There are times when it seems that all things in the universe come together in the most magical ways. I can count those moments like that that I have had the joy of experiencing on my two hands; they are so fleeting and rare, yet impossible to miss.
This Tuesday night, in the void of great loss and sorrow; I had the honor of taking part in one of these precious moments and I will never forget the extreme emotion nor the Man who was both the cause and inspiration.
Last Thursday, a dear friend and former neighbor lost a long battle with cancer and finally took his last breathe.
His name was Moises Perez.
I never knew Moises not to have cancer of some sort. I can't recall, either, when he came to be part of our neighborhood here on Wall Street, living at the corner in what we all call the "Pepto Palace" based on the very distinct pink color. Like all of us, he would be seen about, shaved head and sporting some of the most beautiful tattoos and soon after, I came to realize, that he was included in the vast circle of friends who all frequented the same bars and hang outs in our fair town. Of course, Moises, plagued by various forms of cancer that started nibbling on his feet, was always walking with a limp, or a cane, or some kind of funky shoe as the doctors cut off pieces of him in the vain attempt to rid him of the pestilence.
He would garden, or walk past the house to go to the store, or we would see him outside with Amanda, his Boston Terrier. Even then, what was clear was that rotting feet would not get him down.
He would be so much harder to break than that.
It wasn't just cancer that he fought, but the system. A chef who worked on his feet, he had to battle for his right to have health care and assistance, frequently getting penalized because he would continue to try to work in between operations and in the grip of pain. They would deny him prescriptions and pain killers or approval to see his oncologist or other completely illogical, unworthy and just outright plain insanity induce logic that is common practice within this fine health care system that, according to some privileged folks, needs no improvement. Eventually, they managed to take away his independence and he had to move, unable to keep living on his own. It was disgustingly unfair.
But this post isn't about how Moises suffered, it's about how he lived and lives on.
Moises fought hard, but he loved even more. After watching my mother crumple at a Cancer Diagnosis and give in like a child to her fate, I was always so renewed to see Moises do what I had imagine what a true fighting spirit would do; meet the opposition dead on only armed with reality and truth and a massive will to live. I needed to see that in someone.
After too many surgeries to count, removing bits and pieces of his feet, the decision was made to take his whole leg below the knee. You would think that for most people that would be a game changer, yet the great concern of Moises was demanding the doctors could tell him how soon it would be before he could get up and dance on the bar again.
Yeah, he was like that.
After they took his leg, he came by one day in his fancy wheel chair. He didn't stay in that chair long, mind you, but was up on crutches and an appropriately tattooed prosthetic leg within two months. Anyway, I would come to love to hear the tell tale little strange beeping of the wheelchair horn that would mean Moises was outside. We would sit on the porch front steps and talk, me with my busted arm and him with his peg leg, just smoking a cigarette or two and bitch about being broken.
But he didn't really complain about what life was handing to him. He would complain about how people tried to baby him. Or acted like they pitied him. Or how they just got in his god damn way and he wanted to dance with his crutches, so don't step on his good foot! He too, understood, and agreed how annoying it was when people said things like "Oh you are so strong.. I don't know how you do it.. I never could.." Bullshit! we would cry out, if this happened to you, you would HAVE TO DEAL with it, because that's life and we have no damn choice!! Those conversations, that inspiration and understanding I will miss along with the weird little beep that his wheel chair would make.
In many ways, Moises brought us all together for a cause, for his fight.
How so many friends grew their hair out for almost two years so they could dedicate it for locks of love in his name. He didn't need a wig for himself, he shaved his head bald so all his tattoos could be shown off. Or the "
Mustaches for Moises" benefit, where even the girls looked kind of funky in his name.
It was for Moises that Scarlett decided at the age of 6 to cut off all her long beautiful hair for
Locks of Love. Two years later, when her hair reached her butt, she announced that it was time to cut it off again, again her braids went to Locks of Love to provide wigs for children fighting Cancer. How do I thank a man who taught my child how to give of herself? How many other people will her life touch because of the love and empathy and lessons passed down from him? Yet, it is only one way that he will live on.
Because, it seems, we all have stories like that about Moises. In dying, he showed us how to really live.
He loved hard, he hated fiercely, he spoke freely and with a passion, and nothing with him was minced. ('cept his feet over time). Nothing was too flamboyant, yet he had immense class; a true glutton for life, yet he gave of himself so openly.
It was sometime last year, when the optimism and hope gained by the loss of his troublesome leg gave way and they found yet another form of Cancer in him. I knew then, when he told me, that no matter how valiant he could fight, his destiny was that Cancer would take him before his time. The third form of Cancer would be too much and I knew it would not end well. He still tried, by what strength I do not know, he tried. I missed his last days at the hospital, though I know those who could be there with him were and it sounds like, even in the final horrible grips of pain, some magic moments were had still. My eternal thanks to the unnamed nurses who let that happen and the friends who facilitated it.
