by Aimee Herman
I watched Flor’s face go from serious to surprised to not-so-surprised and did she know and what did I really just say and—
“Eleanor, are you saying you’re . . .”
“Ummm, I’m saying . . . what am I saying? I’m sorry. You were talking about your life and your dad and—”
“Eleanor, don’t you apologize, especially about something like this. I’m just trying to understand. I want to make sure I—”
“I didn’t plan this, Flor. Not . . . not the gay thing. I mean, obviously I didn’t plan that. But I mean, I didn’t plan on telling you today. Or any day, really. I . . . and that’s not why I cut my hair either. You know, everyone at school probably already thinks I’m . . . you know, Dara called me a lesbian even before I was ready to. It’s hair. It’s hair, Flor. I just don’t get how length is attached to who or what I like. I mean, not all lesbians have short hair, right? Right, Flor?”
For a while, or maybe just seconds, Flor and I stared at each other. Our pizza, untouched. Our limbs still, even though I wanted to fidget. I wanted to bite all my nails off. I wanted to pull all my hair out or pick that pimple off my face that was starting to become more noticeable. I wanted to do something to break the silence. And yet, I also wanted to keep it going. I wanted the silence to last forever. I wanted it to coat me like the fancy blueberry maple syrup Shirley once bought that seemed so thick, it took forever to drip down the sides of my pancakes.
“I love you.”
It was Flor who broke the silence. I smiled because I couldn’t really say what I needed her to say, but that was enough to make me feel like maybe everything was okay, and nothing had really changed between us, especially when she said, “I had a feeling.”
We polished off that pie as though we were ending a bout of starvation or breaking Yom Kippur or something like that.
After lunch, we decided to take the train to Union Square and head to The Strand. We were both reenergized from lunch and revelations, and I wanted to at least get a bookmark or something for Aggie from this trip. I also really wanted to see the miles of books she kept talking about.
On Broadway, I noticed the giant flag announcing The Strand, and carts of books right outside for just a dollar or two. No order really, just spines to sift through.
“Shall we go inside?” Flor looked at me with a giant grin. She knows how much I love books and reading. This was the best day I ever remember having.
When we walked in, a nice-looking lady with lots of earrings in her ears greeted us. When she said hello, they shimmied like tiny silver dancers.
I could not believe how many books were in one place, on tables and on shelves, from floor to ceiling.
“I have a book in mind for you,” Flor said. “Let’s see if we can find it together.”
We walked straight back, past the new hardcover fiction and non-fiction books, staff recommendations and other themed tables. There was so much to take in and I started to get overwhelmed with how many books there were that I’ve yet to read.
“I used to know this beautiful poet,” Flor said. “She was my teacher when I went to John Jay for a semester, before I transferred to a different school. It’s like I was meant to go there just to meet her. We kept in touch for many years, just here and there. I’d write her letters and she’d occasionally write back. She kept busy. But she died last year, and I still think about the imprint she made as a writer, specifically as a lesbian writer, Eleanor. Her name was Audre Lorde.”
“You knew a published writer?” I looked up and thought about all the people alphabetized on the shelves. Their lives. Their imaginations.
“Oh, Eleanor, I knew many.”
We searched the Ls and I noticed that there were many books by Audre Lorde.
“This is the one,” Flor said, handing me a bright orange book that said, Zami in giant thick capital letters and then a bit smaller, A New Spelling of my Name.
“Cool,” was all I could say.
“There is a history of women and men, of activists who died just to be out as gay and lesbian. Hard to imagine maybe, but—”
“I want to know all of them,” I said, excitedly.
Flor smiled. “Audre was a black, lesbian feminist. Fought for civil rights. Fantastic scholar. When you were in the room with her, you felt like you were part of a movement. I want you to read this book. At your leisure, of course. I know you have things to read for school, but . . . I guess I just feel excited to share the works of gay and lesbian writers with you, since you probably won’t get a tutorial in school. Got to wait for college for that.” Flor winked.
I opened the book and flipped through. All these words I didn’t know yet but wanted to.
