By GMHC Substance Use Counselor Zack Reedy
When my coworker told me that we had the opportunity to go to the 2025 Pines Party on Fire Island, I jumped at it without hesitation. I knew bits and pieces of GMHC’s history there, but it wasn’t until I arrived on the island that Friday morning in early August that I truly began to feel the weight of our legacy.
In 1983, the Fire Island community created the Morning Party as a fundraiser for GMHC, born out of both celebration and necessity. That first year, it raised just $4,000—humble but lifesaving dollars at a time when the AIDS crisis started devastating our community. The party grew in scale and power over the years, becoming a beacon of queer resilience and joy. By its final year, the Morning Party raised an astonishing $464,000 in one weekend—funds that directly fueled GMHC’s fight to care for and protect people living with HIV and AIDS.
For fifteen summers, the Morning Party wasn’t just an event; it was a lifeline, a symbol, and a declaration that queer people would not be erased. But tragedy struck: A GHB overdose and multiple arrests ended the Morning Party in 1998, and the Pines Party was born the next year, carrying forward the tradition, but without us.
And yet here I was, standing on the same ground, once again representing GMHC after 27 years. The drama of our past, the resilience of our people, and the excitement of our return washed over me all at once. This wasn’t just another party. This was a legacy. This was history. This was a demonstration that GMHC is still here—still serving, still fighting, still celebrating with our community. And as the weekend unfolded, I knew I would carry these memories for life.
Beautiful.
That Friday morning, I headed to Penn Station early. At the Jamaica transfer stop to Sayville, I ran into a friend from AIDS Healthcare Foundation also going to the Pines Party to table. What a relief—someone else I would know! Then the chaos began—the wrong stop, my bags disappearing, panic bubbling up on the packed train. No service dog. No anchor. Just me, spiraling.
But recovery teaches resilience. After I finally disembarked two towns past Sayville, I called an Uber, and 45 minutes later I was at the Sayville Ferry dock—just in time to catch the boat with my coworker.
When we arrived on Fire Island, I met our host, Tinker Fly, a Radical Faerie with a spirit so warm and inviting I instantly felt blessed. Staying in their home was pure magic. Next, we found our table location—front and center, right by the registration area. Every single person would pass by us as they checked in. GMHC was back at the Pines. Pride surged through me.
Beautiful.
That night, we slipped out of our GMHC shirts and into Fire Island mode. First stop: High Tea at the Pavilion, pulsing with music, laughter, and anticipation. For decades, High Tea has been the beating heart of the Pines, born from mid-century tea dances that evolved into a dazzling queer spectacle.
From there, we floated to the VIP Party: sunset, DJs, and magic. That’s where I met Victoria Falls, Miss Fire Island 2024. Stunning. Radiant.
Over dinner, I heard firsthand the story of the overdose, the arrests, and the end of GMHC’s Morning Party—and I felt history come alive.
Our next stop was the infamous Underwear Party in Cherry Grove. Clothes off, SCRUFF bag on. Hundreds of people in their underwear, lights flashing, bodies moving. For the first time in my life, I felt free in my body. Not perfect. Not ashamed. Just free.
Beautiful.
On Saturday morning, after coffee with the Faeries and breakfast at The Canteen, we headed to the GMHC table. Crowds poured in from the ferries, and the energy was alive. We handed out Narcan kits, fentanyl and xylazine strips, and GMHC swag. Connection after connection.
A woman stopped by our table to tell us the house where we’d stayed had belonged to her brother, who died of AIDS-related complications in the 1980s. She told us GMHC had been there for him, cared for him, and carried him. Seeing GMHC back on Fire Island after so many years, she said, meant everything. Her gratitude was overwhelming.
Not long after, I noticed a person hunched over nearby, drenched in sweat, nearly unresponsive. A GHB overdose. In that moment, I thought of the overdose that ended GMHC’s Morning Party. But this time, GMHC was here—and we acted: towels, ice, water. We brought them back. That was redemption. That was why we had to return.
Later, a deaf person approached our table, and with my imperfect ASL I signed back and forth about harm reduction, safety, and life. Their smile said it all.
Beautiful.
As the sun started to set, I stowed my bags in a shed at Tinker Fly’s. Once again, community taking care of community. By nightfall, the beach was transformed. Costumes shimmered, lights glowed, and the Pines Party’s Dreamscapes theme came to life. Sheep in sequins. Wings. Masks. Surreal visions made flesh. I found myself onstage, staring out at thousands of people. The Morning Party had ended in tragedy, but now GMHC was back. This moment—this view—felt like redemption.
