The Story of Lyell Walker
As told to us by France Queyras, with poetry by Sina Queyras

Lyell lived in Vancouver for 15 years in the mid 70's to the late 80's and was very fond of the city. He left many friends behind and survived many more.

I met Lyell Walker in 1978. We both worked part time at Sears Harbour Centre while attending school. He went to SFU in Burnaby, studying communications. Later he worked at CKVU TV Station, and TV Guide both in Vancouver. He was very active in the gay and lesbian community and he volunteered for Gayblevision and Video In. He organized an after hours club called the Dub Club where artists met, to perform or show current work and dance to Reggae music. There was always something interesting going on at the Dub Club at a time when Vancouver was a tiny town with little excitement. After losing a few friends to AIDS and realizing that it was only a matter of time for him, Lyell moved to Montreal in the late 80's after a tour in Europe. He visited Vancouver almost every year and stayed in close contact.

I saw him a month before he died. He was visiting the Gulf Islands (he loved to cycle the islands) and friends in Victoria when he fell ill. I went to say goodbye and left him not wanting to board his plane at the departure gate at the Victoria airport. Shortly after Lyell Walker died of complications due to AIDS. Like many he resented the way he was treated because of his illness and died trashing his hospital room - was it dementia or anger at the injustice of it all?

My sister Sina Queyras, a writer, poet and teacher, published a book of poetry in October 2002. I have included the poem "Bistro Quatre" as it speaks of Lyell. Sina knew him from Vancouver and met up with him while studying at Concordia University in Montreal, where Lyell also worked as a Technical Assistant.

Bistro Quatre

A cabernet with Lyell while outside two women in evening gown,
and tux, serenade the sun's decline with flute and viola.
I can't help searching for Gail Scott in the corner booth - I'm sure
I'd know her face. But here and now, Lyell across from me, spends
his last days projecting other people's art, so angry, the HIV
much more than a hooked metaphor coursing through his veins.
The worst is how your friends all fall away, he says. When Patrick
died I called each number in his book, and no one came. I hold them
in my arms, and I'm alone again. It isn't fair, all this dying
in one another's arms. If I could hold him in my arms and let him
cry. If I could hold him. If he would cry.

 

Lyell Walker on the Memorial