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

We prepared for 60 guests and before the first one arrived, Pop walked into my bedroom with a car. The tiny model would have to do for the year, he chuckled. I knew my folks wanted to buy me a real car, and I also knew about the cut in Pop's salary, our family's many moving expenses from Kansas City, and that no miracle had occured since our last discussion. I smiled at Pop and he promised to make good on a car as soon as he could. He hugged me, gave me the familiar little shove to the head, and sent me downstairs to receive my guests and the fabulous gifts. I was wired, jubilant, surrounded by a blur of friends and enveloped by heartwarming sounds of chatter, flirtations, gossip, hugging, kissing and frequent bursts of laughter. The decibel level sounded like the Dining Hall at Camp.

'Happy Birthday to You' was sung. I thought about a car, world peace and then blew out 17 candles to scattered applause and gentle smacks on my behind, buffered by the still-fashionable crinolines under the skirt of my cadmium yellow dress. Before I could open any presents, my old pals, Steve and Eliot entered, rolling a shopping cart while the crowd parted with snickers and cheers. The odd assortment of presents included a local street sign and a bowling pin, all mine, like the cart itself from the Big B Supermarket. The more conventional gifts included a stack of records with doubles of the latest Harry Belafonte album with Harry on a red cover gesturing to 'Day-O.. Two people gave me copies of the original cast album of Kurt Weil's Three Penny Opera with Lotte Lenya, a sharp contrast to my other musicals. Within a week I would memorize the score.

Also noteworthy was a large paperback edition of The Threepenny Novel by Bertolt Brecht, who died that year. I read and re-read it. Mac-the-Knife pines for the good old days when he just hit someone on the head to take people's money. Nowadays, he laments, he is forced to spend unbearably boring time sitting on the boards of banks and corporations just to do the same thing. The party was in high gear when excited whispers began circulating, heads began turning and conversations shifted to a single theme. 'The Harvesters are going to sing.' When?' 'Soon.' And then our former counselors began singing, 'It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed...' into the stilled room. And right there on 68th Avenue, a story of migrant workers searching for a place to live welcomed me to my old community while the rich four-part vocal blend sanctified my new home back in Philadelphia, where I belonged.