by Robin Talley
“I’m going to the camera store.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Leonard and Dean and a bunch of the guys are meeting up.”
“Who’s Dean?”
“Just a guy. The election’s getting closer and we’ve got flyers to fold. I’d invite you, but Mom already said you couldn’t go out, and it’s not as if you’d want to, anyway.”
“I…” I didn’t know what to say. I did want to go out with my brother, and I liked the idea of helping Harvey Milk get elected. He’s in the newspaper all the time now, always talking about standing up to special interests and big corporations.
I hated the way I stuck out on Castro Street, though.
Maybe I could work on another campaign or something. For one of the candidates here in our district running against Dan White.
“Don’t worry about it.” Peter turned off the faucet. He didn’t meet my eyes. “By the way, where’d you get that piece of artwork? The one you were showing Kevin?”
Having my brother see Tammy’s collage didn’t bother me the same way it did when Kevin was examining it earlier. “My pen pal made it. Tammy.”
“Really? Wow. She seems cooler than I thought. Anyway, I—”
“Do you two need any help?” Kevin was in the doorway all of a sudden, smiling.
“Nah, we’ve got it.” Peter turned back to the sink without flinching at the interruption. I’m sure my smile was strained, though.
It’s always gone without saying that Kevin couldn’t know about Peter. I don’t know what he’d think if he did. We’ve never talked about homosexuality.
But keeping it secret from Tammy is harder. Over the last few weeks, I’ve started thinking of her as a real friend. Plus, we made that whole promise to be honest, and here I am, holding back something huge.
I can guess how she’d react. She lives in Orange County. Her family founded a church. It’s safe to assume she’s not a fan of gay people.
Being honest is great and all, but that’s a risk I can’t take. Tammy may seem cool, but my brother’s the one who’s always been there for me. I need to be there for him, too.
And I need to figure out a better way to do that than I have so far.
Yours, Sharon
Tuesday, September 6, 1977
Dear Harvey,
I don’t know how I’m even going to write about today without vomiting all over this notebook.
I don’t know how much more I can take.
The fucking pep rally was this afternoon. I’d spent weeks “planning” it, which mostly meant mimeographing flyers and filling out permission forms and baking cookies for all the reporters Aunt Mandy invited (I knew there’d be baking involved somehow). By the time the rally started, I was relieved, since at least it meant I was done.
I was stupid. I should’ve known the actual rally would be much worse than the work before it.
Uncle Russell did most of the talking, as usual, in his booming preacher voice. “God’s word in the Book of Revelation tells us militant homosexuals are the harbingers of the end days! It’s on all us Christian patriots to show the world where we stand, or join the sinners in Hellfire!” Et cetera.
(The junior high kids giggled when he said “Hellfire.” We’re supposed to say “H-E-double-hockey-sticks.”)
It was the chanting that did me in, though.
It was HORRIBLE, Harvey.
They made us all do it. A hundred voices, echoing in unison through the gym. If I’d stayed quiet, they’d have seen and wondered why, so I had to chant with everybody else. I couldn’t even dig my nails into my palms, because Carolyn was sitting right beside me and she’d have noticed for sure.
TV cameras were pointed right at us the whole time, too, so now all of California has seen me yelling “Schools aren’t for sinners!” and “Christians have rights!” and “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!” and acting as if I meant every word.
Harvey, I—
I’ll come back in a minute.
Okay. I’m back. I just threw up.
Sorry. I know it’s gross. Everything’s gross right now.
At the end of the chanting, Uncle Russell made us all join hands. “Please, Lord, deliver us from evil,” he said, “and protect our children from those who’d tempt them to the devil’s harmful path.”
Everyone except me said, “Amen.”
Do none of them ever think about what they’re saying?
I’m a child. They’re the ones harming me.
That was when I started crying. Next to me, Carolyn was crying, too, but she was whispering prayers at the same time, and she probably thought I was crying out of passion for Jesus. That only made me cry harder.
And then—and Harvey, I don’t know if she’d planned this all along, or if she decided to do it right in that moment, but I guess it doesn’t matter—Aunt Mandy looked up at the bleachers, right at me. And she said, “Now we call on your youth group vice president, Tammy Larson, to offer up her own prayer on behalf of California’s children.”
I froze. I couldn’t move at all, Harvey. Until Carolyn pushed my shoulder from behind, and before I knew what was happening, I was standing up.
I climbed down from the bleachers. All I could see was the blinding lights from the cameras pointed in my face. I don’t know how I made it down those steps and out into the middle of the gym floor, but all of a sudden Uncle Russell was sticking his microphone in my face. Then he fucking winked at me.
I turned around to face the crowd. I wiped my eyes and held up the microphone, and I said…
I don’t remember. It was impossible to hear myself over the buzzing in my ears. I tried to remember Uncle Russell’s prayer, and I said something like “Lord, forgive us our sins and use us, your children, as instruments of righteousness. In your holy name, amen.”
I don’t know if I was supposed to end the prayer or not, but I couldn’t take another second of that shit.
