When I walked up those stairs at Ann Sather's restaurant that evening in the fall of 1988, I had no idea how much difference it would make in my life.
I was going to a volunteer orientation for Chicago House and Social Service Agency, the first organization in Chicago to provide housing for people with AIDS. When a group of volunteers founded Chicago House in 1985, it was common for those with HIV or AIDS to be kicked out of their homes by landlords, roommates, even their families. As the epidemic went on and some people became a little more enlightened, the need for subsidized and supportive housing remained—some PWAs became homeless due to the cost of treating their illness; others needed assistance with the tasks of day-to-day living.
I had wanted to do something about AIDS for a while. Unlike most of the first wave of Chicago House volunteers, I hadn't seen a friend or family member suffer from the disease. But I had many gay men among my friends, and since gay men had been hit particularly hard by AIDS, I felt a need to become involved. I was part of the second wave of volunteers—people who hadn't witnessed the disease up close and personal, but who realized it was a possibility. Our wave was mostly gay men and their female friends, both straight ( like me ) and lesbian, and the occasional cool straight man.
That night the prospective volunteers sat in a circle of chairs in one of the meeting rooms upstairs at Ann Sather's on Belmont. There were about 20 of us, I think. I remember each of us being paired with another volunteer to interview, so instead of telling the group a little about ourselves, we told the group a little about the person we were paired with. I also remember getting general information about the agency, the various volunteer opportunities, the rules we'd have to abide by, the next steps to take if we decided to go through with volunteering.
But most of all I remember Ernest.
Ernest Tripp was a Chicago House staff member—volunteer coordinator—and he ran the meeting. He was tall and thin, with wavy, sandy-colored hair—poufed up in '80s style—and attractive in an androgynous way. I've belatedly realized he resembled Neil Tennant of the Pet Shop Boys. He was extremely animated and obviously intelligent, and he exhibited a caring nature but an acerbic wit. We hit it off immediately.
I definitely wanted to sign on as a volunteer. I didn't want to work in one of the residences, as some volunteers did—I feared I'd get too emotionally involved with the residents, and hence depressed. But Chicago House also needed volunteers to work at its office—primarily performing tasks related to fundraising—as well as to staff fundraising events. I knew I could handle those duties.
Ernest told me there were regular volunteer sessions at the office Wednesday and Thursday evenings, and that I could work at fundraising events on an as-needed basis. I found out he lived just a few blocks from me in Edgewater and didn't have a car, so he asked if he could occasionally catch a ride home with me on volunteer nights. I said of course. And I learned other things about him, probably not that night but in the next few weeks, that told me we were kindred spirits.
We both loved movies, theater, music, and fashion. We appreciated each other's sense of humor, although he teased me about my love of puns, saying "bad pun" was a redundancy. And when he found out I was also a volunteer and board member for the Chicago chapter of the National Organization for Women, it became clear we were political soul mates. Not that I expected to find many conservatives involved with Chicago House—although there were a few!
I quickly bonded even more closely with Ernest. In December 1988 he invited me to the great Christmas party he and his wonderful roommate, Jean Majeski, threw every year at their apartment. The revelry went into the wee hours, and I met many of Ernest's friends. I bonded with Jean too, and I'm happy to say we remain friends to this day. Like me, she was from a small town in western Illinois and was happy to escape to Chicago. Like me, she worked in journalism. She was ( and is ) also whip-smart and extremely funny—she likely outstrips me in both those departments.
A few days after the party, I was getting ready to leave my office to go to my Thursday volunteer shift at Chicago House. At that time I was working for a financial magazine, and most of my journalist colleagues considered themselves liberal ( certainly more liberal than the corporate types we covered ) , but they were not above the occasional derogatory gay joke, as was common among even ostensibly liberal people in this era. I always made it clear that I objected, and I thought my coworkers had at least some respect for me and my point of view. I also thought we were friends. But this afternoon, just a few cubicles away, I could hear a group of them mocking something I had said along these lines recently. I was devastated.
When I got to the Chicago House office, Ernest saw I was upset and took me aside, so I tearfully told him what had happened. He suggested that I not try to do any work that night but meet him and some friends for drinks at Annex 3 about 10 o'clock, when the volunteer shift was over. I did, and that night solidified our friendship more than ever—so something wonderful came out of something painful. ( I soon started looking for another job—I didn't like writing about finance anyway, and why put up with harassment when you're doing a job you don't care about? And I'm happy to say that some of my colleagues from those days have become much more gay-friendly—I'm not in touch with most of them, but the few with whom I'm in contact have turned out OK. )
Chicago House became a bigger and bigger part of my life. For the next four years I volunteered at the office almost every Thursday, stuffing envelopes with fundraising appeal letters or event invitations, calling other volunteers to schedule them to work at events, doing whatever needed to be done. I volunteered at many fundraising events too. I stood on the street to collect Tag Days donations during the Pride Parade. I spent most of a Friday night and Saturday doing setup for our first black-tie gala, then rang up sales from the auction that took place during the event. I made appeals for audience contributions at the Royal George and Wisdom Bridge theaters. There were so many other events I can't remember them all, but I know that I and my fellow volunteers helped assure that many Chicagoans with AIDS had a roof over their heads and the other services they needed.