We browsed a little and then made our way to the register. I got a postcard for Aggie of Frida Kahlo, an artist she said she really liked and we made our way with bright yellow Strand bags toward Port Authority bus station to head back to New Jersey.
On the bus back, Flor began asking questions about Aggie.
“You like her, yes?”
“Yes,” I said. “I like her. But she’s not . . . I mean, I don’t think . . . we’re just friends.”
“Got it,” she smiled. “Well, I like watching you with her. You seem . . . what words am I looking for . . . celebrated when you’re with her.”
“Celebrated?”
“Yeah, you interact far differently with her than with Dara. Listen, I’m old, I’ve had lots of friendships. A few I still have but most have fizzled away. Some are hard work. It’s good to have a friend that’s curious about you. That asks you questions and shares too. Your mother is like that. She always asks about my day, makes time to listen. And from what I’ve observed, Aggie is like that too. She’s inquisitive.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. She tells me all sorts of things that I never even knew about. It’s like . . . it’s like she helps me to want to know more about me. She’s been teaching me about feminism.”
“Terrific! Spread it around!” Flor pulled me closer and hugged me. Then, I spent the rest of the bus ride reading from my new book. I love it already.
When we were almost home, I asked her why she thinks so many people are mean to gay people.
“That’s a great question, Eleanor. There are too many reasons, but one is that sometimes our beliefs get in the way of our minds expanding. Sometimes what we don’t know or don’t think we are surrounded by makes us uncomfortable.”
I thought about you, James. Your dad being a pastor and all. Maybe he said something to you to make you feel like being gay wasn’t okay? I don’t believe in all that, but if God existed, wouldn’t he or she accept everyone? I think we are all this way because we just are. I don’t think we choose it. I am not choosing to be gay, just like Shirley isn’t choosing to be depressed. I mean, why would we?
Flor wants to take me to the library and get me some more books by gay writers. She wants me to read about the history. About my history because I guess it is mine now. Just like America’s history is mine because I live here and should be knowlegable knowledgeable about it. She mentioned a lady named Dorothy Allison. And Leslie Feinberg. She told me to take my time in this. In being gay. I haven’t really talked to her about the body things. That feeling of being not quite right. I’m not ready for that yet. I thought it would shift once I came out, but I still feel something. It’s like I’m a video game and I really want to get to the next level, but I keep messing up or forgetting something on this one. So I just remain here. Waiting. Waiting for a clue or a hidden trap door to hoist myself out of this and into something different.
DEAR ELINORE,
I OVERHEARD MY PARENTS ARGUING TONIGHT. I HEARD MY NAME IN THERE, SO I THINK I MUST HAVE HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT. I’M FAILING MATH, YET I WAS ABLE TO KEEP COUNT OF ALL THE TIMES MY DAD CALLED ME A FAILURE TONIGHT: 8. IF I HAD MORE MONEY SAVED UP, I’D RUN AWAY, PACK UP MY BOOKBAG FULL OF ENOUGH CLOTHES TO LAST, I DON’T KNOW, A WEEK? BRING MY DISCM AN AND SOME OF MY FAVORITE ALBUMS: BOSSANOVA (PIXIES)
, DISINTEGRATION (THE CURE), BLEACH (KURT), SWEET OBLIVIAN (SCREAMING TREES) AND PROBABLY ANOTHER NIRVANA ONE. HERE’S WHAT I ALSO WANT. I WANT TO BE AN ASTRONAUT ONE DAY AND THEN I CAN TRAVEL TO A PLANET WHERE IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT I AM. I’VE ACTUALLY ALWAYS WANTED TO BE AN ASTRONAUT. I THINK MY FOLKS SEE IT AS SOME SORT OF DUMB DREAM, BUT I WANT TO BE JUST LIKE YURI GAGARIN. YOU KNOW, HE WAS THE FIRST ONE TO GO TO OUTER SPACE? IMAGINE EXPERIENCING SOMETHING NO ONE ELSE HAS. TODAY, I OVERHEARD YOU TELL YOUR FRIEND THAT YOU THINK I’M THE WORST PERSON ON EARTH. YEAH, I THINK YOU’RE RIGHT. I THINK I WOULD DO MUCH BETTER ON PLUTO. I HEARD YOU SAY SOMETHING ELSE TOO. YOU SAID MRS. BUTLER WAS SO BEAUTIFUL AND I NOTICED YOUR FACE WHEN YOU SAID IT. LIKE YOU REALLY REALLY MEANT IT. I DON’T KNOW, LIKE YOU LIKE HER. LIKE THAT. OR MAYBE GIRLS CAN SAY THAT. MAYBE GIRLS CAN JUST GO AROUND SAYING OTHER GIRLS ARE PRETTY WITHOUT PEOPLE THINKING THINGS. I THINK BRIAN IS CUTE, EVEN THOUGH HE’S A DICK. BUT I COULD NEVER SAY THAT OUT LOUD.