Harvey… I wanted to rip the skin off my face and fling it in my aunt and uncle’s faces. I wanted to scream and scream and scream until there was nothing left inside me but air.
Somehow I must’ve managed to keep all of that in, because no one seemed to think anything was unusual. The whole crowd chimed “Amen” when I was done. Uncle Russell lifted his arms, and everyone started clapping and stomping their feet and shouting, as if this was the most fun they’d ever had.
At first I thought they were all just celebrating the fact that we’d gotten to miss sixth period. Then two sophomore guys in the bleachers near me started chanting, in perfect rhythm to all those stomping feet. “KILL A QUEER FOR CHRIST! KILL A QUEER FOR CHRIST!”
Other people heard it, too, and they started chanting along. Soon our whole section of bleachers had joined in. Uncle Russell and Aunt Mandy and the teachers must’ve heard—they were only a few feet from us—but none of them said anything.
As I watched Carolyn chanting along with the others, I remembered something. God, I can’t believe I ever forgot.
It was years ago—fifth grade, I think. A bunch of us had gone to a sleepover at Carolyn’s house for her birthday, and we got to talking about what it would be like to kiss a boy. Annette said she’d done it once at her cousin’s wedding, and she’d practiced on her hand first. Then all of a sudden, we were all practicing on our hands. I didn’t want to do it—I didn’t know I was gay yet, but I knew I wasn’t the same as everybody else, and I was scared someone would be able to tell. But I did it anyway, since it would’ve looked suspicious if I was the only one who didn’t.
Then, out of nowhere, Carolyn dared Annette and Kathy to kiss each other. They refused, of course, and we all started laughing and talking about how gross it would be for a girl to kiss another girl. Everyone was making gagging noises. I laughed, but I felt sick to my stomach the whole time.
Then Carolyn, who’d been making gagging noises, too, sai
d, “How do we know for sure, though, until someone tries it?” At first we laughed some more, but she didn’t, so everyone got quiet. Then Carolyn leaned over and kissed Annette, full on the lips.
It was the first time I’d ever seen something like that. The last, too.
When they broke apart, I swallowed. The whole room was so quiet, they probably heard me.
Then Carolyn started laughing and making more grossed-out noises, and a second later Annette started doing the same thing. Soon everyone was squealing. I joined in, saying fervent “Ewwww!”s along with the others.
I still don’t know why Carolyn did that.
Now, here we were. Here she was, chanting about killing queers.
My aunt and uncle can preach as much as they want about saving people from sin. What those kids in the bleachers were chanting—that’s what this is about.
They don’t want you to win your election, Harvey, but it’s not as if this is all going to be over if you lose.
They want you gone. You, and everybody else like you.
They want us to go away. One way or another.
I don’t know… Maybe that would be a lot easier.
At the beginning of the rally, Aunt Mandy said Anita Bryant’s win in Miami was only the first step. More cities and states will start banning gay rights, she said (only she called it “standing up for Christian families”), and before long, it’ll be illegal for teachers to keep their jobs unless they oppose gay rights, too (only she called that “keeping children in our schools safe from supporters of perversion”). She said that would put a stop to Gay Freedom Day (which she called “that annual travesty up in San Francisco”) and keep homosexuals from “getting ideas” about running for office again.
I don’t know what scares her more—the idea that you exist, Harvey, or the idea that someday you might not be the only gay person with power.
I’m so glad I didn’t tell Sharon the truth. I can’t believe I ever considered it. There’s too much at stake. She tells me so much about what she’s doing and what she’s thinking, but there’s no way I can do the same.
I need to be more careful. I should stick to writing about music. We have more of those stupid pen pal questions to answer before the project ends in November, so I can write about those, too.
Except I don’t know how I’m going to make it to November, Harvey. I want to crawl into a hole and never come out again.
I thought I could stand up to their bullshit, but I failed. I’m not as strong as I thought.
I’ve got to keep my head down. Muddle through, however I can.
Maybe I can even get a boyfriend. If I could find a guy who doesn’t want to make out much, or…
Fuck, who do I think I’m kidding?
I can’t write any more. I’m about to lose it. I’ll go hide this diary along with all the other evidence of all my sins, put on Horses, and do whatever it takes not to have to think about any of this anymore.
Tammy
Wednesday, September 14, 1977
Dear Sharon,
Sorry it took me longer than usual to write back. I’ve been really busy since school started.
I’m behind on answering questions for the report, so here’s the next one:
What is your favorite subject in school, and why?
Art, I guess. It was always my favorite when I was younger. The art teacher I had in junior high was great. He’s the one who taught me how to do shading and perspective. Which is good, since my current art teacher is also the girls’ gym teacher and wouldn’t know perspective if it was a tennis ball flying at her face.
Sorry. I guess that answer got kind of dark.
Have you listened to the new Iggy Pop album yet? I got it yesterday. It has a couple of good songs, but I’m not sure about the rest. The guy at the record store said it isn’t selling because no one’s been buying anything but Elvis records for the past month. Is it bad that I never cared about Elvis, even when he was alive?
