DOMINIC BASH- Sticks and Stones Queer Memoir – The Rotunda- 7/20/2010

Chris Bartlett @harveymilk

Dominic with me A young Dominic, before the

in 1992 blond hair

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was summer 1992 when I hung out with Dominic Bash, a serious drag queen and ACT
UP member, a tormenter of Cardinal Bevilacqua, a mentor to a whole generation of
queer activists who aspired to his fierceness. His voice was something between Joan
Rivers and Frank Rizzo-- foul mouthed and femme and butch and indignant and
hysterical (in all senses of the word). His hair was a unique and unnatural blond, piled on
top of his head in braids or a beehive or the latest Madonna do. He never lost the lessons
of his upbringing on the streets of Kensington. And I, a vaguely preppy recent college
graduate, loved his realness and the fact that he immediately commanded the respect and
love of so many, queen and non-queen alike.

I should say that I was hanging out in his bedroom with him as he died of AIDS. He
lived on one of those tiny blocks on Pemberton off South Street, back when Pemberton
Street wasn't the cute gentrified neighborhood it is today. It was pre-pre-gentrification.
Dominic had bought the house many years even earlier, when a hairdresser could buy a
house in Center City and still have money to party at the Allegro, have a tasty cocktail at
the Pirate Ship, and have some nickels left over for a 4AM breakfast at the Hasty Tasty
over on 12th Street. Those were the days.

We had been friends since 1989 when we met at an ACT UP Philly demonstration. But
in Summer 1992 he was rapidly coming towards the end of his life and I was part of a
group of friends who visited him, dished the dirt, and listened to him tell us what we
should do next. He wasn't afraid to give assignments. "Chrissy," he would say, "we have
to do something about that damned Cardinal Bevilacqua-=- he's killing us!” And he was
right. He was 47 years old.
 DOMINIC BASH- Sticks and Stones Queer Memoir – The Rotunda- 7/20/2010
Chris Bartlett @harveymilk
As I said, Dominic had learned a thing or two as a child in Kensington. He told me that
he had had to fight from a young age, because the local kids quickly targeted him as a
sissy. It was Dominic who taught me the power of the sissy--- he taught me that you
don't want to fight with a sissy because we will find a way to get revenge-- not in the
usual ways-- but in subtly brilliant ways that make use of our cleverness, guile, and
access to the sissy arts of slapping, catty comments, and looks that can kill.

For example, in the 1950s, young Dominic had become the target of a local bully in his
neighborhood, which, for Kensington fans, was not too far from the old thrift shop at
Kensington and Allegheny, or K&A as it is known to our people. Dominic dreaded
seeing the bully, but his sissy wiles gradually plotted and planned until the day came that
Dominic would get his revenge. He left his house one day, probably seven or eight years
old, to see the Bully barrelling down one of those small Kensington allies on a bicycle,
shouting taunts at our Dominic: "Faggot! Faggot! Fuck you Faggot!". Housewives and
children watched silently from nearby stoops.

Well Dominic saw the Bully approaching. We sissies have all seen our version of that
Bully coming towards us with the full force of sissy and fag hatred. Our Dominic,
standing on the steps of a classic Kensington rowhouse, grabbed an old broom that was
wedged by the door, and pulled it out like a cutlass. Now those who are not acquainted
with the sissy arts might think that Dominic was considering hitting the bully over the
head, or poking him in the ribs, but that would have been too unsubtle- too much like
using the master's tools to dismantle the master's house. Dominic had other plans.

Our hero was at the ready as the Bully came closer wearing the rabid look of homohatred
in his eyes. Bully blurted out a last pathetic shout of "Homo" as his fate descended.
Dominic quickly stuck the broom in the spinning wheels of the Bully's bike. As the
broom engaged the wheel, the bike spun over and threw the Bully onto the ground.
Dominic, ignoring the Bully, began to bash the bike with the broom-- taking a bash at
each wheel and making a special effort to leave his imprint on the seat, bell, and ancient
reflectors. This is especially appropriate since Dominic's surname is Bash! The Bully, a
bit dazed and scratched, grabbed the bike and stumbled off, giving Dominic a push as he
retreated. Never at a loss for gestures, Dominic gave the Bully the finger.

So Dominic learned to fight Cardinal Bevilacqua, and other Bullies, the way we sissies
do. From the earliest age we have learned our wisdom. To each of you I say, NEVER
use the word sissy as anything but the highest compliment.

When Dominic got in the face of Bevilacqua to demand condoms and sex education in
Catholic Schools, every TV station and newspaper in Philadelphia covered it. In the
photo from the Inky, Dominic is up close to Bevilacqua's face, with a slight smile on his
lips.

This was Summer 1992. Bill Clinton had not yet been elected. Our friend Scott Tucker
hadn't even imagined saying, "The Election of Bill Clinton will be the death of ACT UP
 DOMINIC BASH- Sticks and Stones Queer Memoir – The Rotunda- 7/20/2010
Chris Bartlett @harveymilk
Philadelphia." Scott turned out to be wrong about ACT UP, but the election of Clinton
did change things. People began to think that things would be OK.

But it was never OK, and it never would be. Spending time with young friends as they
died was something we did in the 80s and 90s. And it is only now, almost twenty years
later, that I realize that most of the world was oblivious to what we were going through.
When people died of AIDS, the community rallied, and did what we had to do, but it
didn't seem, really like anyone outside of our communities really cared. When I am angry
at people, I am angry that you and they were oblivious and uncaring of what queer
communities, and communities of color, and so many others who were dying of AIDS
went through. And you and we are often still oblivious.

It reminds me that during WWI, English soldiers would travel to the front in France---
cross the English Channel to battles that were only 200 miles from London. You could
hear the bombs exploding in France from the White Cliffs of Dover. So the war was very
close to the citizens of London-- yet the people of London were mostly oblivious to the
daily lives of the English soldiers on the front. The shellshocked soldiers would return to
London on leave--- to their families and friends, to the City life--- and yet most citizens
were oblivious to the horrors that these soldiers had encountered in the trenches. And the
soldiers were carefully taught, through mostly unspoken agreement, not to say a word of
these horrors to their friends and family when they returned home on leave. Amputations.
Exploding friends. Decimation.

Well I was carefully taught not to talk too much about my war. And I lived through some
horrible deaths. Including Dominic's, which included vomit and shit and death and
courage. And yes, Silence does equal death. So I am telling you now. I've been
thinking about the impact of the AIDS epidemic on a whole generation of queers
including me-- lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, transgendered folks, and a huge group of
"others" who lived through the worst years of the AIDS epidemic and were miraculously
able to survive. Even though the mainstream culture as a whole, from Ronald Reagan, to
the New York Times, to almost every religious or spiritual organization left us to survive
on our own, and expected us to "just deal" with the impact of having a bomb dropped into
our communities, we ourselves have not found a way to process the huge loss, the grief,
the trauma. Blocks and blocks of my City burned down.

Dominic Bash has a Facebook page. Recently, after almost 20 years, his friends are
ready to remember him again. The early postings are mostly celebratory, but I hope we
will remember the bitchy and angry side too- because that was part of his beauty. I want
to remember all of my favorite sissies who died: John Kelly, Kiyoshi Kuromiya, Ted
Kirk, Kevin Kendall, and the perfectly named Joe Needles. I want to remember the sissy
suicides, and the sissies who had sudden deaths before they could even ask for help. And
I want to celebrate the sissies of all genders and times who, like Dominic, choose to bash
the bike instead of the bully.