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Illustration by Drew Shannon
I recognized early on that my uncle was an enigma in our family.
I am 15 years younger than my uncle. As a kid, I was told that he was gay and used drugs. At that time, those details were a reason to whisper, but years later they provided the impetus for me to learn about his life. My uncle, Richard Swanton, died of AIDS-related cancer in May, 1984.
I knew that, like many young adults in rural Ontario, Richard left the family farm after high school and moved to the city. I knew he went to the University of Toronto and then worked at Robarts Library. He often came home on weekends to help my grandfather on the farm. My sister and I noted his long hair, beard and quiet presence, and liked to watch him roll cigarettes. Although lots of people in our lives smoked, no one else rolled their own. I thought this was cool. I also remember sitting at the kitchen table with Richard, listening to him and thinking he was smart. Looking back, I would rather have remembered conversations instead of cigarette-rolling, but regrettably, the details of what he talked about elude me. Years later, I understood that my uncle could not bring his full self to the table at home, but I trust that I absorbed and was influenced by what he had to say. I realize now how remarkably little I knew about him.
In my youth, I didn’t foresee coming out as a lesbian in my 30s. Clearly, the daily onslaught of homophobic name-calling in the schoolyard had left an impression on me. Growing up in the 1960s and 70s, I can’t recall any positive 2SLGBTQIA+ messages, even against the backdrop of a growing gay rights movement.
I was a young adult at the start of the AIDS epidemic and not aware of the relevance of this context to our family. We didn’t know Richard was seriously ill with AIDS at the age of 36. I was 20 when told he had died in hospital of cancer.
I didn’t go to the funeral and my sister filled me in later that a group of my uncle’s friends from Toronto attended the small-town cemetery where his burial took place. From her description, the Toronto group stood out in contrast to the rest of the mourners; Richard’s two worlds intersecting for a brief time.
A few years ago, I visited the Toronto AIDS Memorial in Barbara Hall Park. It was a revelation to see his name on the 1984 plaque. It was then I began to actively search for people who knew my uncle. This led me to find some of the people who had attended Richard’s funeral decades before. They generously shared their memories, enabling me to uncover glimpses of Richard’s life, living and working in Toronto in the 1970s and 80s. It is through these conversations I discovered what a rare and complex person he was, the intense draw he had. Four decades later, I am struck by his friends saying they still think about him.
I still wonder about how my uncle, as an out gay man in Toronto, navigated his gay identity within our family. Family members likely did know, but didn’t talk about it. My journey to learn about Richard was about filling in some of the silent spaces in our family story. I discovered that silence can be many things: homophobia, indifference, erasure and cruelty, intended or not. Richard navigated those spaces within and outside of our family, not without a cost. To ensure emotional survival, he was selectively silent himself.
I want to celebrate our queer family history and share it with the next generation. Only in retrospect did I appreciate Richard’s significance to me, our points of connection and just what we, his family, had lost. I am thankful to my uncle for the progressive path he forged. Because of him and many others before me, I live a relatively mainstream urban life, as part of a “typical” family with my same-sex partner and three grown kids – a visible and acknowledged family unit recognized in law – something that was not truly possible in Richard’s time. We still live in a world where hate, violence and discrimination against transgender, queer and racialized communities continue. Legal and human rights gains are fragile, and often under threat.
Attending the Toronto AIDS Vigil last summer with some of the people who knew Richard best, closed the circle on a meaningful journey to find my uncle. I now look back and see the many ways he thrived in Toronto. Had he lived beyond the age of 36, I would have had the opportunity to know him more fully. What I regret is not getting the chance to meet the man who collected teddy bears, appreciate his integrity and warmth or better understand the effect he had on people who, to this day, love and miss him.
With determination, I brought my uncle’s story out of the shadows. How many of us have had queer family members erased, unacknowledged for the path they paved for us?
Suzanne Swanton lives in Guelph, Ont.