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| Lori Cannon at GroceryLand in December, 2024. |
Understand the terror of the times. To be a gay man in the mid-1980s: young, just figuring yourself out, suddenly sick with HIV, dying from a dread disease, AIDS — a death sentence that tortures you first with nausea, exhaustion, lesions, emaciation, diarrhea, confusion, blindness.
Your family flees, revolted at your orientation and what many view as God's just punishment. Nurses are afraid to touch you. Then into your room strides Lori Cannon, a big woman with flame red hair and long red fingernails, here to bring you dinner, cook it, then wipe up your vomit afterward. She might be the only human contact you have that day.
"During the early dark days of HIV, when there were no resources for people — it was the Reagan years — the government was turning its back on people," remembered retired majority leader of the Illinois House, Greg Harris. "Lori was one of the people who stepped up and provided every kind of care you could imagine, mostly love, support and kindness. Over the last 40 years, she has done that every day."
Cannon, "Chicago's AIDS Angel," co-founded Open Hand/Chicago in 1988, shepherding it through a variety of incarnations, all devoted to feeding those with HIV. Recently diagnosed with terminal pancreatic and lung cancer, she died at home Sunday of heart failure at 74.
"Lori Cannon was a true ally in Illinois from her organizing days to founding Open Hand/Chicago," Gov. JB Pritzker said in a statement. "She led the way with chutzpah and humor."
Cannon helped create the NAMES Project, bringing the massive AIDS Memorial Quilt to Chicago in 1988, 1990 and 1994. She co-founded ACT UP/Chicago, the guerrilla protest group demanding the government not ignore AIDS simply because it was killing gay men.
"People know her over generations," said Tracy Baim, co-founder of Windy City Times. "She really helped on a visceral basis. She was there in the trenches, the hospital rooms, taking care of people's animals, feeding people's souls and bellies for decades. The impact Lori had on individuals and on the movement is almost unmatched. Lori did it all."
She was born in West Rogers Park in 1951. Her father, Lee Cannon, was involved with cartoon syndication and later became a champion of Native-American rights. Her mother, Bluma, was a homemaker. She had an older brother Jules and a younger brother everyone called J.H., who was a "blue baby," — born with a defective heart, leading to lifelong disability.
Tragedy at an early age
"At an early age I experienced tragedy," Cannon told the Chicago Gay History project. "Prior to J.H. passing away in 1970, my big brother Jules was injured in a horrific motorcycle accident — a city bus went through a stop sign and dragged him for several blocks."
Caring for her brothers set the tone for her life.
"It might have prepared me for something," she said. "From what I remember of the 1960s, a lot of it was spent caregiving."
She went to Columbia College and studied filmmaking, then drove a private bus for Winkle Transportation.
"I met Lori when I working at Limelight in 1985," said Richard Knight Jr., the club's art director. "She was feisty, funny, always the big red hair. She was known as the 'Bus Driver to the Stars.' She would go to McCormick Place — big Broadway shows, 'Sweeney Todd,' 'Cats.' She would go get the chorus kids, drive them to and from their hotel. Of course they always came to Limelight."
The AIDS crisis was deepening, and Cannon's experience with her family led her to do the same with her community. She joined AIDS hospice Chicago House in 1985, then founded OpenHand with Harris and others.
"We had one thing in common," Cannon told the Sun-Times in 2019. "Everyone we knew was either dead, dying or struggling to help someone who was heading there. We were tired. We were scared. We were angry. And we needed to do something other than sew AIDS quilt panels.”
Your family flees, revolted at your orientation and what many view as God's just punishment. Nurses are afraid to touch you. Then into your room strides Lori Cannon, a big woman with flame red hair and long red fingernails, here to bring you dinner, cook it, then wipe up your vomit afterward. She might be the only human contact you have that day.
"During the early dark days of HIV, when there were no resources for people — it was the Reagan years — the government was turning its back on people," remembered retired majority leader of the Illinois House, Greg Harris. "Lori was one of the people who stepped up and provided every kind of care you could imagine, mostly love, support and kindness. Over the last 40 years, she has done that every day."
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| Photo by Rex Wockner (Windy City Times) |
"Lori Cannon was a true ally in Illinois from her organizing days to founding Open Hand/Chicago," Gov. JB Pritzker said in a statement. "She led the way with chutzpah and humor."
