Following are edited prepared remarks paying tribute to Thomas Morgan III, former president of the National Association of Black Journalists who had worked at the New York Times, Washington Post and Miami Herald, who died on Christmas Eve of AIDS-related causes at age 56. His life partner, Thomas Ciano, an architect and low-income housing developer, was the first speaker at the memorial service Jan. 19 in the auditorium of the New York Times building.
Tom Ciano: He Said, “Don’t Postpone Your Life”
Welcome, my name is Tom Ciano. Thank you all for coming today and for all for your support, kindness and expressions of love for Tom and for me.
Last fall, while watching a particularly beautiful sunset at the beach, Tom and I had a conversation about his death. It was an intimate and loving conversation. Out of the blue, he said he imagined when he died that I would be surrounded by love . . . . I’m not sure he had any idea how right he would be.
So I want our gathering today to be a celebration of Tom’s life, his passions, his accomplishments, his friendship and his impact on our lives.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been comforted by the knowledge that I’ve grown as a person by the knowledge that I’ve grown as a person because of the things I learned from Tom through his example, from the experience of being in a loving long-term relationship with him and from our long struggle managing his HIV/AIDS.
Tom was a living example of the old adage “be true to yourself.” Tom was always true to himself, first as a young black journalist pushing for more diversity in the newsroom, and later as a candidate for the presidency of the National Association of Black Journalists.
When the other candidate tried to make Tom’s sexuality an issue, he stood up proudly as a gay man, and refocused the discussion on the campaign issues, and his skills and qualifications. He won by a landslide and in the process inspired other young journalists to stand up for what is right regardless of the consequences.
In the later part of Tom’s life, he was an outspoken person living with AIDS. He not only disclosed that information to his family and circles of friends, but he went on national television to share his experiences managing the disease and wrote about the topic in hopes of emphasizing the need for more effective HIV prevention and more AIDS funding.
Through his example, Tom has taught me about being true to myself . . . about speaking up and being more direct with the people. Whenever I faced a difficult interaction with someone, I could hear Tom’s voice in my head saying, “Let your voice be heard,” which usually is just the encouragement I need. It sounds like a cliché, but Tom would say live for this moment — don’t postpone your life.
When Tom was diagnosed with AIDS in 1987, he decided he still had unrealized goals, so he ran for NABJ president and applied for the Nieman Fellowship . . . And he ended up being selected for them both and pursued them— concurrently. He had a new urgency to live. During the same period, he also insisted that we make more of an effort to take vacations, to rent a place at the beach . . . and to finish the seemingly endless renovation to our brownstone. We did them all and more, which added to the richness of our life. During the ride to my sister’s house the night before Tom died, we spoke of how lucky we were to celebrate another holiday together and to have had this gift of 23-plus years together.
Tom would say, “Don’t let fear keep you from living your life.” This past fall, he came home one day and said he no longer wanted to live in fear. You see, we lived in constant fear of him having another medical emergency. My fear kept us from traveling. My fear kept us even from our summer house, which is too far away from a hospital. He caused us to focus on how we had become paralyzed. He wasn’t sure what “not living in fear” would look life, but soon after that realization, we planned our first vacation in over two years. It would have been over New Year’s.
We also agreed that living without fear meant we could finally sell the Brooklyn house and move into a building requiring less maintenance. We had fantasized about it for a few years but couldn’t seem to get past the obstacles. In October, we put the wheels in motion to sell the house and began the process of purging 20 years of water-damaged belongings from our basement. We even found a condo in Manhattan where we wanted to live. We decided to go forward with these plans as fearlessly as I can.
Maybe the greatest lesson Tom taught me was to find my passion. Tom’s passions were gardening and making pottery on a wheel. Passion for gardening meant Tom would spend the entire winter planning the next season’s flowering schedule. In both houses we own, Tom planned and executed the gardens before we even renovated the houses. Tom took great pride in our Brooklyn garden in June when the fragrance from the peonies, roses and honeysuckle would fill the house and the view from the deck. He loved the wildness of the garden and the beach.
