Burlesque, Baguettes, and Basements
Or, LET IT IN
(Rather listen? Scroll down)
In mid-2005, my partner Heather MacAllister (I called her my Queen. And she was) had been so sick with ovarian cancer that she had almost died, not once but two times. In December, she sat with me at her kitchen table, opening medical bills.
"Huh," she said, as she smoothed out each piece of paper from its envelope, "Not dying is really expensive."
In January 2006, her friends threw her a huge fundraiser to help with the costs of not dying. It was a show, naturally, because that's what Heather's friends did, put on shows.
Heather's presence at this event had not been a given (see note regarding almost dying above), and we got ready together in her basement apartment. She prepared with the energy, enthusiasm and attention to detail that one would expect a fierce activist burlesque diva who had survived a recent near-death experience would bring to the situation.
I, um, put on a clean shirt.
"Does this look say 'not dead yet, suckers!'" she asked.
I wasn’t exactly sure of the correct answer. I pivoted.
"You look beautiful, my Queen." And so she did.
It seemed like every queer in San Francisco turned out, and we filled four floors of the Center for Sex & Culture. Overflowing. Extravaganza is not a word I would use in typical conversation, but that night was an extravaganza if there ever was one.
A brilliant, warm, glittery, glowing extravaganza, to be precise. And a beautiful moment of community as a verb.
Heather wore her furry coat and a jaunty hat, a fashionable barrier against the Bay Area damp, and sat on the front row. I watched her face as folks rose in standing ovation to her and asked later what she was thinking. She said, "I was telling myself, 'Let it all in, Heather, let it all in.'"
Later, when we were living together, she would compliment me on something I did, and I would say "thanks" and be off to the next task. She sometimes grabbed me by the arm and said, "Hey there, did you really hear that? Did you let it in?"
I still think about this every day. Like many of us who grew up in intense family situations, my boundaries can be porous sometimes. In a room of people laughing at a presentation, I'll fixate on the guy sitting in the back with his arms crossed. I let in criticism and don't let in care.
I let in randomly mean YouTube comments from professional internet trolls "(lk in the mirror b4 u post ur ugly”) but struggle to take in the deep love that my friends and sweet girlfriend offer me.
But, at least in part because of what Heather taught me—what Heather drilled into my thick head-- I sometimes let in the right things.
It has made a massive difference in my life.
In the fall of 2010, when my partner Cheryl got sick, her oncologist called with the final diagnosis on a Friday afternoon. We put him on speakerphone, and I wrote while Cheryl asked questions. When we hung up, I looked at Cheryl. "We need to tell people. And start an email list so people can help."
She started to roll her eyes but saw my expression and stopped mid-roll. I appreciated that. She seldom stopped an eye-roll once she began.
"If I were single and doing this alone, I would just tell one or two of my closest friends," she said.
I hesitated between wanting to respect her autonomy and not giving a shit about her autonomy.
"Well. But. You're not doing it alone."
A moment of silence passed, and then she nodded.
"Hmm. It is hard to argue with logic like that."
It was lovely watching Cheryl’s friends knock on the door and watching Cheryl let them in.
When Cheryl's white blood cells fell, we set up camp at home to avoid exposure to the great Germs of New York, and the door became a revolving door. Friends came almost every night. It was such sweet fun watching Cheryl talk with them, reminiscing, smiling, and laughing.
It was so sweet to watch Cheryl let it in.
For Christmas that year, our friends (and, if I understand correctly, some strangers as well) chipped in for a grocery delivery gift certificate. A massive gift certificate.
It made life so much easier those months following, even as Cheryl got sicker from the pulmonary side effects of the chemo. I can close my eyes and see her sitting on the gray couch (she said it was green), wearing what she called her house jeans, eating fresh bread.
Making a toasting motion with her baguette: "Here's to our awesome friends."
Letting it in.
It made life so much easier those months following, even as Cheryl got sicker from the pulmonary side effects of the chemo. I can close my eyes and see her sitting on the gray couch (she said it was green), wearing what she called her house jeans, eating fresh bread.
She made a toasting motion with her baguette: "Here's to our awesome friends."
Despite moving in overlapping circles, Heather and Cheryl never actually met. But Cheryl's delicacy and concern around having a partner with a dead partner made me feel very much seen and very much loved. During our first Thanksgiving together, she reminded me to call Heather's sisters back. She sat beside me at the dedication of the Heather MacAllister Lounge at Re/Dress, holding my hand. Six months later, she sat beside me again at Re/dress, during a reading for the Fat Studies Anthology. Heather had a piece in the book, and the organizers had asked me to read it. I hadn't ever read anything written by Heather in the first person in public, and I had to stop to collect myself. Twice.
When I sat down, I whispered to Cheryl, "Wow, I didn't know if I would get through that."
She nodded and whispered, "I was thinking if you tried once more and couldn't do it, I was going to come up behind you and finish reading."
Even with all the time that has passed, my face flushes, thinking of that particular type of quiet sensitivity. Cheryl's gift to me in that moment, and whenever we dealt with matters of the loss of Heather, was that she was so, well, natural. It never felt like a big deal.
Perhaps Heather's gift to Cheryl was the invitation to let it in.
And I don't know if this is a gift or more like completely unnecessary substack homework, but…
Our minds and hearts are complicated and the world is indeed a dumpster on fire. But as we're all doing our own little bit to make it not quite so dumpster-fire-ish, maybe, when the moments of love, tenderness or appreciation come, we could stop for a moment and try to let it in.
💜