Cannon helped create the NAMES Project, bringing the massive AIDS Memorial Quilt to Chicago in 1988, 1990 and 1994. She co-founded ACT UP/Chicago, the guerrilla protest group demanding the government not ignore AIDS simply because it was killing gay men.
"People know her over generations," said Tracy Baim, co-founder of Windy City Times. "She really helped on a visceral basis. She was there in the trenches, the hospital rooms, taking care of people's animals, feeding people's souls and bellies for decades. The impact Lori had on individuals and on the movement is almost unmatched. Lori did it all."
She was born in West Rogers Park in 1951. Her father, Lee Cannon, was involved with cartoon syndication and later became a champion of Native-American rights. Her mother, Bluma, was a homemaker. She had an older brother Jules and a younger brother everyone called J.H., who was a "blue baby," — born with a defective heart, leading to lifelong disability.
Tragedy at an early age
"At an early age I experienced tragedy," Cannon told the Chicago Gay History project. "Prior to J.H. passing away in 1970, my big brother Jules was injured in a horrific motorcycle accident — a city bus went through a stop sign and dragged him for several blocks."
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| Lori and Jon-Henri Damski |
"It might have prepared me for something," she said. "From what I remember of the 1960s, a lot of it was spent caregiving."
She went to Columbia College and studied filmmaking, then drove a private bus for Winkle Transportation.
"I met Lori when I working at Limelight in 1985," said Richard Knight Jr., the club's art director. "She was feisty, funny, always the big red hair. She was known as the 'Bus Driver to the Stars.' She would go to McCormick Place — big Broadway shows, 'Sweeney Todd,' 'Cats.' She would go get the chorus kids, drive them to and from their hotel. Of course they always came to Limelight."
The AIDS crisis was deepening, and Cannon's experience with her family led her to do the same with her community. She joined AIDS hospice Chicago House in 1985, then founded OpenHand with Harris and others.
"We had one thing in common," Cannon told the Sun-Times in 2019. "Everyone we knew was either dead, dying or struggling to help someone who was heading there. We were tired. We were scared. We were angry. And we needed to do something other than sew AIDS quilt panels.”
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What an amazing and compassionate person. We could use several million more like her.
ReplyDeleteVery sorry to hear this. We first learned about Lori and GroceryLand from your article about a year ago or so. When we dropped off some supplies, we told Lori that we heard about her through you. She told us how much she liked you and that she thought very highly of you. Sorry to hear about her passing and thanks for introducing this wonderful person to your readers.
ReplyDeleteThank you Neil for remembering others who responded to HIV-AIDS with their heart and soul. With today’s medicine made possible through scientific research, too many people are not aware of what it was like for decades. Your story makes me hopeful.
ReplyDeleteYes fortunately here in America people have access to those drugs but with the closing of usaid. Less fortunate people will die unnecessarily in prematurely
DeleteWe've always known that misguided, deluded, hard hearted people walk among us. We hoped the numbers were small. Among the horrors of the Trump era is that we now have hard data on how many hard hearted, deluded people walk among us - over 70 million, the number of people that support one of the most demonstrably toxic monsters that ever walked the earth. It gives me strength to know that angelic Lori Cannon existed. Devoting her life to people who are suffering is remarkable at a time when those who are suffering are treated as afterthoughts - in part to further the greed of the wealthy. Bless your heart for letting the world know about this remarkable woman - proof that humanity still has a beating, loving heart.
ReplyDeleteThank you Neil. A very fitting tribute.
ReplyDeleteI was a teenager in the 80s.
What this brings back for me were images of cruelty, dehumanization, and ostracization of a fittingly desperate group of Americans by the government and also in the media. It made me reflect on how we got where we are today - the callousness, lack of empathy, the hatred….
I can’t say I was without sin. Adolescent jokes. Fear mongering. Slanders. I can only chalk up my actions to having the undeveloped world view of a 15 year old and influenced by the government, media, and family. But by reading this story - the intervening 40 years brought to me today a feeling of regret for my actions. I know I’m not that same person today as I was in 1985. And wondered how the news of the world today will read to some in 40 years.
Thank you for this wonderful column, Neil. I was fortunate enough to be among those in her orbit. She was all this and more.
ReplyDeleteSlowly, but faster than is acceptable, we are losing the best of us
ReplyDeleteA very compassionate soul. I remember seeing her in a local WTTW documentary, and she seemed practical yet compelling.
ReplyDelete