Monday, November 15
Dear James,
I guess you’re right—about things being different for girls—but I’m not sure why. We can be emotional and touchy-feely with each other, but boys can’t. Aggie said that boys can be feminists too, but most feel like they aren’t supposed to. But if a feminist is someone who believes in the equal rights of men and women, then what’s the big deal? Shouldn’t we all want that? Flor is a feminist. I think Shirley is too. Audre Lorde definitely was. Last night, I read that she changed the way her name was spelled because she didn’t like the way the ‘y’ hung past the lines in her notebook. So she just removed it.
Tuesday, November 16
Dear James,
Dara once told me that no one really likes to hear about someone else’s dreams unless they are in them. Well, you were in my dream last night. I was visiting Shirley in the mental hospital and even in my dream, all of the smells and sounds came back to me.
In my dream, I didn’t think it was strange that you were in the same ward as Shirley (they usually separate adults from adolescents). You were walking around reading a book that I can’t remember now, and I stopped you. I asked you why you were there, and you just shrugged. I told you I was visiting my mom and you just stared at me as though I was speaking a language you didn’t know. Then I grabbed you, kind of forcefully. You just let me. You didn’t pull away, you didn’t scream. And then I hugged you. It was so strange, James. When I woke, I was crying because I realized it was just a dream and you weren’t still alive. Did you want someone to stop you? What were you thinking right before
I used to visit Shirley every Sunday when she was in the hospital. Greta came too, though there was one time that it was just me. It was the first time I’d been there, and I didn’t really know what to expect. I imagined everyone to be kind of out of it, like in a weird, milky daze, everyone drooling and talking to themselves. I mean, I did read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest freshman year, but it wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be.
I remember I had to go to the bathroom, so she brought me into her room, which she shared with someone else. When I was going to the bathroom, I counted seventeen ants while I was peeing.
James, there are all sorts of new vocabulary words to be learned from being in a mental hospital, like contraband (I brought a bag full of crossword puzzle books and cans of diet soda, but the nurses had to check it first to make sure I didn’t bring in any banned stuff). Also vitals (heart stuff), psychomatic psychosomatic (actually I can’t remember this one), and intervention (like getting family and friends all together in the same room because someone drinks or takes drugs too much).
Each time I visited Shirley, we ate lunch in the cafeteria. It kind of smelled like ours at school, but way worse. It was always hard to locate my appetite when all the food looked pre-chewed and preserved into cardboard cutouts of artificial versions of the real thing. We’d wait in line and choose a sandwich with pink meat between slices of tomato, brown lettuce, and neon yellow cheese. Pink meat. Ham? Even after I took a few bites, I could never figure out what animal it belonged to.
When it was just us—no Greta—we ate in the solarium, which felt like a really warm hug with giant windows surrounding us. There was a bookshelf with tons of books. I remember Shirley telling me the story of how she met my dad without any prompting or anything.
“Your father and I met in a library. Did I ever tell you this story? I thought he was strange. But cute. I was writing an essay contrasting male and female photographers. I liked thinking about lenses separated by gender.”
