Evocation Part II – The Valentine’s Day Bit

The organ loft at Calvary Baptist Church in Norristown, Pennsylvania is sunk into the floor as if to be it’s own orchestra pit. Garnell would drop himself into the cockpit like console and, for a couple of hours, both of us were free.

When he played he would take us to the upper streams of exquisitely divine peace and grandeur and solace and wonder and the pure love of being alive in a way that was so large one would think troubles didn’t matter.

Neither of us owned ourselves. That was part of the bond. The rest of the time we were in prison in our own lives. He was a hostage of the gift and the expectations of being a phenomenon and a student at Curtis Institute of Music and getting hit on by older gay men who found him lovely and took a fancy.

I was a hostage of whoever was exploiting me physically or emotionally at the time to sooth their rages or urges, imprisoned in a crippled body that had once danced with abandon and played the piano with a right foot that could work the damper peddle.

Our brains and our synapses moved at the same time with the same speed. Being together was easy and relaxed. Our rhythm was the same. We made each other happy. I liked his flirting. He taught me how to respect and serve music. He taught me to sing a song from the inside out. I reinforced and encouraged his nurturing side. I made him feel like a man. We were perfect for each other: friends, soul mates and intimate sharers of life.

And yet, until a reviewer suggested a connection between internal racial pent up rage and Garnell’s ability and love of taking an organ to the maximum depths of fortissimo, and I responded in cyberspace attesting that from intimate personal experience his fortissimo came from a place of passion and delight that he could be that loud, I forgot everything I knew about and had experienced with him save his fateful words to me and the look of horror on his face after my parents shredded him; sealed off, with cement poured on top of any emotional memory, or indeed events or facts of our friendship, and the memory of what it was like to be truly loved.

Although the review was several years old, within an hour, I actually got a response, a tremendous response. When had I known Garnell? He was inquisitive of this particular piece Garnell had written called ‘Evocation’. It seemed completely out of character and came from a place not associated with his outward personality.

The reviewer spontaneously sent me pictures, a sample of a Christmas card with ‘I hope we will remain friends forever” in Garnell’s handwriting, and announced there were recordings, which he soon  packaged up and mailed, of a recital Garnell had performed as well as some choral work he had accompanied and conducted.

Without even knowing what I was doing, I found and ordered a two LP box record set, unopened, with a 12x12 picture of him playing the organ on the front, with an inset close up of his exquisite long fingers.

I found myself emailing the homicide detective discovering his case was open and still under investigation and through another source, the woman all around him suspected had murdered him was still alive in the DC area. I read the simple paragraph “Garnell Copeland was killed in a stabbing at 11:55 PM January 6.1977. “He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

And in between it all, the layers of the frozen and the unfelt dissolved, and remembrance came back like a freeze frame that suddenly comes to life once more. I would alternately weep and remember. When the CD’s came, hearing his voice again for the first time in fifty years rendered me still and then my heart rejoiced.

When the record set arrived I tore but one inch on the corner and seeing only the top of his head, sobbed in the car for half an hour in a grocery store parking lot.

Gradually, I pieced together the stories of both our lives after my parents split us in two. In his personal life, he had given into a full on drunken dive into drag bars and outrageous temper tantrums. I chose relationship after relationship in both work and my personal life where I was exploited and robbed of esteem and credit by wounded people like those who had raised me. I could track parts of him in each fruitless relationship.  

The memories, good memories, could not be stopped now. Like a vibrant movie in the back of my eyes, his presence, his regard, his care, his nurture, his respect, and eventually his physical desire of and for me came flooding back, time and again leaving me sobbing and angry both for the lost love and for the fact I had found him and could not pick up the phone to reunite.

But remembering you have been greatly loved is a powerful life changer. The piece called “Evocation”, a haunting majestic, tragic, moving piece that I believe completely narrates our relationship, what my parents did to him, the break up, and what happened after. His page turner, and good friend,  from the time we were apart  said he frequently went ‘off page’ and created new parts to it as he played. I believe it was when he was remembering.

There is only one way I can honor his memory, apart from the flowers that will appear on the altar at the church he served, on his birthday, which happens to be Palm Sunday this year. I will completely develop my musical gifts. See, when my parents broke us up, I kept my music, but I did not go to that place of freedom where musicians grow. It would have reminded me of him.

Now, I will live in that freedom. I will be who I was when under the influence of his love. I will remember.  This time when Juliet wakes to discover Romeo has died, she will not kill herself. She will rise and live again the legacy that is their love together. It is no longer a mystery why I have always  intuitively, signed my column.

Love,
Deborah