THE VOICE OF CHICAGO'S GAY, LESBIAN, BI, TRANS AND QUEER COMMUNITY SINCE 1985

Of course you have seen Susan. She is about 5'8", short curly hair, bespectacled, with a very friendly smile. She is always well-dressed and more recently, taking measured steps behind a walker. Earlier this summer, at the Affinity Community Service fundraiser, Jazz 'n July, she entered with a crème-colored dress and a matching scarf flowing from her neck. She has a fine, understated fashion sense and enjoys dressing for special occasions.

I am not sure when Susan stopped answering her door personally, but for the past two years, for as long as she has been in this apartment, the symptoms of her Spinal Cerebellum Ataxia ( SCA ) have become more pronounced. "The first year was a piece of cake," she says. "This second year has been more harrowing; I have fallen a lot. I used to think that my mother did not have any cause to worry about me being out here by myself, but she really does." At the end of September, Susan will put her mother's mind at ease by returning home to Maryland.

SCA is an inherited, degenerative disease that disconnects the communication between the brain, spinal cord and the legs. "I used to be a Weeble," ( '70s toy; 'Weebles wobble but they don't fall down' ) but now I fall down," she says. "Your brain tells your spine to do something and your spine is supposed to tell your legs and somewhere in between the message dissipates and it never quite gets to your legs. So the upper part of your body is turning but your legs don't get the message that you were turning that way. That's basically how I describe it."

Susan was diagnosed with SCA in 1986. "It is hereditary. My father has it. My sister, Diane had it; she died in 1999 of a heart attack and her heart just stopped. In thinking back, I admire Diane so much. She lived in Colorado where the air is not good for people with heart conditions, so she walked around with a cane, carrying oxygen." She pauses and thinks for a minute, then says, "My god, these little obstacles that I have are nothing."

"It was Oct. 15, 1995," Susan vividly recalls of her move to Chicago. "As I was leaving the D.C. area, buses of Black men were arriving for the Million Man March." A year later she became a member of Chicago Black Lesbians and Gays ( CBLG, an activist group created to give African-American LGBT citizens a political voice ) , and jumped right into working with Michael Harrington and Denise Miles on the community presentation of the film, All Gods Children. "At that time, going to a meeting automatically made you a member; they just needed some warm bodies," she chuckles.

In 1996, CBLG was still finding its identity. The organization had started with a bang and a fight three years earlier. Now, however, the political climate was shifting; Bill Clinton was campaigning for his second presidential term. Society was becoming less hostile toward African-Americans and gays and lesbians overall, and people were benefiting from a profitable economy. For probably the first time in their lives, the young activists who founded CBLG in 1993 were beginning to get some of the same career and educational opportunities that their white counterparts had. The climate was less hostile and the fight less urgent. Many were becoming fatigued from the battles they had fought long before CBLG's inception and were looking for others to step up and lead; they were ready to transition into civilian life and pass the baton. Susan was ready to take it.

CBLG had big ideas and they were the only game in town. When people told you they were a member, their voice had a lilt of pride and expectation that you knew who CBLG were. It provided a phenomenal training ground for the political, activist and the professional world, for its members ( and continues to today ) . Most of Chicago's current Black LGBT leaders have CBLG on their resumes.

It is important to note, almost as a sidebar, that CBLG nearly missed their moment; the Bud Billiken Parade. Karen Hutt ( now Rev. Karen Hutt of Church Of The Open Door ) stood up at their third exploratory meeting, ( they had not yet named themselves ) and suggested that this coalition group apply to march in the annual Bud Billiken Parade, the historical African-American parade, near the end of the summer. Waiving from the sidelines on the North Side ( a culturally diverse area with a high population of LGBT people ) of Chicago at the annual gay pride parade, then going to Belmont Rocks to party, was one thing, but marching on Chicago's South Side through the heart of an African-American community was a totally different story. The tension immediately grew in the room and several people strongly felt that it was a bad idea. So a rag-tag, faceless, almost forgetful group emerged from this larger coalition, led by Karen Hutt, called, the Ad Hoc Committee of Proud Black Lesbians and Gays, and made it happen.

