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Pierre "Peter" Renee DeLancey,
who lived his short life to the fullest, had his last wish fulfilled when he was swept up from a deep sleep into eternity amidst a flock of angels at 11:30am on Wednesday, February 4, 1998. Peter was born on October 1, 1969, in Clearwater, FL, but spent his childhood along the banks of Bayou Lafourche. He will be particularly missed by his surrogate parents: Stewart Butler and Alfred Doolittle, at whose Fairy Playhouse home he resided the last 6 months of his life. He also leaves, to cherish his memory, his mother, Virginia Ruth Hullinger; a sister, Colette DeLancey; a brother, Henri DeLancey all of Golden Meadow, LA; a sister, Sheri Kent of Chipley, FL; his maternal grandmother, Jean West of York Beach, ME and many loving friends, including: Clifton Howard, Rich Magill, Ron Joullian, Tim Angle, Don Hearin, Stephen Samuel and Paul Orfila.

His remains are to be cremated, the ashes to be mixed with those of his beloved cocker spaniel, Adoni. Memorial contributions to the NO/AIDS Task Force, 1400 Decatur St., New Orleans, LA 70116.

Special thanks also to Bill Shraberg, Karl Ezxkovich, Dr. Milton Seiler, American Hospice, Fr. Ralph Parthie, Ruth Pinder of NO/AIDS Task Force, Theresa DeJarnette of AIDSLaw, and especially the compassionate staff of the Oncology Unit of Memorial Hospital.

A Celebration of Life will be held at a later date. Arrangements by Tharp-Sontheimer-Tharp Funeral Home, 4127 S. Claiborne Ave., Information: 504.821.8411.

Peter

by Rich Magill

It is only days since Peter died. Many will remember him as the "boy with the 12- inch d---". Or, as a black woman shrieked and giggled when she touched him, "That's the biggest white d--- I've ever seen." At the time, Peter was dressed in a bizarre costume: a plain-Jane dress, a white hat with red dots, exaggerated makeup, and his penis, encased by a brown sock, protruding from the center of a round target.

In the ten years I counted Peter among my friends, he told me on more than one occasion that his physical condition was less than an asset. He called it a curse. In a culture that worships BIG in untold ways, I found this a curious comment. Had I not seen him use it to obtain favors from men he didn't know? Had he not hustled his body-no, his penis, for money? For drugs? Food? A place to stay? "Yes", he said, "you do what you have to do . . . to survive."

When Peter died, he owned almost nothing. He left some primitive artwork, a few porno movies and a few friends. His best friend and the one he called "Mother" is Stewart Butler. Stewart was Peter's refuge. In Peter's last six months, he chose Stewart to help him through.

Peter's dying days overwhelmed Stewart's already busy schedule. Political animal and undaunted activist, Stewart stopped everything to give Peter what he requested. Stewart judged it an honor. Indeed, it was.

Without hesitation, Stewart proceeded to organize a cadre of people to be with Peter around the clock. Among them: "Skateboard" Stephen, a most uncommon straight man of 30-something; Cliff Howard, an engaging man waging his own battle against AIDS; and Paul Orfila, an older gentleman of unique dedication to helping others whenever and wherever. And, Alfred, a dear friend who helped Peter spiritually.

These few men helped Peter in life's last great journey. Five days before his death, he was hospitalized. Not wanting to die, Peter struggled with every torturous breath. His lungs were filled with crud and fluid. His pulse rate exceeded 110. It was a hard, hard journey. And he was frightened.

In the years I knew Peter, he told me much about his sad and tragic life. Again, just before he died, he told me that he wanted to set the record straight. He began, "I was born October 1, 1969. When I was five, my father began fondling me. At 11, he began f**king me. At 14, I ran away."

At 15, Peter was placed in juvenile detention. He continued, "Everyday I had to fight someone to protect myself. A guard f**ked me and 12 other guys, regularly. That's how I got AIDS. That's how we all got AIDS."

Indeed, Peter's life was sad and tragic. He had little education and was illiterate (partly due to dyslexia and epilepsy). He never held a job (with the exception of brief stints as a fisherman and factory worker), and he never had a home of his own. But, in spite of it all, Peter was able to find some joy in living. And, he didn't want to die. Not at 28.

I met Peter in August, 1988. The GOP was coming to town and lesbian and gay activists were preparing for their visit. Having a construction background, I chaired a committee of one to build a platform in Armstrong Park from which our speakers would address an issue Ronald Reagan would not: AIDS.

Our stage was small, 64 square feet. Behind it was a large pink triangle, eight feet tall. In the lake we would place 412 floating candles-the number of Americans to be diagnosed with AIDS during the four-day convention.

We started construction in the early morning. Several people came out to help and cheer me on. Before noon, Stewart arrived to deliver a young man, strong and eager to help. This boy of 19, named Pierre Renee DeLancey, said to me, "call me Peter." He had blond hair, blue eyes and was tall and lanky. He smiled and I thought to myself, I'm in trouble now.

Before I could ask about his construction experience, he took my hammer and said, "Where are the nails?' We went to work, and in few hours our stage was ready.

I don't think Peter knew then that he had AIDS. He was living at Covenant House and I think his political activities prior to this week in August were nil. In those few days, no group affected our community more than ACT UP/New York. Peter was affected by them too. He was adopted by them and he adopted them. Everywhere ACT UP went, Peter was there, acting up.

Peter was not well-coordinated. He had difficulty combing his hair, and cutting and cleaning his fingernails. But he had a big heart. Though he never worked unless you call making porno films work, he had aspirations. He wanted to help homeless kids. He understood them. He was one of them, and they trusted him.

At age 28, Peter died. AIDS was the cause, but in reality he died because his family-the traditional American family of a father, a mother, and three siblings-failed him.

Peter thought himself a freak. He knew that most people wanted him only for his large penis. But to those few who saw more, he revealed a rare innocence. And to these few, his indiscretions were forgiven. We who knew Peter will miss him. And though Peter's life was tragic by most standards, he taught us that even in our deepest despair we can find some joy-if we want. We only have to try.

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