When I saw a dying person for the first time I was six. My mother, father, sister and I were staying at my uncle’s lake house. My aunt was at the end of a battle with cancer. I didn’t know what that meant, but I could see her frailness, how something I couldn’t name was slowly diminishing, draining from her withered features.
I’m where I’m meant to be now, but I hate that I believed I had to present myself differently in order for others to believe that I’m queer. I hate that dressing girly now makes me invisible to the lesbian community. What I hate most of all, however, is that even if I make it a known fact that I am into women, I am still doubted and distrusted by everyone.
My time kicking through the slush pile has taught me this: people are crazy and people are determined. I cannot imagine the amount of dedication and beautiful delusion it takes to write five hundred pages about a woman who must choose between a jazz musician and an eccentric LES artist.