This show was Jim Morgan's baby, he wrote the book and lyrics and drew in Michael Stockler to write the music. Then he asked his friend, Merle Hubbard, to help write the book. I invited myself.

 

In the early 90's I got a call from an ex-student, Perry Ojeda, suggesting I catch the reading of a work-in-progress at Musical Theatre Works - he knew I was on the lookout for something political to get involved with. I went, I was blown away by what they presented, and I walked down onto the stage afterward and asked if they were working with a director - they weren't, and I offered myself. Our first production, a joint venture by the University of Maryland and the Smithsonian Institution, came with a director, so, to continue my involvement, they made me the third bookwriter. When the show played the Smithsonian, the whole Quilt was on the Mall - seeing it filling the sweep of lawn up to the Capitol was  overwhelming, like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon - except the Quilt was hand-and-heart-made. Later, I got to direct a production at the University of Michigan, Michael's alma mater, where I had been teaching and directing. The ultimate goal, to get a production in New York City, never happened, despite 2 showcases. But we did get into the MTI catalogue, thanks to Freddie Gershon's desire to represent a show about the AIDS crisis, and from there it derived hundreds of productions around the country.

  

We were very different people, the four of us, but we shared in the growing personal losses from the epidemic, and we wanted to do something to acknowledge it. But we didn't want to bring back the dead to tell their stories - we wanted to give voice to the myriad people in their lives - parents, friends, lovers, co-workers - who were drawn to memorialize them by contributing panels to Cleve Jones' incredible idea, The NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt. And in telling their stories, in scenes and songs, we found not just the expected loss and sadness, but so much love, and a wealth of humor - audiences laughed more than they cried. They identified. And something we had not anticipated - they stayed, and talked. For hours. Literally. Sharing personal stories, crying, laughing, bonding in an ad hoc community of loss and commemoration. The show turned out to be a catalyst for much-needed dialogue, in a time of fear and shame.

 

I'm the last of the four writers, and although we were a contentious bunch, I feel I can safely speak for them as well as myself when I say that this show was the most important thing I was lucky enough to be a part of in a lifetime of working in theatre, and I remain grateful.