Doing pottery, more than any other activity, gave Tom the greatest pleasure. As Tom centered clay on the found his own emotional center as well. In the pottery studio, he forgot about chronic ailments and focused only on the clay. He established friendships that deepened over the years. There were even occasions that he insisted I take him directly to the pottery studio from a stay in the hospital.
Passion took a different form for me. A few years ago, I rediscovered tennis after a 25-year hiatus. Tom bought me my first racket and encouraged me to play. He bought me tennis clothes and supported me when I decided to go to tennis camp alone for my 50th birthday. Like pottery for Tom, tennis became the activity that I chose to do because it makes me feel good. Tom was proud of me making room in my life for it. For Christmas this year, he bought me my second racket. I’ve played tennis with my new racket a few times since Tom died. When I play, I feel like I am taking care of myself, which I know Tom would want me to do.
So, when you feel anxiety or don’t know how to best care for yourself, try to listen for Tom’s words of encouragement saying, live your life right now, as proudly, fully as passionately as you can, without fear— you deserve it.”
I know this will help, because I’ve already heard his words.
Marcus Mabry: Respect Had to Be Paid
Mabry, an editor overseeing international business coverage at the New York Times, is a co-founder of the Gay and Lesbian Task Force of the National Association of Black Journalists.
One of the ways we measure the life of a man is by what he leaves behind.
In each of his “homes” — Fire Island; Brooklyn; St. Louis; this august newspaper, in whose shadow we, literally, sit today — Thomas Morgan III left something of himself behind, something of his passion, of his inimitable style, of his uncompromising insistence on excellence and respect.
So, it is appropriate that we meet here, in the shadow of the newsroom of this great newspaper. Because as much as The New York Times demands of those of us who work here, Tom Morgan demanded something of it. Arriving here in 1983, one of only a handful of Black journalists, Tom demanded that this newsroom — this virtually all-white newsroom, these journalists of “record” — afford him the same respect that they gave his colleagues. Indeed, sometimes, he demanded they afford him more.
Tom knew — it was clear from his upright carriage, his seemingly effortless grace, and his deceptively facile command of the Queen’s English — that respect had to be paid.
Tom didn’t expect it to come a priori, out of some sense of entitlement. He worked hard. He worked smart. He earned it. And, then, he expected it to come. And it did, from this august newspaper.
The legacy that Tom left here at The Times was his sense of belonging. His un-self-conscious, unrelenting, uncompromising, sense of belonging — here, at this august paper, a black man, and, eventually, a gay black man.
For those of us who tread these halls, he walks beside us still — his head high, his consonants crisp and “proper,” his stride confident, his steps directed— reminding us that we belong, and that this august paper is, indeed, lucky to have us.
But I know Tom from another of his many “homes,” another of the places he left better than he found it: the National Association of Black Journalists — perhaps the institution most affected by the life of Thomas Morgan III.
When I joined the NABJ, the largest organized body of journalists of color in America, fresh out of college, Tom was its president.
I didn’t know it at the time, but it had been a bruising campaign — as elections to high office at NABJ often are — in which Tom’s sexuality had been whispered about, and sometimes more than whispered . . .
In the end, Tom carried the day. And when I joined NABJ, he was its tall, handsome, strong black man of a leader. Before I even knew him personally, he was a hero of mine. A Hero in the Struggle, as Phill Wilson of the Black AIDS Institute would put it — but, again, I didn’t know that at the time.
The next time I saw Tom after my inaugural NABJ convention was in the early ’90s.
Much had happened in those short years. I had come out, and Tom had grown perilously close to death. When I saw him at an NABJ convention this time, he was skin and bones.