I danced. I laughed. I kissed someone for the first time since getting sober. It was tender. Real.
Then, the sunrise. Violet to pink to orange. A live choir on the beach closed out the night, as waves crashed behind them. It was transcendent. It was church. It was community, reborn on the very ground where our history still lives.
Beautiful.
I found a case of water bottles, put on my GMHC hat, and handed them out to the departing crowd. Some resisted. I laughed and insisted. Everyone left hydrated, smiling, and cared for. That’s GMHC. That is who we are.
On the Sunday morning ferry at 6:30 a.m., the island faded behind me. I thought of my journey from homelessness and addiction to recovery and service. From sitting in the client’s chair to standing proudly as a counselor. From nearly losing my life to living this one fully.
The Morning Party was never just a party—it was a lifeline. After nearly three decades, GMHC was back. Narcan. Test strips. Substance-use education. Compassion. Water at sunrise.
It wasn’t just the music, costumes, and sunrise that made the Fire Island Pines Party 2025 unforgettable. It illuminated something bigger: GMHC is still here. Still saving lives. Still celebrating joy. Still fighting for our community—for 43 years, and many more to come.
And that, above all else, is beautiful.
Men don’t always have a place they can go to and let their hair down to talk and get things off their chest. That’s what we provide at the Barbershop.
Knights, a gay Black man, epitomizes the compassionate, culturally competent care that GMHC provides. He first came to the agency as a client in 1998 to attend Soul Food, an earlier support group for gay men of color, saying he wanted support staying HIV negative after completing a drug program for heroin and crack. That led to volunteering, then joining GMHC as a group facilitator in 2004.
“The Barbershop has always been my baby,” Knights said. “The door was held open for me to walk through and I want to hold the doors open for others.”
The Barbershop attracted 27 participants on a recent Tuesday, Knights said, adding that many build their afternoon around it. After seeing their counselor or receiving other services, they have lunch, then head to the group meeting on the fourth floor.
For many long-term HIV survivors, a welcoming community space like this can literally save lives, he said. “People are living a lot longer, so HIV is not the only thing they’re dealing with. They are also feeling isolation and loss.” The Barbershop is where they can reconnect.
Loss and new lifelines
A lot of Barbershop discussions are about people’s mental and physical health, like how a doctor visit went, Knights said. To promote sexual health and wellbeing, Knights often invites discussion leaders, such as a ViiV Healthcare representative, who recently came by to present on HIV in the Black community. He also makes sure to have a bowl of condoms and sexual health information at every meeting. “Sex can be fun, creative, and healthy at any age – and we want people to stay safe,” he said.
At a recent meeting, one participant sought support around multiple health issues, while another shared about potentially losing a partner, who’d gotten ill and gone to the hospital – with no further information. “As a long-term HIV survivor, he felt like his partner had died. It was the same experience he’d had in the 80s and 90s, when people with AIDS disappeared. Crack also did a number on people,” Knights explained.
“When Covid-19 came, a lot of our participants felt like they were facing the 80s all over again, when HIV and AIDS hit New York City,” he added. “They were losing loved ones, people were disappearing, and there were no answers. Another mysterious disease was taking people out.”
To combat isolation, Knights periodically organizes events to get people out and about. A Saturday outing at Dallas BBQ Restaurant in Chelsea, near GMHC’s offices, attracted over 25 people from the community to have lunch and socialize. “On a Saturday afternoon, I don’t want you in the house cleaning and watching grandkids,” Knights said. “For two hours, people were having fun and connecting with their peers.”
He was delighted by the appearance of one 86-year-old gentleman who’d been absent from GMHC for a while. “I’d been calling him, but not getting an answer,” Knights said. “And there he was, coming down the steps with his walker. That was the highlight of my day – sometimes, I get a little emotional – seeing that my old man made it.”
Like any good barbershop, the group also facilitates networking, Knights said. One new GMHC client who recently moved to New York was invited to the Barbershop by someone he met in the dining room. He just held a housewarming party for his new apartment and invited a few friends from the group. “That wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t started accessing services at GMHC – and stayed on his game and doing what he needs to do,” Knights said.
“I like it when someone says it’s their first time at the Barbershop – and they will be back. That makes me feel good,” he said. While some of the group’s members are new, others have been in the group for years. No matter their tenure, the Barbershop is a lifeline for staying connected and feeling better.
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