I awoke Thursday to the news that my friend Marcia had been killed, hit by a truck while on her bicycle. I’d known her for nearly 40 years. She was a founding member of the New Harmony Sisterhood Band, one of the earliest feminist women’s bands and a source of inspiration and empowerment to women and anyone who cares about social justice. She was also a labor organizer at Harvard, where she did clerical work for 30 years, a song writer, a writer of prose, an advocate for women’s rights and bisexual equality, and not least, a wacky personality who hosted Bizarre Song parties. She travelled alone, usually on her bike, and always brought joy with her. She never married, never had kids, but had a huge family, one she created through the many groups she helped found and worked tirelessly on behalf of and through the sheer effervescence of her spirit. That family started mourning and celebrating her life on Facebook, where personal remembrances were joined by tributes to her remarkable, too short life from National Public Radio and the Boston Globe. Amidst the posts was one announcing a gathering the following night to share remembrances.
Though I’d lived in Cambridge for almost 20 years and felt very much part of that scene, I was nervous about going to this gathering alone. I last saw Marcia about a year ago and wondered if I’d know many in her current circle. I worried I’d feel isolated and awkward, embarrassed I’d come. I called a friend to see if we could go together, but got her answering machine. I dreaded the solitary drive in. I worried about parking. But I went.
When I arrived, the floor and wall space were packed. I took one of the few remaining seats, and soon a woman sat down next to me. I looked into her eyes, the eyes of someone I’d been lovers with 30 years earlier. Whatever had caused us to part was of little consequence now. We greeted each other warmly. As I looked around the room, I saw more familiar faces, including that of my former housemate, Sara, who had invited Marcia to dinner so long ago, because, as an aspiring folksinger interested in social change new to town, she noted, “There are some people you need to meet.”
We went around the room, each person talking about how they knew Marcia and saying something about what she meant to them, what role she’d played in their life, and maybe sharing a story. From time to time, we sang a song that we identified with Marcia. We were artists, musicians, members of the LGBTQ community, social change activists, people living “alternative lifestyles”: ‘60s people regardless of our age. Some of the stories inevitably referenced other people in the room. My name came up a couple of times. As I said my piece, people who knew my story chimed in supportively. At some point, as I remembered my earlier apprehension, I thought, “I know people here, and I am known here.” And isn’t that the definition of community?
Though a number of us met Marcia in the ‘70s, many in the room had come along later, including a contingent of fellow choristers from the Baptist church she’d recently joined. Marcia’s community included people of all ages and ethnicities, and transcended cultural differences; an African American woman who’d recently moved from North Carolina told of her challenges in adapting to Cambridge, and how Marcia had enabled her to feel a sense of home here. And though there were many I’d never met before, the stories we told made clear that through our connection to Marcia, and through a shared vision of the kind of just world we want to live in, we’re connected to each other in this sacred community which is Marcia’s family and my family and our family. In bringing us together to have this sacred conversation, this realization and embodiment of our connectedness, Marcia had given us her parting gift.
Loving God, let us see ourselves in each other, and find You in all we meet. Amen. –Willie Sordillo