Shirley met my dad when she was a sophomore in college. She wanted to be a photographer. She still has some of her old photos in shoeboxes. None are up, even though they’re good enough to display. Some are even great. After they started dating, Shirley stopped going to her classes. It’s like she just couldn’t do more than one thing. She told me she didn’t know how to multi-task, which is odd, since Shirley used to be found smoking a cigarette, eating a meal, and doing a crossword puzzle all at the same time. I think love distracted her. Or maybe she felt like it was too late to go back to class and deal with her left-behind studies. I never really asked because I didn’t want to make her feel bad.
“Your father was reading a cookbook. He had a notebook, one of those black-and-white compositions I buy you at the start of each school year. I remember watching this young man steal recipes. I thought it was extremely strange.”
“It’s not stealing.”
“I know. I know,” Shirley said, smiling.
“Do you still love him?”
“I’ll always love him because he gave me you and Greta. But sometimes two people grow apart.” Shirley let go of her “sandwich” and carefully pressed it back onto the plate.
On one of my last visits with her, while Greta was in the bathroom, I confided in her about how I was starting to feel in my body.
“The thing is that lately I feel like something is off with me, like that time you made macaroni and cheese with sour milk and we all just made these awful faces but still continued to eat it. That was terrible. Do you remember? Why did we do that? Why didn’t we just say something? But it’s like we were afraid to hurt your feelings, or maybe we were just so hungry and didn’t want to stop and question if it was even good. I feel like that now. I feel like I’m eating this sour meal and just ignoring how it’s making my body feel.”
“Eleanor,” Shirley said, “I don’t . . . I don’t understand what you mean.”
She looked so confused, so I dropped it. I didn’t know how to explain. I zipped up that part of me real tight.
But now I feel like I’m choking. I want to understand what this feeling is, James. I just wish I knew how to speak it.
Wednesday, November 17
Dear James,
I tried to actually study in study hall because I have a chemistry test that I feel pretty confident I’m going to fail. But instead, I obsessed over the right words to tell Aggie I’m gay. She couldn’t possibly think differently of me, but then I think of what Flor said and how she lost a lot of friends when she came out. James, is that what you were afraid of?
As I was swimming in my thoughts, I noticed a tiny piece of paper on my desk. Aggie’s beautiful handwriting was on the front with my name on it. I turned around and she smiled.
Want to come over after school? Circle YES or NO or just smile at me for YES and stand up and scream out loud for NO.
Of course, I turned around and smiled. Maybe that’s a sign to just tell her and be done with it.
Right before heading into science class, I noticed Dara holding hands with Damian. I don’t think Dara saw me stare at their interlocking hands. When did this happen? She never mentioned even thinking he was cute. This made me think about when I was younger, and I thought that if I turned off the radio, it would stop. The singers would hold their breaths, the DJs would halt their conversations, and they’d all just wait for me to turn the dial. But the thing is, James, nobody waits for you. Life continues to go on whether or not we ar
e ready. Dara and I were best friends for so many years and she was always the first person I shared my news with. Now she seems to have a boyfriend and I didn’t even know.
Thursday, November 18
Dear James,
Yesterday was incredible.
I was trying so hard to listen to Aggie’s smoky voice—like how January would sound if it could speak—but the truth was it was hard not to stare at everything around us.
We sat on her bed!!! and listened to a singer called PJ Harvey, who I’d never heard of.
“Oh, Eleanor,” Aggie said. “It’s like she’s ripping out her insides with every lyric!”
Being in her bedroom allowed me to peek into who Aggie is (without her telling me).
She had a poster of a really beautiful, skinny woman who I didn’t recognize.
“Audrey Hepburn!” Aggie told me. “We must watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s together, although . . .” she paused, “it’s kind of racist in some parts. Actually, I wasn’t thinking it until my mom and I watched it together and she got upset. But Audrey is just so beautiful in it.”
Her carpet was green like summer grass and her walls were sponge-painted.
“They were like that when we moved in. I wasn’t too sure of it in the beginning, but I kind of like it now,” she told me.
She had a bookshelf between her two windows and I couldn’t believe how many books she had.
“You can tell everything about a person based on what they read and listen to,” she said.
“So what does all this say about you?”
