Another transgender murder

AP, of all sources, has a good write-up of the horrible murder of a transgender teen in Jamaica, where homophobia is the norm. The idea of being killed by small-minded sociopaths is something that strikes close to the heart of every GLBT person. This poor kid deserved better, way better.

These incidents always remind me of Tracy, a "drag queen" I knew when I was about 20. Today, I'm pretty sure she'd be trans. She looked every bit the woman to me. In the phrase of the day, she was "black and beautiful". Every Saturday night, we'd dance our heads off at the Gay Activists Alliance Firehouse. It was all smiles and glitter and rhinestones on this one, safe night of the week. We felt so protected there, all of us, in those very early days of the push for gay rights. But we also knew that Tracy faced a tremendous amount of hostility on the streets, much more than was ever directed our way. Sometimes she'd show us the sledgehammer she carried in her purse. She said she needed it for defense. That idea sent a chill through me.

Then one day she disappeared. Some time later, we learned from the grapevine that she'd been murdered. It was so sick, so wrong. She was a darling, and someone murdered her for being who she was. Though I've known many transgender people since that time, I can't forget Tracy. Each time I hear about one of these senseless murders, I see her dancing her heart out at the firehouse, a huge smile on her face. She was terrific.

More than 40 years later, this sort of thing still goes on. It's monstrous. Every. Damn. Time.

Xmas past

My Aunt Sue, may she rest in the ground, used to make us laugh at Xmas. She didn't know this, but that just made it more fun.

On Xmas Eve, my extended family always went to Aunt Sue's house in Elmont, Long Island. Since the family got along for the most part, we all looked forward to this family gathering. We did the usual: ate our hearts out and gave presents to the kids.

When it came time, we would open Aunt Sue's presents with equal amounts of trepidation and glee. The paper unwrapped, we'd open the box and lift the tissue paper and see...something. She gave the strangest presents in the world. Even years later, and with extensive family consultations, we wouldn't know what the thing was. Of course, this would cause endless laughter. (Don't worry; she never knew. We were not an evil family.)

To give an example, one year she gave my sister this thing. It was a, a...sort of a necklace-type thing made of rope and beads -- but there was no way to put it over your head. The hole was too small. It didn't have any hooks or fasteners that might have turned it into a big, clunky bracelet. We were stumped -- and remained that way.

I remember one year, we asked her what something was. Her response was, "I just saw it and thought you would like it." She was very nice and always vague, dear Aunt Sue. These memories seem so sweet now. Those were great family evenings -- even though one of the uncles would always get drunk and sing. He wasn't even bad, but it was the same song, again and again. And this spanned decades. 

But we had fun and that's what Xmas is all about. By the way, I noticed they've made a movie of my book, Xmas Carol. I saw it in the listings for Turner Classic Movies. But they spelled the title incorrectly! It said "A Christmas Carol". Weird. But I'm glad someone made a movie out of my book. I'll have to see it sometime. 

Ho, ho, ho. Sorta. Don't let anything ruin your Xmas. Go have fun!

Memories that stay with you

You know how some memories are burned into your mind, seemingly for no particular reason? I find this so odd. For instance, I remember a snowy day when I was about 16. I think of that day often, though there's nothing unusual about the memory. Still, it's always with me -- how the day felt, the wetness of the snowfall, and how things sounded. It's exciting, this memory, though I don't know why. It's imbued with significance -- seemingly for no reason.

This also applies to things people say. For some reason, I remember remarks that people made decades ago. And it's not that what they said was so striking or perceptive; some are downright boring remarks. But they stayed with me and I think of them often. There seems to be no rhyme or reason governing what remains in our minds, and what passes through, virtually unnoticed.

(Don't get me wrong. Some of the memories that stay with us forever are important. But it seems our brains store all sorts of things, including stuff that is meaningless.) 

Of course, I'm going to bring this around to writing. The odd thing is that these memories -- both significant and insignificant -- are finding a home in the novels I write. I'm not aware that I'm doing this as I write a scene. But later when I read it, I'll realize that I've recreated one of these fortified memories in the book. The look of a room, the feeling caused by an offhand remark, an odd phrasing someone once used -- all these memories that stuck with me throughout my life are being released, one by one, into my novels. It's quite nice, actually. They finally found a good home.

Do you have strong memories of an event or a day that didn't seem to matter much when it happened, but nonetheless stayed with you all these years? It's such a quirky thing.

Miss Jessup, my alluring piano teacher

In my early teens, I took piano lessons. There was a storefront, fly-by-night "music school" a few doors down from the luncheonette my stepfather owned, and that's where I went to learn how to play the piano. I went weekly and enjoyed the heck out of it -- but I never learned a thing about music. I was too distracted.

The object of my attention was my teacher, an amazing woman named Miss Jessup. Here's a photo of Mrs. Slocombe, Molly Sugden's character from "Are You Being Served". Mind you, Miss Jessup was no Mrs. Slocombe. She was a hot mamma of the first order. I only want to point to Molly's hair -- paint it white-blonde and you've got Miss Jessup's hair. Well, if you pooch it up a bit higher, you do.

Miss Jessup was in her 20s and was attractive in the way starlets are attractive: noticeably, and as the result of much effort. She dressed like a starlet too. She had a big bust like Mae West, what appeared to be an 18-inch waist and wore skintight dresses every day. She was like a blonde Betty Boop. Her hair was, as I've said, higher than Mrs. Slocombe's and bleached almost white. She wore it arranged in ringlets that towered over her head, and the whole thing was lacquered into place. You would not see a hair move on Miss Jessup's head. There was never any doubt about this.

She wore very high heels, and rightly so. She must have been about 5 feet tall, if that. And she existed within a ball of perfume. I was too young to know what scent it was, but it was there. You couldn't possibly miss it.

She'd take me into her tiny piano room, a little closet, actually, with a white stand-up piano against the far wall, and we would go over my lesson. I didn't play well, had no talent at all, in fact. But I could read music and could brute-practice my way into being able to play a tune -- much to the horror of those who had to listen for months as I learned it.

She would ask me to play the lesson she'd assigned me, and after I did, she'd show me how to play it correctly. That was the Miss Jessup Moment. I would sit close by her right side, breathing in her cloud of perfume as I marveled at her white-painted nails, clicking madly over the keys. Miss Jessup's nails provided her own percussion as she played.

That's all I remember from our lessons: the Miss Jessup Moments when I would float in a ball of her perfume, staring at her make-up and nails and hair and clothes, and pay absolutely no attention to the music. I never learned a thing from Miss Jessup but I enjoyed my lessons thoroughly. I wonder if she's still out there.

Yoo hoo, Miss Jessup! Are you still among us? And more importantly, do you still dress like you live in a movie?