him, he continued to look perfectly desirable, so I brought up the picture thing AGAIN and asked him if I was ever going to get my copy. Of course the intention was not to get that piece of paper with some figures and colors on it but rather to get to know more of this quiet, soft, well-spoken, attractive man.

This February, while I was talking to a friend on the phone asking about the well being of another fellow ex-Board member who was also gay-bashed, she broke the news about Bert over the phone. I was silent for a few seconds and then I just wept. It was unthinkable, incredible. I couldn’t believe it ‘cus I never knew he had been sick or had HIV or any of that. I kept crying until I realized I was sitting in my office and my co-workers were staring at me.

Well Bert, I guess I’m gonna have to wait a little longer to get that picture, uh?




Jimmy Lam
April 13, 2001

New York City