Decades after my uncle’s death, I celebrate our queer family history

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It became clear to me early on that my uncle was a mystery to our family.

I am 15 years younger than my uncle. As a child, I was told that he was gay and took drugs. At the time, these details were whispers, but years later they prompted me to learn more about his life. My uncle, Richard Swanton, died of AIDS-related cancer in May 1984.

I knew that Richard, like many young adults in rural Ontario, 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 noticed his long hair, beard, and quiet demeanor and enjoyed watching him roll cigarettes. Although many people in our lives smoked, no one else rolled their own cigarettes. I thought that was cool. I also remember sitting at the kitchen table with Richard, listening to him, thinking he was smart. Looking back, I would have preferred to remember conversations rather than cigarette rolling, but unfortunately the details of what he talked about escape me. Years later, I understood that my uncle couldn’t bring his whole self to the home, but I trust that I took in what he had to say and let it influence me. I realize now how remarkably little I knew about him.

Growing up, I never imagined that I would be coming out as a lesbian in my thirties. Obviously, the daily onslaught of homophobic abuse in the schoolyard left an impression on me. I grew up in the 1960s and 70s and I don’t remember any positive 2SLGBTQIA+ messages, even against the backdrop of a growing gay rights movement.

I was a young adult at the beginning of the AIDS epidemic and was unaware of the significance of this context for our family. We did not know that Richard was seriously ill with AIDS at age 36. I was 20 when we were told he had died of cancer in the hospital.

I didn’t go to the funeral and my sister informed me later that a group of my uncle’s friends from Toronto visited the small town cemetery where his funeral was being held. From their description, the Toronto group stood out from the rest of the mourners; Richard’s two worlds briefly intersected.

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 that I began to search specifically for people who knew my uncle. I found some of the people who had attended Richard’s funeral decades earlier. They generously shared their memories, giving me insight into Richard’s life, living and working in Toronto in the 1970s and 80s. Through these conversations I discovered what an extraordinary and complex person he was and what a powerful pull he had. Four decades later, I am amazed that his friends say they still think of him.

As an openly gay man in Toronto, I still wonder how he navigated his gay identity within our family. Family members probably knew but didn’t talk about it. My journey of getting to know Richard was about filling in some of the silent spaces in our family history. I discovered that silence can mean many things: homophobia, indifference, exclusion, and cruelty, whether intentional or not. Richard navigated these spaces within and outside our family, and not without cost. To ensure his emotional survival, he himself was selectively silent.

I want to celebrate our queer family history and share it with the next generation. Only in retrospect did I realise how important Richard was to me, the points of contact we had and what we, his family, had lost. I am grateful to my uncle for the progressive path he took. Thanks to him and many others before me, I lead a relatively normal city life as part of a ‘typical’ family with my same-sex partner and three adult children – a visible and recognised family unit recognised by law – something that was not really possible in Richard’s time. We still live in a world where hatred, violence and discrimination against transgender, queer and racialised 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 brought a momentous journey to find my uncle full circle. Looking back now, I see how he thrived in Toronto in many ways. Had he lived past 36, I would have had the opportunity to know him better. What I regret is that I did not have the opportunity to meet the man who collected teddy bears, to appreciate his integrity and warmth, or to better understand the impact he had on the people who love and miss him to this day.

Determined, I pulled my uncle’s story out of the shadows. How many of us have lost queer family members and failed to acknowledge the path they paved for us?

Suzanne Swanton lives in Guelph, Ontario.