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OP-ED: Joyce Ellis saved my life

5 min read

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My sister and I sent each other text messages late into the night last Wednesday, grieving together 2020-style over the loss of a dear friend, a mentor, a leader we admire and respect deeply – Joyce Ellis.

We had known for a while that she was sick and unlikely to heal. I had a hard time getting my head around that diagnosis for her. If you had ever spent two minutes in a room with her, you know why; her energy, her life force, was boundless. A couple years ago, when she visited my home in California, my also-tireless toddlers stared in wonder at the firecracker dancing around our living room to make them laugh. Even my manic little devils who literally climb the walls couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that Joyce saved my life. Growing up in Washington was no cakewalk for me. Admittedly, growing up at all usually is no cakewalk for anyone, regardless of geography. I was about 7 when I started to feel I didn’t belong, when I realized I had a secret I needed to protect with my life before I even understood what that secret was. As the story usually goes, other kids, and a few teachers, helped me figure out my secret by threatening me, by calling me “sissy,” “fag,” and all the other greatest hits from that worn-out album. These are words I heard pretty much daily for many years, and I can tell you it does serious damage to your self-worth and desire to live when you realize, “these names they’re calling me are what they consider to be the absolute worst thing imaginable, and this is what I am.”

I remember concerned friends offering, “you’re not gay, they’re only saying that ’cause you’re a dancer. Why don’t you just quit dancing?” I would then plead with myself, “Abraham, listen to them! For god’s sake, just quit dancing!” In retrospect, I think I knew that wouldn’t miraculously erase what everyone was seeing in my choice of clothes, my Prince-like haircut, the way I carried myself, the fear, defensiveness and vulnerability in my eyes.

I’m embarrassed to admit it took me until adulthood to understand I actually didn’t quit because dancing on a stage was the only time as a teenager that I felt strong, confident, capable and brave – and I owe a lot of that to Joyce Ellis.

I was a good dancer, but it was Joyce who decided I was special. For about four years in the 1980s, she chose me to be her partner in choreography, in teaching, and a little bit in life. We spent many hours together, either working out in the studio, driving all over Pittsburgh for performances, or sitting in some restaurant grabbing fries and a burger between shows. She always paid and drove a new, red Honda CR-X, so I figured she was rich. We’d laugh, a lot. Actually, I remember her laughing a lot, and I’m honestly not sure if she was laughing because I made her laugh, or because she made her laugh. The latter is definitely true; I’m hoping the former was too. Either way, I’m currently very grateful that I can summon the sound of that loud and sudden throaty guffaw with such ease. It’s right there, in my heart, ready to go. I assume this is because it meant so much to me.

Joyce knew who she was hanging with. She knew what kind of man she was nurturing, mentoring and valuing. She told me years later, and added that she “didn’t care about (me) being gay.” In truth, I had worried about that pretty seriously. Joyce was fervently devoted to God, then and always, and the world leads you to believe God and gays have a tricky relationship. I wish I’d given her credit for being a Christian like Jesus Christ, rather than like the ones we see at political rallies.

In a very recent interview with the Observer-Reporter, Joyce said, “I really feel I was put on this planet to help people become better.” She added later, “reach back and pull someone else up … in order to be the best of the best you have to better someone so they can become the best of the best.”

If you knew Joyce, you know she walked her talk. In the most difficult time of my childhood, she gave me space to feel worthy when I felt shame, to feel strong when I was terrified. She gave me purpose when I was lost, and basically forced me to get on stage and shine when I was stuck in a darkness I wasn’t sure I’d find my way out of.

She definitely made me better. She absolutely pulled me up.

I love you, Joyce, and I thank you. You are justly a hero to so many, and you will not be forgotten.

Love, Thing.

Abraham Higginbotham is a Washington native and a writer and producer for several television comedy series, including “Will & Grace” and “Arrested Development.”

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