Pete Martinez June 16, 1946—March 17, 2001 by Ann Walton Sieber

It was 1988, a grim year for many many of us who were losing friends and lovers too fast to grieve or even understand. The Names Project AIDS memorial quilt had come to the George R. Brown convention center on Mother’s Day in its first national tour, and a diverse group of Houstonians had gathered afterward to talk about how to start a local chapter of the quilt. The discussion went on and on about how and where and the problems to surmount, remembers Michael Bongiorni, who was part of that original gathering. After hours of deliberating, one of the volunteers, a man Michael had only just met named Pete Martinez, stood up and said, "Are we going to meet again?" Yes, everybody said. Martinez said, "Let’s meet Saturday," and walked abruptly out of the room. That was odd, Bongiorni thought.

But then on Saturday Martinez walked into the meeting and threw $75 down on the table. He said he’d gotten various people and Montrose businesses to donate small amounts because they wanted to see a quilt in Houston. "We just sat there sort of looking at each other," Bongiorni said, remembering that day. "Somebody we really didn’t know, he just went out and did it, and gave us the inspiration." From that day, Martinez became the beloved caretaker and champion of the quilt in Houston, lovingly helping countless panel makers and members of the Houston gay community who were struggling to grieve and give expression to the lives of those who were dying of AIDS.

And now, the man who helped countless be "named" has himself gone to join all those many people who he sewed into memory. On March 17, 2001, Pete Martinez passed away at his home after a short and courageous battle with liver cancer. He was 54.

For 13 years, Martinez has been well known as the tireless handmaiden of the AIDS Quilt in Houston.

"On a real personal level, the quilt gave Pete a place to deal with his own grief," said Jackson Hicks, who worked closely with Martinez on the quilt for many years. "And in finding that for himself, he realized he could do that for other people."

"Pete knew from the beginning that he was marking down history in fabric," Bongiorni said, who went on from his work with the Houston quilt to be director of quilt operations with the national NAMES Project office in San Francisco. "Families would walk in afraid to talk, and he would immediately set them at ease. . . . He was the person in Houston that so many trusted their memories to."

"He had this ability to nurture people who were grieving," Hicks said. "How very gentle he was. In a calm insightful way, he could walk them through the process–how to do the stitching, what kind of materials to use. It would probably have been easier for Martinez to just have made it, but part of what the quilt does for people is to provide a concrete opportunity, something in their hands they can do. He would take the time to show people how to do it, people who didn’t know where to begin. He did it for me when I made my first panel."

Martinez staffed the NAMES Project workshop tirelessly. "He was down there every day, Monday through Sunday," said Leora Feldman, who labored beside Martinez on the board of Friends of the Quilt, "–after work, all the time. If somebody needed something, he was there."

Martinez took care of the precious panels, taking them around the city to churches and schools, telling the stories of the people who were preserved in the fabric. He delivered the completed panels to San Francisco, served on the NAMES Project Houston board, and became a "handmaiden of the quilt," a select few from around the country who are chosen to help repair and upkeep the quilt. He became an institution at the Westheimer Arts Festival, holding court in front of Mary’s with the NAMES Project booth.

Not only did Martinez serve the important role of guiding people through the process, but he was usually the one into whose arms people delivered their completed panels. He had a ritual where he would receive the panel and hold it tight to him in a moment of silence–it was as though grieving lovers and family were able to physically pass on some of their heavy grief to this tender loving person.

When somebody didn’t have anybody to make a panel for them, Martinez would do it. He made a total of 48 panels, and helped with hundreds more.

Martinez had an approachable easy-going style, funny and immediate. He called everybody "Helen," and didn’t kowtow to status. Bongiorni remembers once when former Mayor Bob Lanier invited members of the gay community to his River Oaks mansion. Martinez remarked to Elise Lanier, "This is a lovely home, but somebody should do something about your drapes." (Martinez himself had a love for elegant furnishings, collecting chandeliers and soup tureens. "His apartment was the ultimate queen’s apartment," Bongiorni said, "and everything was impeccable and in its place. If he had wine, it had to be served in crystal.")

Another time, when Martinez was regally directing operations at Bering United Methodist’s annual Thanksgiving dinner for people with AIDS, he told one inexperienced volunteer, "Helen, just mash those potatoes, don’t make love to them!" Turns out it was the Methodist bishop. When Bongiorni told Martinez that, he didn’t care.

Many said that Martinez’s small stature helped him be less intimidating to people. Also, others could take courage from this small man who was so unafraid to be out. "People would see that little guy standing up," said Bongiorni, "and at that time it was dangerous, people were being attacked."

A native Houstonian who grew up in the old blue-collar neighborhood off Washington and Taylor, Martinez came out in the ’60s–which took courage for anyone, especially a Latina man–and was apparently a notorious figure at the old Pink Elephant. He worked with various local companies, including Stouffer’s Greenway Plaza Hotel, where he was banquet manager.

Bongiorni said Martinez had tried volunteering at places like the AIDS Foundation, but found it frustrating. With the quilt, he was able to take the work of his hands, his fine skills as a craftsman, and make a true difference. Martinez’s hero’s impact was made manifest at his memorial service, when the sanctuary at Bering was full to bursting.

Martinez expressed his love through his service to the quilt, but he also used it as an outlet for activism and confronting injustice. "He was not a big political or social leader, couldn’t make a huge financial contribution," Hicks said. "He was just a little guy . . . but I think he made a real difference in people’s awareness of HIV and AIDS in Houston."

The quilt and Martinez’s unpretentious directness could sometimes get in where the more in-your-face ACT-UP folks could not.

"When Harris County wasn’t responding to AIDS, we were going around and putting up quilts everywhere," Bongiorni remembers. "Pete marched into the headquarters at HISD and put up 50 panels."

Bongiorni remembers another time when they got a call at the NAMES Project workshop from somebody who said his lover had passed away and that the family was going to come and take everything. They all went to the house and were helping the man pack when the family came and stood at the door and said they couldn’t take anything out without a warrant. Martinez just happened to know the next-door neighbors, who shared a back patio with the bereaved man. So he led the crew in passing all the furniture and other belongings over the back fence and into the neighbor’s apartment. "He realized the importance of it and had no qualms at all," Bongiorni said, laughing at the memory.

During the Republican National Convention, Bongiorni and Martinez were both participating in the march from Montrose to the convention center in which the police grew violent and started attacking the crowds.

"Helen, these girls aren’t messing around!" Bongiorni remembers Martinez exclaiming. "This ain’t no candlelight march."

A policeman on a horse approached the diminutive quiltmaker with his billy club raised. Martinez put his hands on his hips. "Just what do you think you’re doing?!" he said, staring the policeman down. The policeman turned and went away.

Bongiorni was there and was plenty scared himself. "You would think Pete would have been afraid, but he wasn’t."

Martinez was a man who made his life speak. He was direct and caring and showed his love through his actions over and over. "He felt people just needed to get out there and do it," Bongiorni said. "There was no reason to sit. And for him that meant sewing."