Daniel Francis Kane

The world changes. Thank goodness. As someone who grew up during the AIDS epidemic, as part of a generation that had zero support for dealing with grief, or with the homophobia that was EVERYWHERE all of the time, I am so grateful for change, for progress.

In 1994, my family lost my beloved youngest uncle Daniel Francis Kane to AIDS. He was one of millions lost, but a unique and tragic loss for us. He was 29 years old, the youngest of 10 children, estranged from his family thanks to the terrible ethos of the time. All we have left to help our memories is his appearance in the Road to Avonlea credits that my cousin Eric reminded us about https://youtu.be/bXvBK_ctTe8?si=3LCaofchWu-wLp9F. He’s carrying a toolbox, wiping his weary brow (from the 24 – 34 second marks). The loss of Uncle Danny remains the most unresolved grief I know. Pride reminds me of it and it also brings me to tears throughout the year.

I can tell you that Daniel Francis Kane was born in Oshawa in1964 to Maurice Kane and Beth (nee Williams) Kane. He was their tenth child to survive infancy. He was just five years older than the youngest grandchild and was in grade 13 when his oldest niece, my cousin Becky, entered grade 9. In a family of GM workers, he had different ideas. He worked in hostels, checking in homeless men. He worked with one of his brothers, building pools for at least one summer. But mostly, he was brave about wanting to act. He took extra work when he could get it. His parents worried about his financial stability. They didn’t understand why he didn’t worry. He gained an apprenticeship as an aircraft mechanic and then, he left it to go to Belgium. He came for Christmas the first year he was gone and then, he left without saying good-bye. We would never see him again.

When he died in May 1994, it was at Fife House. His time in hospice was not shared with his family. His partner, Robin, who the family had been introduced to as his roommate, went to visit his mother. He told her the news, shared the legal documents giving Robin responsibility for his remains. At the end of the day of my convocation from UofT, my aunt called and spoke to my mother. She told her what had happened and then gave me the phone. My family gave me a mission. It was to find Robin and make sure my grandmother paid for Danny’s burial. He had been on social assistance, Robin had told my grandma, the government would pay for my uncle’s funeral. Grandma, who had lived through the Great Depression, could not bear the thought that her son might be laid to rest in a pauper’s grave. It was not done then, but she feared it. If she could not be there for Danny in life, she would be there to do her final duty as a mother. Robin took Danny’s ashes, as was his right, but the memorial and 519 became our place to remember. To remember both our love for Danny and our failure to make that love count with honesty and acceptance.

Progressive change is the one thing that, even in acts of memorial, we can all celebrate. It makes saying Happy Pride important. And reason to smile again.