But it was in those hours, his body frail and his eyes glassy, that I was most proud of him. It was in those heart-shattering days that Tom’s courage and determination really came out. Not in the majesty of the office he had held, or the marquee of the paper he wrote for. It was in the resolute dignity, even in the midst of his own mortality, that I saw what a truly beautiful man looks like.
The legacy of Tom’s tenures at NABJ, in terms tangible and absolute, was a fiscal house that had been put back in order, a national headquarters worthy of NABJ’s stature, and a renewed sense of our own power as African-American journalists.
More than a decade later, Tom gave another gift to NABJ: the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Task Force. When we petitioned the NABJ Board to be recognized, during a blizzard in January 2005, Tom’s eloquent intercession changed the hearts and minds of many a board member.
But what he bequeathed to me, this fearless gay, black man — and to hundreds of other gay and lesbian journalists of color like me, and not just LGBT journalists of color, but LGBT journalists period, and African-American journalists, period, of all sexual orientations — was pride, and a fierce courage to take on challenges, no matter how great, no matter how stacked the odds against us, and a fierce determination to prevail.
Tom taught us how to do that. And we are his legacy.
Ronald Martin: He Set Example in Living With AIDS
I represent two very large constituencies today. As president of the Fire Island Pines Property Owners Association, I speak on behalf of the entire Fire Island Pines community. And as a past co-chairman of the board of Gay Men’s Health Crisis, I also speak for that agency’s staff, hundreds of volunteers and thousands of clients.
The first time I met Tom Morgan was at a board meeting. The last time I saw Tom — two weeks before he died — was at a board meeting. That not only says a lot about the relationship we had, it also helps define Tom. Giving his time and leadership talent in service to his community and to help others was central in Tom’s life and reflected the very core of who he was as a person.
Tom loved Fire Island Pines. He loved the peace and solitude — when that was what he chose to have. Yet he loved going to tea dance and to the parties. He loved working in his garden. He loved the sound of the ocean. So, in typical fashion, it was important to him to get involved, give back to his community, and work to make it a better place.
Tom was elected to the board of our property owners association in 2005. He worked on a number of our committees, ranging from Membership to the group planning our annual Pines Party on the beach. This past October, he became co-chairman of a committee overseeing the management of Fire Island Boulevard, the central thoroughfare through our community. For several months, right up until the end, he had been providing leadership in improving the appearance of our Main Street and applying his great love of landscaping and plants.
So our last board meeting together was on Dec. 13. As was so often the case, Tom walked in late. Through the years, his colleagues had become accustomed to his late arrivals, and we were always totally forgiving, because we could only imagine how difficult it must have been so often for him to find the strength and stamina just to get there. But there was always something so wonderfully reassuring in seeing him walk through the door eager to contribute. His willingness and ability to keep going imparted a kind of strength to all of us and made us raise the expectations we had of ourselves. Tom’s unyielding commitment made us elevate our own levels of commitment.
When I joined the GMHC board in 1999, Tom had already been a member for four years, and he was one of the first directors I was drawn to. I admired his obvious intelligence, his strong beliefs, and the calm yet forceful way he expressed his opinions. And then there was the passion. And as time went on and we became friends, I discovered that Tom had a way of bringing passion to many things. Learning to play guitar. Studying pottery. And bamboo! When he and Tom Ciano bought their house at the beach, I learned one day in a conversation how passionately Tom Morgan had thrown himself into bamboo — all the different varieties, which ones would grow well in our climate zone, the best catalog sources, how to plant it, and how to keep it from becoming invasive. It was so typical for him to become expert on anything that became an interest.
And of course he brought that passion to the GMHC board on which he served for eight years, including a period as board secretary. I remember he brought a particular passion in being a strong and vocal advocate for the volunteers of the agency. He always championed their issues and their need for recognition because he recognized, so rightly, that volunteers were the lifeblood of the agency and they were the ones directly delivering so many of the services to GMHC’s clients.
