Carol Ann West’s Story...
Like many females of my generation, I went to college and became a teacher. I taught high school English for close to 20 years, and led a double life. School districts back then, especially the one I was in, were not friendly to teachers who were not heterosexual. Teachers had to sign contracts which included a “moral turpitude” clause, and despite the fact I was an English teacher, I had to look up the phrase “moral turpitude” as I had no idea what it was. I found that moral turpitude was a legal concept that refers to “an act or behavior that gravely violates the sentiment or accepted standard of the community”. I left teaching, though I loved it. I was tired of living a lie, and followed a calling to become a Pastor. I wanted a new community…one I would not offend.
Around 1983 or ’84, the LGBT community started hearing of a mysterious illness that seemed to be predominantly affecting gay men in New York, and especially on Fire Island. Panic was starting to build. Whispers of this illness began to be discussed openly in the community. The disease stayed mysterious and unnamed, until we read that this horrible menace now had a name—GRIDS—an acronym for Gay Related Immune Deficiency Syndrome. Gay men were especially afraid, as this seemed to be the only group impacted.
The emotion of public tide turned against the LGBT community, as we were blamed for the disease. I was in clergy training at Dallas MCC and started doing funerals early on in my training, as funerals were plentiful and overwhelming. I soon became AIDS Chaplain at Cathedral of Hope (which had previously been named Dallas MCC). My job duties included serving as a liaison and chaplain to AIDS Services of Dallas, spending time with AIDS clients at the Howie Daire Care Center, weekly visits to The Nelson Tebedo Health Center, and providing pastoral care to those in the church and in the community who had AIDS. These were terrible days. The years of the AIDS epidemic were horrible years. No other church in Dallas was doing funerals for those who died of AIDS. Parents would call the church and ask me to come visit or bring communion, as they felt they would be removed from their church if their pastor or others found out their son had AIDS.
Many with AIDS were living in fear of losing their jobs, their insurance, their partners, or their families. People were terrified. Little was known about AIDS in these early days. People were afraid of toilet seats and mosquito bites.
I made trips to the hospitals visiting those who had AIDS. Though patients, many of these men (at this time local hospitals had predominantly male patients) were totally ostracized even while in the hospital. When doing hospital visits, I would often find food trays outside the door as nurses had been too afraid to take the food in. No one wanted to get near an AIDS patient. They were the modern-day Lepers. I once got a hysterical call from a man who needed me to come immediately as his partner was hemorrhaging, and he could not lift him to get him into the car to take him to the hospital. An ambulance had come, and the attendants had asked if his partner had AIDS. When he replied that he did, they refused to pick him up. We loaded the sick man into my car and took him to the hospital.
During these early days of AIDS, before the drug AZT, a diagnosis seemed like a death sentence. Most diagnosed died within 6 months. Once diagnosed, most AIDS patients got their affairs in order immediately.
The numbers of funerals increased and seemed to be nonstop with no end in sight. There were days I felt like a robot. People in the LGBT community were attending so many funerals, people simply quit going. I performed many funerals where parents or family members refused to attend because they did not want to be seen at an AIDS funeral.
I also served in AIDS Education and Prevention at AIDS Outreach Center, as well as on the staff AIDS Interfaith in Dallas for a short time.
During those awful days, we marched, we protested, we educated, and we taught love. We grew stronger as a community. I saw the community band together to fight this phantom assailant. Many groups formed Buddy Teams to help the ill, while food banks, respite care, dental clinics, medical assistance, and so many other groups came into existence to help those with AIDS. I have no idea how many funerals I did, or how many friends I lost to AIDS. I quit counting. I did see a people unite and learn to take care of their own….and then the definition of neighbor got larger and we somehow became better.
Doing funerals was a rough start into pastoring, but it also taught me about human resilience and overcoming. I learned from these individuals how to live and how to die. From them, and from their caregivers, I also learned much about love.
I started my ministry doing funerals. I went to become the first full time pastor at Celebration Community Church in Ft Worth. I was there for close to 21 years. I loved every minute of it. When I went there in 1998, there were 37 members. When I left, they were the largest LGBT group in Tarrant County. We purchased our lovely historic building in 2001.We were fortunate and blessed in that God sent the right people there at the right time. They came in abundance, and we had church. This group truly became my church family. We shared joys and sorrows…and lots of potlucks. From them, I learned a lot about leading a church. I had always avoided the police while at church as the police had not always been friendly with churches who outreaches such as ours. Through a horrible situation at The Rainbow Lounge, our community became stronger once again. The FWPD and Chief Halstead joined us in church as we did a prayer for the police officers. We talked and they talked. Good came out of bad. My ministry ended at Celebration when I retired at the end of December in 2018. I started the ministry with funerals; I ended it doing weddings. I never imagined I would spend the later years of my ministry doing legal weddings for same sex couples. And so many babies to bless! Such a blessing! I can say in my life and in my ministry, I have been surrounded by good people, and they have lifted me up and taught me. Angela King, my wife, has been my anchor. We will be celebrating 35 years together next April. Right now, I am dealing with a recurrence of breast cancer. I had chemo and radiation in 2018, and then chemo again in 2020. I currently am on a maintenance chemo for a year. I take strength from the many men and women I have worked with who fought a terrible disease that so little was known about. That group gives me a lot of strength, and I remember them with love.