Now I feel guilty for writing that. My mom cried for a week after he died. I don’t know what I’d do if Patti Smith died.
Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I’d better go.
Yours truly, Tammy
Saturday, September 17, 1977
Dear Tammy,
I know what you mean. I’ve been busy since school started, too. There’s a big election coming up here in November and my brother’s volunteering in another district, and I’ve started helping with a campaign in our neighborhood, too. There’s a guy running who my brother really doesn’t want to win, so I’ve been putting up signs for one of the other candidates. I don’t know much about her except that she’s a real-estate agent and she’s not Dan White.
I haven’t heard much Iggy Pop. He’s friends with David Bowie, right? My brother doesn’t listen to punk, but he loves David Bowie.
The last time I was at the record store I bought a bunch of singles. Some of them aren’t great, but a few are cool. Nothing on Patti Smith’s level, but two are by other bands with girl lead singers. One’s called the Avengers—have you heard of them? They’re from San Francisco.
My favorite single was by this British band called X-Ray Spex. It’s this strange song about how everyone looks down on girls, but it’s also about…bondage? I don’t know exactly what bondage is, but the song is called “Oh Bondage Up Yours!” and you should definitely get it. As far as I can tell it’s about society, and how we’re all supposed to act a certain way and how society can’t own us if we all break free. I want to know what you think of it.
Can I tell you one of my favorite things about punk? It’s that all the songs are about being angry. I used to think songs had to be about love, until I found punk. There are way too many love songs already, what with pop and disco and Elvis. Most of the time I don’t understand what people are even talking about when they talk about love, let alone when they’re singing about it.
Oh, and my favorite subject is English. I want to be an English teacher, but not at a Catholic school. All we read here is Chaucer and Shakespeare and Blake. The teachers probably think if they let us read anything close to this century we’ll turn into hippies. At the public school they at least get to read Mark Twain.
Since you can’t say most of that in your report, please just say I love to read.
Write back when you can.
Yours truly, Sharon
P.S. Is everything all right? Your last letter made me wonder. If there’s anything going on, you can tell me. Don’t forget our pledge.
Saturday, September 24, 1977
Dear Sharon,
Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, there’s just been a lot going on.
I asked the guy at the record store today if they had anything by the Avengers or the Prudes, but he said no. I’ve seen him there a bunch of times—there’s only one decent record store in town, so I go there a lot, and he’s usually there in the afternoons—and today he was wearing a shirt that said Eat the Rich with a skull on it next to a picture of a knife and fork, which is a gutsy shirt to wear in Orange County. He asked where I’d heard about the Prudes and the Avengers, and I said my friend had seen the Prudes live in San Francisco—and Sharon, I have to tell you, this guy was impressed. I could tell he was trying to hide it, but he’d never heard of them.
It’s funny… I couldn’t care less whether anyone at school thinks of me, but I like the idea that this guy thinks I’m cool.
They did have that single by X-Ray Spex, so he played it for me over the store’s speakers. We got some annoyed looks from people in the disco section, but the song doesn’t have any curse words, so they need to relax. It’s weird, sure, but no weirder than Patti Smith singing about humping a parking meter.
Did you ever find that Iggy Pop record? What did you think?
Yours truly, Tammy
Wednesday, Nov
ember 9, 1977
Dear Diary,
In History today I was minding my own business, writing a letter to Tammy.
It’s getting harder now to figure out what to say in those. All she ever wants to talk about anymore is music. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about music—sometimes, talking to Tammy about shows is more fun than actually going to shows—but for a while we were writing to each other about real things, personal things, and I don’t know why we stopped. I must’ve said something wrong.
Our reports are due soon, but we’ve already finished all the stupid questions we were supposed to answer. I hope we’ll keep writing after the project is over. We’ve already written way more than the ten letters we were supposed to.
I wish we could meet in person. I wish I knew what she looks like.
But I’m getting distracted. I sat down to write about what happened in History.
Yesterday was the election. I watched the results come in with Mom and Peter last night, and it was as if our whole city had changed in an instant. I wanted to write to Tammy about all of it, but this was all I’d managed to get down:
Dear Tammy,
I’m exhausted. I’m sitting in History class and the teacher’s droning on about Charlemagne again. I stayed up way too late watching the news, and now I can’t stop thinking about—
“What’s this, Sharon?” Sister Catherine’s voice was way too sharp and way too close. I slammed my hand down over my notebook, but it was too late. “Taking notes, I see? You can read them aloud to the class. Up front, please.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, Sister.”
There was a time when my face would’ve burned as I walked to the front of the classroom, but this was too ridiculous to get embarrassed over. If I’d had to read the letter I wrote Tammy a couple of weeks ago, the one where I told her about going parking with Kevin after a movie, and how all of a sudden he opened his glove compartment and showed me he had a box of condoms in there, and how I felt so awkward I pretended to have a coughing fit and asked him to drive me home, that would’ve been another story.