Reverend Na in San Francisco

 

It started off as a joke, first in 1998, then years later on Facebook.  I was told I could become a Reverend online and, with a touch of youthful disbelief and curiosity, decided I had to try it for myself. I was quickly ordained, however, aside from labeling CD mixes “Reverend Na”, nothing else became of my Reverend status for years. 

Then a few months ago, a Facebook post by one of my friends I met in Costa Rica caught my eye.  It looked like my two friends, Tim and Burt, would be getting married in San Francisco.  I joked that I was a Reverend and could marry them, and almost immediately received an excited response that set the wheels in motion for me to officiate the marriage between my two gay friends during a time when gay marriage was finally being legally allowed in California and a few other states.

Excitement overwhelmed me and then was followed by reality-checking panic.  I had no idea what was involved with marrying anybody, but after some research on California marriage laws, I became more comfortable with the serious task set before me of solemnizing a marriage.  I could now return to the state of super excitability and overjoyed anticipation at being a part of my friends’ special day, which they had set for September, Friday the 13^th, 2013 in San Francisco, California.

My heart did a somersault when I read the date, and while I wanted to say something about it at the time, I found I could not articulate all that it meant to me.  In December of 1996, on Friday the 13^th, my friend, Mark Ankeles, passed away quite suddenly.  It was traumatic on many levels for me.  I had moved to San Francisco not too long after High School.  I felt a distance from many of my old friends and had to start over making new friends in a new city.  I met a boy I really liked and we dated and even moved in together.  He exhibited jealous tendencies and would “coach” me on how to tell other men in the first 5 minutes of conversation that I had a boyfriend.  I longed for friendship and companionship, but all males seemed to be a threat – except for Mark. 

Mark was an “older” man and gay.  It turned out that not only did we have a lot in common on a creative level and a love for beautiful things providing inspiration for our souls, but he also was of absolutely no threat to my jealous and, eventually, very unfaithful boyfriend.  I could stay out until 4 a.m. talking to Mark about art and poetry and it was not a problem.  Never a jealous word was spoken nor any concern or “coaching”.

Mark and I would frequent cafes.  We would get absorbed in conversations on breaks at work.  He would come over to my house and I would show him my vintage clothing piece by piece with genuine enthusiasm on both parts.  There was one piece in particular that he examined exclaiming that his friend, a designer named Ken, would love to pattern.  He took me to Ken’s studio where he painted, and I remember sitting there watching Mark paint, food jars transformed into paint brush holders. There was something special about sitting there in casual conversation watching Mark in the midst of his creative process.  It was like watching shooting stars while sipping hot cocoa – the juxtaposition of something simple or commonplace with something divine – and it created not only a permanent memory but an artistic reference point mapped out in my heart.

Although the time I knew him was short, Mark taught me many lessons and had a profound influence on my life.  For a long time I had difficulty accepting help or gifts from others and sometimes regrettably still do.  I preferred to do things on my own and with my own money because I had learned that too often people did things with strings attached.  I would insist on buying coffee for us both.  We both were struggling financially for different reasons, and this further provoked my desire to help.  I knew my offers to pay had no strings attached, although that would often mark me as a target for users.  One day we fought over who would pay for coffee.  He kept insisting and finally said firmly and with a touch of exasperation, “Naomi, when someone wants to do something nice for you, you LET them.”  It was the first time I felt someone wanted to be nice to me just to be nice. Mark’s words cut through the protective walls I had put up, silenced my resistance, and taught me the importance of accepting a genuinely nice offer. 

Another time Mark related a story to me about how he had broken his grandmother’s crystal vase. He was mortified and terrified at what her reaction might be, but she consoled him and told him, “It’s better to be broken in use than on the shelf.”  This stuck with me and any time I caught myself thinking, “I don’t want to use this special thing in case it breaks,” I would think of Mark and break out the good champagne glasses.  I’ve even actually felt good when favourite glasses have broken because better it was broken in use than on the shelf.  I would feel Mark was with me in spirit, looking on in approval.

Mark taught me how to not see being selfish as a purely bad thing the way it has a reputation of being perceived, and that sometimes it is important to be selfish in a self-caring, self-nurturing way.

I went to Mark’s art showing at a café.  I bought a painting from him and then commissioned him to create another painting for my mother as a Christmas present.  He did not know her and only learned of her through my eyes with the description of how beautiful she was to me. 

It was the last painting he ever painted. 

It was Ken who called me to tell me Mark had passed away, and that he knew that Mark would have wanted me to have the painting.  I was devastated.  I went into complete shock.  I was angry.  I may have even screamed or collapsed wild-eyed on the floor in heaving, grief-stricken sobs.  I’m not even sure as so much was a blur like the world was moving fast and yet had come to a complete stand-still.

Mark’s voice remained on my answering machine on a recent message saying, “I know you are going to do just great, sweetie!”  He was telling me how much he believed in me with my school finals I was worried and stressed about.  I had his voice on my answering machine and yet he was no longer there. Still to this day I am superstitious about deleting messages. I had Christmas gifts wrapped for him that suddenly became unbearable to look at and I didn’t know how to handle.  What does one do with Christmas gifts wrapped for someone who is no longer there?

I went crazy for some time.  I rebelled against my boyfriend.  I was furious that the only friend I was “allowed” to have had been taken from me and acted in uncharacteristic ways, lashing out in grief and anger.

