What follows is the speech given by Lori Cannon at the memorial for Chicago writer Andrew Patner March 18 at Orchestra Hall:
Good evening, everyone. My name is Lori Cannon. I am deeply honored and humbled to speak with you in this magnificent space about my friend, Andrew Patner, and his early, unsung legacy of contributions to Chicago's LGBT community.
I first met Andrew in 1987 at a volunteer orientation for Chicago House—one of the first social service agencies gay men would come create in the earliest days of the AIDS pandemic. Andrew was there to soothe his grief over the passing of his dear friend, David Edmunds, for whom he had been a devoted caregiver. He told me that caring for David had been a comfort and a healing experience for him—"that it was one thing to have to die, it was another to be left to die—alone." That was why he became a volunteer: so people would not have to die alone. Grief and remembrance would become the glue that held us together.
Shortly after we started at Chicago House, Andrew reached out to the group organizing the Chicago contingent to the National March on Washington for Gay and Lesbian Rights, offering to conduct a board retreat to help prepare them for the hard work ahead.
As a result of his caring approach, that group went on to become an award-winning team whose success at the March brought an infusion of LGBT activism back from Washington that was unprecedented … ideas that are still shaping this community 28 years later. That was Andrew's way. He wasn't a flashy guy. You often couldn't point to any one thing he had done—because he didn't work that way. He liked to stay in the background of almost everything, helping people—often people he barely knew—to make connections that would make things happen.
After the march, Andrew stepped up to help organize the now-legendary display of the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt at the old Navy Pier. It was one of the first Quilt displays to take place outside of Washington, and it transformed every person who participated—especially Studs Terkel, whom Andrew had persuaded to read the names of those who had passed. From that moment forward Studs became a champion for people with AIDS.
And when the Rev. Willie Barrow came to present her son's quilt panel, it was Andrew who recognized her silent struggle. As a Christian minister, Barrow was challenged to reconcile having a gay son—whose AIDS diagnosis had forced him out of the closet—with her faith. Shell-shocked, she could not bring herself to turn over her son's quilt panel to be incorporated into the display—because it was the final act of saying goodbye. It was Andrew who sat quietly with her for hours and hours, gently rubbing her back, listening to her, comforting her, and finally convincing her that it was time to let go. That single act of kindness transformed Willie Barrow into an ally of the LGBT community, which she was until the day she passed.
At the next Chicago quilt display in 1990, Andrew was instrumental in arranging for opera superstar Jessie Norman to attend the opening ceremony where she not only read aloud the name of her dear friend, controversial art photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, but stunned those gathered by singing "Amazing Grace" a capella—an unplanned, impromptu performance that shattered everyone with its tragic beauty. No one who was there will ever forget that moment of spiritual transcendence. She wouldn't have been there at all if it hadn't been for Andrew Patner.
On the occasion of his 30th birthday, it was Andrew who arranged for then-unknown playwright Scott McPherson to meet AIDS activist and political cartoonist—and my best friend—Daniel Sotomayor. It was love at first sight—launching those two men into a relationship that would come to define the rest of their lives. Scott went on to achieve great fame as the playwright behind the award-winning drama Marvin's Room. Danny, thanks to Andrew and his friend Mark Schoofs at Windy City Times, got a job as the first openly gay, syndicated political cartoonist in the country—something that wouldn't have happened if Andrew hadn't set the wheels in motion.
Andrew accompanied myself and Scott and Danny to the premiere of Marvin's Room at the Playwright's Horizons in New York. Andrew so believed in Scott he wanted to be there to help me take care of them so they could share that final moment of triumph together—just months before they both died.
Whether it was by quietly supporting my own agency—the Meals-on-Wheels program for people with AIDS called Open Hand—or the AIDS activist group ACT UP/Chicago—or the AIDS-advocacy group Stop AIDS—or political organizations for people fighting for social justice—Andrew was there, quietly, behind the scenes, making critical connections for people that had a transformative effect—all while continuing his amazing career advocating for the celebration of the fine arts.
The last project Andrew and I had begun working on together was the sponsorship drive to add a bronze memorial marker honoring Leonard Bernstein on Chicago's Legacy Walk—the half-mile outdoor museum walk on Halsted commemorating LGBT contributions to world history and culture. This effort brought together Andrew's two passions: making the world better for LGBT youth—and the fine arts. Andrew knew that too few young LGBT people had been exposed to Bernstein's music—and even fewer knew that Bernstein was "one of them." We are deeply saddened to know that Andrew will now never be part of the Bernstein tribute … because nobody was more excited about it than he was, and certainly nobody was a better fit to lead that effort.
Andrew Patner and I, both caught up in our day-to-day challenges, floated like two leaves caught in the same breeze, buffeted through the history of time known as the "AIDS Crisis." Coming together—then bouncing apart for a while—then coming together again—this would define our friendship for almost 30 years. Foolishly I thought it would go on like that forever. But little do any of us know when that gentle breeze will suddenly cease to blow. Goodbye, Andrew. There will never be another mensch like you.
