Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Thirteen years ago- or was in 14? I was at nice Grandma's house on New Years and the phone rang and my grandmother called me. That was very unusual because only family knew I was there. It was my roommate calling me from Toronto to tell me that Philip had been murdered. He had the dubious distinction of being that year's first homicide victim in Dallas. Mugged, shot in the head, cursed at as he lay dying.
I didn't know Philip very well. I was a second year grad student, he came in the year after me. But we were the only gay guys in the department and there was that little bond. He was over-tanned and more concerned about clothing and cologne than I was. He studied bones and I would see him outside my office while he was awaiting, with the other physical anthropology students, to dissect a cadaver. Finally at the end of the year we hung out a little and even went out to one of Phoenix's gay bars. And the next fall he decided to take a break and was working at a hotel that night. Walking home with a friend. The police in Dallas never made a great effort to find who killed him. After all, he was only a queer.
Although I didn't know Philip well, I knew he was more than that. He was a son, a brother, a friend of many people. He was handsome, perhaps a little too mechanically tanned. He was funny, smart, and yes, he was queer. He worried about the same things that other gay guys worried about. He didn't deserve to be shot in the head over a wallet and then called vile names.
On New Years Eve I often think of Philip and wonder what would have happened if he had left work five minutes early. Life, and death, can be so cruel.
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I didn't know Philip very well. I was a second year grad student, he came in the year after me. But we were the only gay guys in the department and there was that little bond. He was over-tanned and more concerned about clothing and cologne than I was. He studied bones and I would see him outside my office while he was awaiting, with the other physical anthropology students, to dissect a cadaver. Finally at the end of the year we hung out a little and even went out to one of Phoenix's gay bars. And the next fall he decided to take a break and was working at a hotel that night. Walking home with a friend. The police in Dallas never made a great effort to find who killed him. After all, he was only a queer.
Although I didn't know Philip well, I knew he was more than that. He was a son, a brother, a friend of many people. He was handsome, perhaps a little too mechanically tanned. He was funny, smart, and yes, he was queer. He worried about the same things that other gay guys worried about. He didn't deserve to be shot in the head over a wallet and then called vile names.
On New Years Eve I often think of Philip and wonder what would have happened if he had left work five minutes early. Life, and death, can be so cruel.