Tom also had such a fierce sense of justice, and he applied it so effectively in his advocacy for GMHC’s clients. After all, so much of GMHC’s early history had been a fight against discrimination and had involved hard-won battles for legislation and funding. And the fight for justice continued as the pandemic began to grow in alarming rates among people of color and within underserved and underrepresented communities.
But Tom’s great impact at GMHC was of course the example he set as a man living openly with HIV/AIDS — and living productively and with dignity. This was important because in the beginning many people with HIV had simply stopped living once they were diagnosed. There are countless stories of people disappearing from their communities and going elsewhere simply to die. Stories of people in isolation who feared to appear in public because of the visibility of their illness.
And courage. Courage! Perhaps for many of us, no characteristic can be more closely associated with Tom. It was emblematic of the pandemic’s legacy within our community. Because even in the horrendous early days, some were strong and refused to be silent. They created organizations like GMHC, ACT UP and amfAR [The Foundation for AIDS Research]. They spoke publicly about having HIV, even when it could damage their own reputations or standing. They challenged all of us to do something. With steadfast love and support from Tom Ciano, Tom Morgan was a remarkable example of courage, facing his fate fearlessly, living in the moment, and making certain each day counted. Inspirational is not a word I use lightly, but I don’t hesitate to use it in describing Tom.
I attended another memorial service on Thursday night for another friend who died from AIDS a few weeks ago. One of the speakers said that he had learned through the years with gay men dying from the consequences of the HIV virus, that the one thing that mattered most to them as they approached the ends of their lives was whether their lives had made a difference. I think Tom knew that his had. I hope he knew. He was a good man — and his life made a BIG difference.
Sheila Stainback: Defiant, Stubborn and Unshakable
Stainback is a longtime friend who served on the board of the National Association of Black Journalists with Morgan.
Tom and I met many years ago, but as what happens with most journalists, we dropped out of each other’s lives. In 1989, our good, mutual friend drew me into Tom’s run for president of the NABJ . . . and of course he won handily. We celebrated later in his beautifully cultivated garden with burgers stuffed with blue cheese, and watermelon daiquiris. He was heading to Cambridge to do his Nieman Fellowship and it seemed that the stars had aligned perfectly for him —and our future friendship.
[As] his HIV status turned to AIDS, I watched as Tom struggled with his health—rapidly losing weight, fighting off dangerous colds and valiantly fighting to maintain the beauty in his surrounding environment. Tom was defiant, stubborn and unshakable: “I’m not ready to die,” he said too often from his hospital bed.
But mostly, I remember laughing my head off with Tom. One memorable time was following the wedding of dear friends Robin Stone and Gerald Boyd. We went to a suburban Detroit movie house to see Eddie Murphy in “The Nutty Professor” — not expecting anything more than a silly diversion. How much fun it was to laugh ourselves to tears and to recall the funniest scenes afterward.
I celebrated many birthdays with Tom, one while he was hospitalized. The most significant one for me was in 2001. I met him in Brooklyn for dinner at a hot, new Park Slope restaurant and we had our usual banter back and forth. And then I gave him my big news—I had decided to adopt a child and he was the first person I was telling. Typical of Tom, he questioned my readiness, my preparation. Do you know how much work this will be? Are you ready for the lack of sleep? What about your job? Although I came away feeling unsupported, I knew he was concerned, and that made me focus more on what I needed to do to prepare.
When my son Charles came into my life, there was a swirl of activity and he understandably was crying and frightened every time he met someone new. I braced for that same reaction when he first met Tom on a freezing winter day in December 2001. It was the first time Charles smiled and was welcoming to a stranger. From that time on, Tom, who was not really known for his child-friendly nurturing attitude, took to his role as a positive male role model for Charles — attending his baptism, buying him his first scooter, and indulging him at his and Tom’s Fire Island home. When Charles learned of Tom’s death, he cried for several minutes. When he had calmed himself, he said softly, “I’ll never get to hug him again.”
But we all had one last hug and a lasting memory of a man who lived a heroic life, with courage, dignity and style.
