The following essay, from 1990, is reprinted here at the request of Damski friend Lori Cannon to mark the 14th anniversary of the gay columnist’s death. Damski was born March 31, 1937 and died Nov. 1, 1997. This essay was from the March 22, 1990 Windy City Times and was reprinted in Angels Into Dust: The New Town Anthology.
Eight o’clock Monday morning, I get up, just like I have been doing for the last five years, and throw out my towels and bathmat for the maid. Monday is her big cleaning day.
I go to breakfast, but on the way past the maid’s station I wonder why Ella’s cart is not yet out. “She must be late,” I say to myself. “Not like her.”
After breakfast I come back to my room, but still no cart is out. I go to the maid’s room, and no one is there. I pass Jimmy, the building engineer, on the way to my room. When I get back, Jimmy knocks on my door. “You lookin’ for Ella?”
“Yeah”
“Well, I guess you don’t know, but Ella be dead this weekend.”
* * *
The Belair Hotel has been my office and home since April 1977. They advertise: “Transients invited. Permanent guests welcome.” I came in a transient and stayed, like 90 percent of the tenants, a permanent resident. I love the mix: African-American, Hispanic, Jewish, seniors, and gays and lesbians. All workers, or retired workers. All on fixed income. Seniors by income fixed by retirement; the rest, minority workers with income fixed by the system.
I wouldn’t want to write and live anywhere else. My neighbors keep me honest. On a daily basis I am with blacks and Jews. I couldn’t conceive of writing a column like Vernon Jarrett that bait Jews, or cruel columns like Mike Royko that blatantly give the finger to the black empowerment movement. We are 400 voters. I am proud to live in about the only building on Sheridan Road that voted for Harold Washington twice.
* * *
Ella worked for the Belair for 10 years, and on the third floor exclusively for the last five. If I were to describe her in one phrase, I would say: “Ella be good.” The news of her sudden death—she was only in her 40s—sent shock waves through the building. Steve, the houseman: “I can’t believe it. She was such a good person. Why her?” Mary, at the desk: “She was so vital. I just saw her leave last Friday. We never expected this.” Queenie, her supervisor: “I’ve known Ella for years. We’re family together. She had nine children, the youngest 17. The others are settled or on their way in college. She worked from tired to tired. She came every morning from 93rd and Peoria. She rode the Dan Ryan el every morning and the 156 bus. It took her about two hours. She would start for here at 6, and get home at 6. She was a hard, steady worker. We knew she had a breathing problem. But why take her now? Her children set, she could have enjoyed a few years with herself and her husband. They’re good people.”
Faye, one of the seniors on the floor: “They don’t come any better than Ella. At Christmas time she gave me a gift. She had it in reverse, you know. I was to give her a gift (and I did), yet she gave me a gift first!”
That’s my theory about Ella: She gave first to others until her heart gave out. Ella be good-hearted.
* * *
Five years ago, Ella replaced Bea, the wild one. Bea had a little “bad” in her, and that’s what we—especially the gay tenants—liked about her. She was a party. She was an entertainer as much as a maid. She lived on the North Side in an apartment over Unabridged Books. She partied and shopped in our Gay Town. She wore red curls and looked like Tina Turner. When she came to clean your room, she came a-dancing.
Bea, the wild thing, one hot Saturday night was murdered in her apartment. Scandal. Trial. She went out with noise.
Ella came in quiet and went out quiet. She did her work and kept most of her private opinions to herself. Over the years seeing her every day, I became very close and attached to Ella. I got a sense of what she was working for.
Her happiest day was recently when she told me about her youngest son: “He’s getting through”—high school. She had kept him out of the gangs, on track in school so he would never have to clean rooms for 50 cents a room. She was proud that all her children had made it through. She was there every night and every holiday with them.
Activism was a luxury that Ella never could afford. She never had time to sit on a local school board meeting. Not much time for voting, either. She just worked from tired to tired trying to do what was right for her family. And she did the right thing. Her children carry the stamp of good approval.
Coming every day from 93rd and Peoria to clean gay men’s rooms, Ella must have experienced some culture shock. There is a difference in lifestyle. And I, like the other gay tenants, did not “de-gay” my room every day before she entered.
My friend Omega, in fact, when he was working at the Second Story Emporium all-male bookstore, brought me one of his favorite posters of Jeff Stryker in a leather jacket and Levis opened at the crotch, with his claim to fame totally exposed. Omega hung the poster on my bathroom door.
The next day, Ella saw the poster and Stryker in his erotic pose. “That’s quite a picture you have on your door!”
“Oh, Ella, don’t you just love his leather jacket.”
She laughed.
She met that occasion, as all others, with total human acceptance.
Ella did not ask much from life. But she gave it her all, and left a loving trail of family, friends, co-workers, guests and transients. All of whom now wish Ella be good.