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Morris Kight Remembered

By Michael Kearns

Morris Kight
Photo: (c) www.Henning-von-Berg.de
"Someone named Morris Kight is on the phone and wants to talk to you," my lover shouted over the blaring seventies disco music. I couldn't believe it. Why in God's name would the legendary gay activist be calling me, a twentysomething celeb de jour?

While the sex-and-drugs-and-rock 'n roll party wailed on in the background, I sequestered myself in a bedroom to "meet" Morris. "I've read your book, dear" he said, referring to The Happy Hustler, an outlandishly fictitious book that I promoted as gospel truth in order to find fame and fortune in Hollywood. He invited me to attend a monthly meeting of gay movers and shakers in L.A.-for what reason, I didn't know. "The photos," he said, citing the paperback's nude centerfold, "are beautiful. So gay, so authentic."

It was the beginning of a nearly three-decade long relationship (most of it transpiring on the telephone) that ended with his death on January 19. When I say that Morris planted the seeds of my inevitable activism, I acknowledge his immense influence on my life; to essentially be ushered into the world of gay politics by a man of his stature is one of my life's most profound gifts.

While many in the gay community derided the "happy hustler's" flaunted sexual persona, and deeply resented the attention it garnered, Morris, in his wisdom, recognized the power of sex, not to mention the potential inches of newsprint. His reputation as a voracious press whore is historical; among the many roles he played to perfection, working as Morris Kight's press agent was one of his most successful.

I honestly believe that Morris's need to be validated was an outgrowth of his courageous openness as a gay man during a period of time when gay men were rarely, if ever, validated. What eventually became compulsive self-promotion, delicious fodder for his detractors, was rooted in a simple act of self-acceptance. Even though my post-Stonewall plight was not as challenging as Morris's, he recognized that the need to publicize my career as an openly gay actor was an act of self-preservation.

Our bond deepened as the years unfolded and my political consciousness, instilled by Morris, flourished. He was faithfully available when I needed to seek his counsel. Almost immediately after getting my HIV-positive test results in 1988, I called him and expressed my uneasiness with not immediately divulging the truth yet aware of the potential career repercussions. Being openly gay was one thing, being openly HIV-positive in the late eighties would have been suicidal. In his great wisdom, he said, "The opportunity will arise for you to make the most of it. Simply wait."

Two years later, Brad Davis died of AIDS, plagued by the same horrors that accompanied Rock Hudson's death six years earlier; in spite of Hollywood's over-the-top AIDS benefits and ostensible outpourings of understanding and compassion, an actor with AIDS was ostracized. When the call came from a highly rated daytime talk show, asking me to come on and talk about gay Hollywood in the wake of Davis's tragic demise, I knew this was the moment to seize. How could I talk about Hollywood's veil of secrecy if I remained closeted about my own status? Morris was right. It was a shining moment for me, when politics and art merged, providing a powerful national platform.
Photo: (c) www.Henning-von-Berg.de

A few years later, when I began thinking about adoption, I sought Morris's opinion. He was one of a very few gay men who didn't attempt to dissuade me. Since I was considering parenting prior to the "miracle" of protease inhibitors, many labeled my actions as "selfish." Morris chose to rivet on the bigger picture: was I going to adopt a child who otherwise might be one of society's routinely discarded? Yes, of course. When hateful judgments of my ultimate decision to adopt appeared in print, it was Morris who consoled me.

As often happens in the evolution of a mentor-student teaming, our roles blurred and I was often the one who did the comforting and encouraging and, yes, defending. While it's true that his relentless desire to mark his territory in a community that has a short (and often distorted) memory became increasingly fevered as he got closer to death, it is also true that the monumental list of his achievements are breathtaking. Let us not obscure this great man's gifts to humankind simply because he was intent on securing his legacy. If it weren't for his efforts, many of us would not have a legacy to secure.

Photo: (c) www.Henning-von-Berg.de I visited him the week before he died. He was, of course, dictating instructions about his memorial. He was luminously Morris: grandiose, funny, dramatic, tender, dictatorial, curious, sentimental. We held hands, he looked way into my eyes and at the moment of departure, I kissed his head of snow-colored hair. Words were no longer necessary.

There was a phone message the following day, thanking me for the visit. But the real reason for his call was to encourage me to do something to honor Michael Greer, the comic and actor, who died in virtual obscurity at the end of last year. Morris was deeply concerned that Michael was not properly acknowledged for his brave stance as an openly gay entertainer with a career spanning over thirty years.

My last memory of Morris will be the sound of his voice, frail but clear, working on the behalf of a brother. Mirroring our initial encounter, his wholehearted dedication to a cause bigger than himself provided the perfect bookend to undying relationship.
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