It is somehow fitting that He passed on in October as He loved Halloween, like I. Never to miss a chance to look fabulous or sport a dress in bad taste, he, too, would decorate his Pink Palace with ghouls. I recall the year I broke my arm, always sick, he made a point of calling me and offering to help me sew the kid's Halloween costumes. While I did sew with my broken arm that year, I now wish I had let him help because it would be yet another small piece of his life to hold dear. I do, however, own one of his dolls. Why he gave her to me I do not recall, but I know he was one of the last from his shop. A beautiful African Goddess with hand sewn beads and few humorous anatomically correct details, I have promised to share her with Scarlett since he never got to make her one as promised. She sits on my desk now. I see his strength in her face somehow. She looks like him, in drag; he would like that.
And it was only fitting, that there was not some wake or church service for him, but rather on this past Tuesday night, we all gathered together at
Keegan Ales for a massive Mardi Gras for Cancer in his name. Between the feasting on a whole roasted pig, crawfish soup and other yummy treats, the bands played on and masked and feathered beaded friends danced and laughed and mourned the passing of our friend. There was so much love there, just so much love between all kinds of people.
Three separate times, I lifted my glass to toast him with other friends as we laughed at his final trick on all of us. He had been telling everyone for years that he was older than his beautiful Urn now stated. For years, we had all been telling him how great he looked for his age.. somewhere over fifty. He was, in reality, only four years older than myself.
He could be felt in spirit and so many times, I could have sworn I saw him out of the corner of my eye. That sensation was felt by many, I know. There in spirit, I know, He was there.
And then, we had a parade.
I don't think I can do this parade justice with words.
At nine o'clock, en masse, we all walked from Keegan Ales to Snapper McGees half of Uptown away. Led by perhaps 25 vintage bicycles and a loud honking motorcycle or two, feathered and boa'd, filled with food and drink, beaded and masked; we took to the streets. We stopped traffic, walking down the middle of the road, probably over two hundred strong, with whoops and hollers, not caring who we woke up. Down St James and passed the Pink Palace on my corner then up Wall Street past everything I know, we walked. The level of pure emotion was so strong almost like a mob factor, it grew along with the level of noise. At some moments, I was filled with the deepest sadness, the most endless sorrow, and incredible loss and then I would be smiling and yelling with the rest, tears still streaming down my cheeks.
Holding Ryes hand, and swaying, we walked..
.....there was no cold in the air, no one that could touch us, no way this was wrong to take over our city, to reclaim it and make it ours. There were fiddle playing and drums banging and guitars strumming in a insane, yet beautiful funeral procession. Our voices carried and echoed off the houses and buildings; a song of life and loss and beauty and death. It was primal. It was sorrowful. It was joyous. It was planned, but it just happened . It was so completely and truly magical. I do not have any other way to describe it.
And when we reached our final destination, Snappers, and two hundred some odd people went yelling and screaming, joyous and crying into the bar, I don't think they quite knew what hit them. I know there was another women, whom I had never met before and we were both still emotionally reeling from the experience of the walk, and when our eyes met we just hugged long and hard, sobbing to each other. We introduced ourselves when we pulled apart, but I don't remember her name, but we both just knew what we were both feeling, It was also, the perfect thing to do.
I do not know how many people either described the same incredible feelings or I just overheard them saying it;
It was incredible, it was magical and it was a shared group experience.
And even when Rye and I had our fill and went to walk back to get the car, as we popped out form an alley, behind us was yet another small procession of drums and guitars and fiddles also walking back.. so even the return was filled with music.
The night was to
honor Moises and it was so fitting a way to pay tribute to our fallen friend, but like he always did, I think Moises gave us something back. I know that without a doubt, everyone who was there that night will remember that parade till the end of their days and that magic that was the Man name Moises will live with us forever. It was something incredible and spiritual and will bind us all together forever. For that night, and so many other pieces of his life, I give thanks to an amazing soul who was named Moises Perez and the honor and privilege of having known him in this life.
I will miss you.
Mr. Mojomoi, I will miss you. Good night, my dear friend, sleep well.
Farewell sweet prince, may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
I know I'll see you on the flip side.
I was almost done with my pre-wedding primping, when Garin came back from Snapper's where his band was setting up ( yes, I let the teens Punk band play at my wedding!) and as I was getting ready to apply the lovely fake French nails, he says to me; "I think I saw Max there." That's the kind of phrase that makes me fall off the side of the bed, so I have to struggle to remain composed and NOT let bad adoption crap create a shadow over the rest of my life. Hard to act nonchalant, though.
