It’s not much fun living in a hospice house. What’s a guy to do for a few laughs? At Myrth Manor, Marilyn Myrth V makes herself fully available to residents, so they can make the most of their final days!




LIBRETTO


CHARACTERS

Mennonite Joker: a resident of Myrth Manor who died of AIDS.
Marilyn Myrth V: from a wealthy philanthropic Winnipeg family, patron of Myrth Manor



The Unitarian Universalist Church is gathered for its Sunday morning worship service. The focus of this service is to bring awareness and honour to AIDS victims.

Marilyn:

Good morning!
A hearty welcome to the Unitarian Universalist Church of Winnipeg.
My name is Marilyn Myrth the Fifth.
Our minister is currently on sabbatical,
and I was appointed lay leader for this service.

As most of you know,
I oversee the Myrth Manor Hospice House.
This is a place for those with AIDS to live out their last days surrounded by understanding, compassion, and love.
Imagine dying of an ever worsening, incurable disease,
Your family at your bedside, heaping all manner of curses upon your head.
Shame on them, and shame on the Mennonites!
They think they discovered something pure, withdrawing into communities of puritanical perversion and narrowmindedness,
As if the infinite diversity of culture and religion finds its fulfillment in John 3:16:

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life!”

You have all heard those words, and for Henry, my dear Henry, who died in agony last week, this is how he heard them:

“Denn Gott hat so sehr die Welt geliebt, dass er seinen einzigen Sohn hingab, sodas all jene, die an ihn glauben, nicht vernichtet warden, sondern ewiges Leben erlangen!”

Fuck the Mennonites, Fuck the Mennonites!

I could say more,
But I have with me today the last testament of Henry,
Which says it better than I ever could.
After congregational singing, I will read it in full.

Henry was a marvelous singer.
He sang in the Mennonite Children’s choir, was given all the solos.
The summer after he started at Mennonite Bible College he auditioned for the National Youth Choir, and travelled to Vancouver.
He often sang with the Elmwood Church choir.
There was something about the German music he grew up with that never ceased to comfort him.

So, in his memory, we will sing “Preist Gott, von dem all Segen fliest,”
Often sung before meals in a Mennonite home.
You have a copy of the music in your bulletin.


Congregation sings “Preist Gott, von dem all Segen fliest”


While at Myrth Manor Henry wanted complete isolation from family and friends (none of whom I ever met),
After seeing how terribly other Mennonite families treated their sick and dying, I made it my mission to honour that request.
I’d drive him where he wanted to go, and wait for him,
As he got weaker and needed more care,
I spent even more time with him.
He wrote,
And when he could no longer write,
He dictated and I wrote.

I will now read, in its entirety,
The Last Testament of Henry:

I was the first son, their golden boy.
That’s what my mother called me: her golden boy.

She was a great singer.
She was in a double trio, made up of farmers’ wives.
We lived in Landmark, but drove in to Elmwood MB Church to hear all the great works of JS Bach.
The passions, the cantatas, the chorales.
I sang all over Europe with the Mennonite Children’s Choir.

The first time I noticed a cock was with my best friend.
We were in a half-ton truck on a bumpy gravel road, I think he was hard.
I could see its fullness.
it took everything in me not to reach over and fondle him.

The first time I killed Mennonite was at a church camping retreat.
I was climbing a tree with a friend.
No one was around and we were pretty high up.
I realized I could push him and probably get away with it.
I did.
It was kind of comical when the body hit the ground. He lay there braying like a mule for at least ten minutes.

That was the summer after I sang with the National Youth Choir.
It was a singular experience, my first time around so many non-Mennonites.
We opened for Expo 86’ in Vancouver.
I became friends with three special girls, my three angels.
That’s where I came out!
It all happened to suddenly. One of them wanted to sleep with me.
I’d never slept with anyone before, but knew If I would, I didn’t want it to be with a girl.
So, I told her I was gay.
There were other gay people in the choir. We even went to a gay club, and I talked to a few gay people there. I think they even flirted with me!
I wore a bright blue button-up shirt.
That was my born-agay experience.


My excitement was quickly dampened when I got home.
I had not been aware of such opposition to gay people in my church,
It was never spoken of, and I’d never met a gay person until the youth choir.
I was aware of passages in the bible condemning men burning in lust for other men, but it was never clear to me how that was to be interpreted.
Little by little, one by one, I told people I was gay.
They told me to remain celibate—I was a still a virgin at that point.
Every Christian, no matter what their struggles, was to save sex for marriage.
They said when God called me to the right woman it would work out, the feelings would pass.
That all seemed to make sense.
So I kept it to myself after that.
I continued my church activities and went back to college in Fall.

The second time I killed a Mennonite was while helping with that year’s harvest,
A girl this time. With long hair, that should have been tied back.
Pushed her into a grain auger and it ripped her scalp right off.
The trick was to make everything look like an accident.
And accidents are much funnier than cold-blooded aggression!

I was trying to find my way in earnest.
Getting more and more involved, going to conferences and extra courses.
What was I to do with this desire?

The third time I killed a Mennonite was at a Missions conference,
The main speaker was quite elderly, had converted many Indians in Papa New Guinea.
I was responsible for walking him up and down the steep stairs on either side of the stage.
When he had finished his address there was rousing applause,
Not a dry eye in the room.
While helping him down I chose to leave him unsupported on the exposed side of the stairs,
He fell over.
It was only a few feet.
But you know seniors and falls.
The cacophony of shrieks from the audience put me into a fit of laughter,
Which I easily masked as my own shrieks!

No one would have dared accuse me of deliberately causing these deaths.
I cried and cried with my pastor.
He consoled me.
My family consoled me.
But in private, when I reflected on the deaths, I couldn’t contain my glee!

The AIDS crisis was heating up, though I had held to my vow of celibacy.
I wasn’t worried, but I had a cold that seemed to be lingering a little longer than usual.
I got tested at the Gay Men’s Health Clinic.
I had it.

The doctor recommended I join a home where my medical needs could be met.
I sensed it was time to go into hiding so I agreed to become a resident of Myrth Manor Hospice.
I told everyone I was dropping out of college and training to be a missionary in California.

What I’d done so far was minor league stuff.
The director offered to chauffer me anywhere I wanted to go.
I killed hundreds of Mennonites.
I went to bed giggling, picturing their smug faces turning to looks of realization, horror, agony!
I shot their pastors.
I cut off their wives’ breasts.
And they all believed themselves to have died martyrs!
I put razor blades in their children’s food.
I put a nail bomb in a gift at a baby shower!

The cherry on top was when I burned down a Smitty’s during a men’s prayer breakfast!

I got a copy of “Mennonites in Winnipeg” by Leo Driedger.
Written with a grant for the 1990 Mennonite World Conference, held here in Winnipeg.
What a joke! They made themselves seem so respectable and legitimate.

I hatched a plot. A mass shooting at the Winnipeg Stadium, for their closing service.
They estimated 20,000 Mennonites would be there.

Did they deserve it? Some did, but all of those I killed?
I suppose the thought had never occurred to me.
I was having too much fun.
And I wouldn’t want to repress such a natural desire.
I think I know I place I can perch myself, but the only problem is getting enough ammunition.

The Last Testament of Henry Hamm.

Now I close with a recording of Henry’s final performance, a section from Cantata 82, Ich Habe Genug. His last musical gasps from his death bed.


Recording of “Ich Habe Genug”