Christmas was strange that year.  Giving the painting to my mom, Mark’s last, was emotional.  I’m still not sure if she understood the emotional content behind that painting for me or if she was trying to be overly cautious and considerate of what I was going through.  Another hand drawn gift overshadowed the painting I commissioned Mark to do and was immediately hung up, while Mark’s was not.  It went up for a while, I think after I said something, then eventually was taken down again.  It sits in a closet now, hidden away, except I know it is there.  I can hear Mark’s voice saying, “It’s better to be broken in use than on a shelf.”

I knew Mark had been in a bad relationship prior to my meeting him.  He would occasionally mention it and tell me about his ex-lover stalking him.  He would tell me, “Always have $20 on you in case you need to take a cab somewhere.” I nodded my head only dimly aware of the serious undercurrent of the comment.

Every Friday the 13^th, no matter which month it may fall in, always deeply affects me.  A couple of years ago around another Friday the 13^th, I was thinking of Mark as usual.  I had gone through my closet recently and found the vintage top that Mark had said his friend would love to pattern.  I decided to contact Ken out of the blue about sending him the top to pattern (better than sitting on a shelf) and received a response. We communicated for a bit and Ken shared some of his writing regarding his life, a fair amount including Mark. 

It was the first time I began to realize what a truly horrendous and abusive relationship Mark had been in.  It was the stuff nightmares are made of.  It tore my heart to pieces to know that Mark had been so severely abused and yet had been so kind to me and such a positive influence on my life. 

Mark was a huge advocate for gay marriage, even before it was as popular of a topic as it has been in recent years with the tremendous, well-deserved momentum it has gained.  I remember him talking to me about how important it was for equal rights, sharing his opinions with the additional perspective of gay men in abusive relationships, an unpleasant topic not many want to openly discuss and is constantly overlooked by police and society.

Ken was the one to drive to LA to save Mark from his abusive relationship.  He basically had to kidnap him with genuine fear for not only Mark’s life, but his own.  While Ken’s written account of it was hilarious and had you cheering him on and laughing despite yourself, there was nothing funny about the reality of the situation.  Ken saved Mark and Mark began to rebuild his life, but his ex-lover came after him, stalking him in both direct and indirect ways, terrorizing Mark. 

Many close to him believe that Mark died as a result of the abuse and subsequent terror.  After learning some of the more intimate, gruesome details of the abuse, I cannot disagree.  Mark’s heart gave out.

This is a link to an article about Mark’s life delving deeper into his abusive relationship. It explains some of how gay domestic violence is overlooked and misunderstood, which as Mark advocated for, leads back to gay rights and the further importance, albeit dark side, of equality:

http://www.sfgate.com/news/article/Nowhere-to-hide-when-love-turns-mean-3309667.php

When I first met Tim and Burt, I instantaneously liked them, but it was hearing the story of how they met, each one taking turns telling parts with love and adoration on their faces as they gazed at one another that melted my heart.  I remember thinking that I wished I had that kind of love, someone who would look at me with that kind of respect, caring, and pure adoration and love.  Every time I had the opportunity to spend time with them both, I could feel their love and caring for each other like sunlight on my skin and could see how well they consistently treated each other.  They had already married each other 6 years prior, but now were able to finally have it be legally recognized by the state of California. 

Upon hearing the date my friends had set to marry each other legally, my heart did somersaults and skipped beats.  My heart dropped with the sadness that comes when you miss a dear friend with every ounce of your being.  Something else more incredible happened as well.  It was poetic and beautiful that I would have the opportunity to marry my two friends, an exciting, joyful event all on its own, made even more exquisite by the thought that no day could have been more absolutely perfect for Reverend Na to legally officiate a gay marriage between friends than Friday the 13^th.  It was like Mark was still with me. I could even hear Mark’s voice saying to me in answer to my trepidation and fear at doing the best I possibly could for my friends, “You are going to do just great, sweetie!”

Despite a difficult week for me that included unexpectedly throwing my back out rendering me useless for days, I traveled to San Francisco, determined to follow through with my part as friend and Reverend.  Tim and Burt were legally married in San Francisco on Friday the 13^th at the Palace of Fine Arts with a few close friends present, including two of their best friends who had also been married the day before, and the Reverend Na doing her best to hold back the tears at seeing their love, caring, and devotion for each other. It was a windy day with glorious skies.  The setting was gorgeous, picturesque, and architecturally majestic.  More than once the beauty stole my breath away.  Afterwards, we celebrated further at Garibaldi’s in the Presidio dining on delicious food, sipping cocktails and wine, and basking in the glow of celebratory love, honoring something that has no boundaries except that which we ignorantly impose and the truly brave rise up against by living, loving, marrying, and even dying.

The story of Mark is a deeply personal one for me and difficult to share.  It does nothing to overshadow the beauty of my friends’ ceremony and love, which was a concern for me in how sharing this story might be perceived, but rather enhances the entire experience of things becoming a little more right in the world. With December, Friday the 13^th quickly approaching, I knew it was time not only to honor the love my friends share, but also to try to articulate what made the experience even more special and heartfelt for me. Ultimately, it was beautiful just being in the presence of these wonderful people and their wonderful friends.  It was beautiful being a small part of history that I sincerely wish had come sooner, for Mark’s sake and many like him whose stories go untold as well as those that simply wish their love to be recognized equally.  Most of all, it was beautiful being a part of an incredibly special day in the personal history of two friends I adore and hope I know for the rest of my life and beyond.