Ad Hoc met at Hutt's Hyde Park apartment, to strategize and assign tasks. People pitched in like Tony Hassan from Hommage ( he has since passed away ) ; Robert Ford, creator, editor and publisher of Thing Magazine ( another brother lost to AIDS ) ; Karen Long and Lisa Pickens, Co-founders of Affinity; Denise Miles, who had recently returned to Chicago from living in Puerto Rico; Ramone Giles ( he and Denise were the contingent's parade king and queen ) ; Stephanie Betts, who met with the police commissioner to assure protection for the marchers; Lori Holland with children Sonsat and Aurora; Daryl Gordon, a West Side activist, who would later be instrumental in getting LGBT individuals to join him in activities on the West Side; activist Marc Loveless and his toddler son Nathan, who he pushed in a stroller; actress Ronda Bedgood, who I teamed with to hand out flyers and hang posters in bars; activists Michael O'Connor and also Shelton Watson, who subsequently participated in the parade for the next two years as a member and leader within CBLG.

The details surrounding the Ad Hoc Committee's walk down Martin Luther King Drive, in the largest African-American parade in America, became both national news and high drama. Due to their success, the naysayers were ready to jump on their bandwagon and accept them back into the rolls of what later became Chicago Black Lesbians and Gays. This parade event created unparalleled respect in the activist community for CBLG; the new activist kids on the block.

When Susan joined, they were still running on the energy that fueled them from the1993 Bud Billiken Parade, but it was starting to run low. It was like holding a party balloon with the air slowly leaving.

Though they were now hosting the Unity Conference and the Martin Luther King Holiday celebration ( and they were successful ) , only a small population of Chicago's African-American LGBT community participated in CBLG's events or even knew who they were. They did not have a membership base or a non-profit 501c3 status and were turning from a coalition of political voices to an event-driven organization. More responsibilities were falling on fewer people, and the meetings often meandered.

"At the Unity Five Conference, Robert Schultz and I were the Co-chairs and our eyes were bigger than our stomachs. CBLG went into major debt behind that and I felt responsible," Susan says. "When Lora Branch stepped down as co-chair, I guess that I was the natural person to succeed her. For the Martin Luther King Day Celebration, I felt that that was our event and damn it, no one was going to do it better than us," Susan reminisces. She and other CBLG members often helped to pay for expenses, out of pocket, with no idea of when they would get reimbursed. "That was my goal, to keep CBLG as a viable organization so that it could regain the status it once had," she says. "Now I think that I have seen CBLG as far as I can take it."

For the past three years, Susan Stanley has been the backbone of CBLG. She has not let her physical condition keep her from attending meetings. She used a walking stick, then a cane, and eventually a walker. She consistently called people, reminding them of the next meeting or event. Her spirit and composure helped to hold things together. She demonstrated a level of commitment that is often hard to sustain, working to share the history with new members and letting them know why CBLG must continue.

After overseeing the Martin Luther King Day 2002 event, the most successful celebration that CBLG ever had, Susan must now pass the baton. "There are great things in the planning process and we have people on board who are committed to doing them." she said. "Our 10-year anniversary is next year. I'm just pleased I was responsible for keeping the name, CBLG, on people's lips. Just when I thought all was lost, there was a light at the end of the tunnel and it wasn't a train."

As the CD is starting over for the third time, I realize it is getting late. I ask Susan, finally, what she could share with people about life from her own experiences and challenges. She replies, "This is going to sound so trite, but people take so much for granted. Being able to make a cup of tea, then carry it to where you are sitting is a big deal." Then she continues to ponder the question and says through a smile, "Floss; flossing is important."

Susan will be greatly missed from the Chicago LGBT landscape. She will be leaving a Chicago legacy of courage and grace.

Chicago Black Lesbians and Gays, which Susan Stanley has co-chaired, is hosting a tribute Sat., Sept. 21, 7-11 p.m., 1360 W. 79th. Tix $10 advance, $15 at the door. Call ( 773 ) 447-0580; CBLG2K1@aol.com .