Remembering A Friend - Bill Williamson

Editor’s note: As we prepare for our tour to South Africa next June, we are recalling the effect that HIV and AIDS has had on our chorus. We will be meeting with groups and individuals in Johannesburg and Cape Town who continue to be effected by the global pandemic, where about 20% of the adult population are fighting the disease and medical help is not always available.

This is the story of former baritone Bill Williamson, whose love of life and passion for the arts is recalled by his dear friend John Strumwasser. John tells a story that takes us from Bill’s first rehearsal in 1982 to his death more than a decade later and even to seeing his family members at concerts in subsequent years. Bill’s story reminds us of how much we as a community and we as a chorus have lost.

There was a lot to take in on meeting Bill Williamson the first time, which for me was when he joined the BGMC in 1982, after our first concert. He was very handsome, he loved to laugh and he was warm and welcoming. The first two attributes were clear immediately, but it took a couple of conversations to understand how authentic his warmth was. I think when he first appeared at those early rehearsals, everyone was either intimidated by him or they wanted to jump his bones (or both!)

Bill and I became fast friends through talking at rehearsals. Since we were both baritones we often sat next to each other. He loved the arts, particularly dance. One of the first things we did together outside of rehearsals was attending the Ballet, for which he had a passion. He also had a passion for his friends and for his community. He was so easy to know and so open. I recall the chorus performing at a concert organized by the City at Faneuil Hall. Many different groups were invited to participate, including a Catholic choir from the North Shore. Bill was assigned a spot on the risers next to one of the fellows from that choir and his gaydar immediately went off. He began chatting with the fellow, who was very tentative about the whole “gay thing,” Bill encouraged him to come to a BGMC rehearsal. That man, Larry Collopy, joined our group and was a member of the chorus until his death in 2015. Larry often talked of Bill’s friendliness that day and that he would have been too intimidated to join the BGMC if it weren’t for Bill.

A part of Bill’s BGMC legacy was an annual ritual that took place far off stage. It was a summer gathering with the dignified name “Splash & Trash.” A picnic with a twist, it was held at his parents’ home in Marshfield. All chorus members and their partners were invited (remember, in the ‘80s and ‘90s, the chorus was much smaller than it is today). You could see your fellow singers in Speedos (in the ‘80s this was an actual thing). The grill was going and the volleyball net was set up. The pool was like the polar bear cage at the zoo on a hot day. Everyone had a blast and eagerly anticipated next year’s event.

One year, a group of us decided it would be fun to perform a water ballet for everyone. This was serious business – we even rehearsed! We each wore a black leotard and a sash like the ones in the Miss America pagent, but we were Miss Ann Thrope, Miss Bee Gotten, Miss Di Rected (you get the gist). I think there were 10 or 12 of us. We were inspired by an old Esther Williams movie, “Dangerous When Wet” (if you don’t know her you need to find her on YouTube!). Unfortunately, we never rehearsed the entire routine, from beginning to end, just sections of it. So on the day of the festivities, we were so exhausted by the end of our ambitious underwater ballet we thought we were going to drown. It was supposed to end with a great pose by the side of the pool but we could barely drag ourselves out of the water.

Bill also had a fierce sense of commitment to living his life as an open, proud, unapologetic gay man. One night a former chorus member visiting from the west coast, Bill, his boyfriend and I went out to dinner. When we got back to Bill’s truck on Chandler Street, we all gave each other a hug and kiss goodnight. A group street people were drinking on the steps of the Animal Rescue League across the street. They started coming at us throwing beer bottles and yelling at us “faggots” to cut it out. Left to my own resources, I’m sure I would have run in the other direction. Bill, however, had other ideas. As a landscaper, he had his tools in the back of the truck. He armed our little group with a pitchfork, an axe, a rake and a shovel and we confronted our attackers. They clearly did not expect this response and took off with their tails between their legs. Bill then insisted that we report the incident to the police, who were remarkably supportive and sympathetic.

As the mid 90s dawned, it was clear that my dear friend and partner in crime Bill was losing his battle with AIDS. Every available option was tried to treat his illness and the related health issues that came with it. Obviously, it all took a huge toll on him. That did not deter Bill’s grace and spirit. I remain awed by his acceptance of his fate. He wanted to take as big a bite out of life as he could while he was here. With his parents’ encouragement, I talked him into going with us to the GALA Festival in Tampa in 1996, even though his health was precarious. We were roommates there, and as fate would have it, I had to study for a multi-day SEC exam being held right after we got back to Boston. Bill wanted to have as much fun with as many people as he could. But, true to his thoughtfulness and care for his loved ones, he let me have the room for my studies. His activities transpired elsewhere.

Bill passed away on August 1, 1997. He chose to die at home. The night he passed, I had stopped by early in the evening to check in. His boyfriend was there, as were his brother Steve and his brother’s now-husband Patrick. They called me to come back, and he was gone. The loss for me was staggering and sustained. I still think back with such fondness and love on our exploits. On how he’d whisper a camp classic line from one of his favorite movies, “Queens From Outer Space.” Zsa Zsa Gabor growls, “I HATE that qveen” at Bill would deliver it at just the right moment so that only I’d hear it and lose my composure. I remember how loyal he was to his friends and to things he thought were important, like the arts, like the BGMC, like the fight for equality.

It has been more than two decades since we lost Bill. His family is still part of the chorus’ extended family. His sister Nancy and her wife Paula were at the Rockland, Mass., outreach concert we did a few years ago. And I still see Steve and Patrick at our shows. It feels like the right symmetry that Bill’s loyalty to the chorus has lived on with his family.

Bill was an optimist. He always believed he had a good life. I know that he changed mine for the better.