I soon realized that while I became a Chicago House volunteer to help people with AIDS, I was reaping many benefits myself. Not that there was anything wrong with that—one thing Ernest made clear in the volunteer training was that volunteering can't be all about altruism; to keep you coming back, you have to get something in return. And I got not only the satisfaction of helping—I got great friends.
On volunteer nights, stuffing envelopes while conversing about politics and popular culture or singing theme songs from old TV shows, I became close to so many terrific people. There was Doug Doty, a paralegal with a quiet demeanor but a sly sense of humor, who shared my love of movies, theater, and baseball—Ernest told us the latter was "the anomaly in both your lives." There was sweet, funny Judy DeVido, another who worked in publishing. Michael Wynne, the nicest MBA I've ever known, who laughed with me over the theme from The Patty Duke Show ( "a hot dog makes her lose control" ) . Dear Daniel Bartos, who managed a record store ( when there were record stores ) and would bring me promotional posters of Bruce Springsteen, my favorite. David Fronczak, a witty and good-natured civil engineer, who said there should be a TV show about Ernest called My Favorite Bitch. ( Remember, caring but acerbic. ) Susan Nelson, a charming young woman who worked for a feminist organization. A delightful law student named Andrew Davis, who went on to be managing editor of Windy City Times. Many, many more.
After almost every Thursday shift and many of the events, I had drinks with Ernest and some of the volunteers, as well as other friends, at Annex or Roscoe's or Buddies' or His 'n' Hers or Big Chicks. On weekends I often went to dinner or a movie with my Chicago House friends, or sometimes just hung out at Ernest and Jean's apartment, eating pizza and watching Saturday Night Live. And there were the fabulous Christmas and Oscar parties every year!
My Chicago House work and friendships helped sustain me through a long and frustrating job search. I eventually became a volunteer team leader; Ernest assured me that he picked me not because we were friends but because he thought I was the best qualified, which was something I needed to hear. I also became a member of the volunteer services committee, which worked to improve volunteer recruitment, training, retention, and recognition, and in 1990 I received an award as one of Chicago House's outstanding volunteers—still one of my proudest achievements.
I finally left the financial magazine for freelance and temp work, and in 1993 I got a staff position with Chicago House, doing public relations and fundraising. I thought I'd like this work, but it soon became clear that while I could easily perform and enjoy the grunt work at events, planning and overseeing them was highly stressful, and the job was not a happy fit for me. So when an interesting opportunity in publishing arose late that year, I gave notice. Just before I left, I was at a Chicago House volunteer recognition party, and Ernest, although he hadn't been my supervisor in the staff job, gave a short speech praising my "dedication and tenacity." It meant more to me than I can say.
Ernest left Chicago House soon after I did, going to work for the Make-a-Wish Foundation and then Horizons Community Services, but I stayed in close touch with him and my other Chicago House friends. He fell in love with a wonderful man, Tim Higbee, and their wedding and reception in 1996 provided the opportunity for a raucous celebration. I moved to Los Angeles in 1997 to work for The Advocate, but saw them during my periodic visits to Chicago.
Eventually AIDS touched my life more closely. Kevin Dumyahn, a dear friend of mine since the early 1980s, died of AIDS complications in 1994. He had been diagnosed in 1989 or 1990, around the same time that Ernest told me he too was HIV-positive. Ernest had several years of ups and downs in his health; the protease inhibitors worked for a lot of people, but not for him, over the long term. He was very ill during most of 2004, and one morning in December of that year Jean called me with the dreaded news—he had died the night before. I quickly got a flight back for the funeral, where I was surrounded by others who loved Ernest.
I'll never stop missing him ( or Kevin either, of course ) , and there's not a day when I don't think of one of Ernest's funny, snarky sayings, about "America's most embarrassing people" or someone who "wants to be important, but he's not." I hope there's a heaven where we'll have drinks and long conversations and be just as witty and profound as we always thought we were.
So, thank you, Chicago House. I did a lot for you as a volunteer, but you did more for me. And bless you for carrying on your good work—until there's a cure.
Trudy Ring is a former staff reporter for Outlines ( which purchased and merged with Windy City Times in 2000 ) . She is now copy editor for The Advocate.
