OnLine With Zoe

The Tragedy of Lost History

This last weekend I went to the San Francisco premiere of March On which was shown at the LGBT Community Center.  It was a fantastic time with the convergence of friends; old and new.  We went to many places in the Castro, from Dolma to the Sausage Factory, a Ken display in a residential window to the erased Castro Camera shop which is now HRC.  My friends told me that the change was made over night; presumably to avoid pushback and/or media attention.

  Of course you and I know the address 575 Castro Street.  You can see the cardboard figure of Harvey in the second floor window and the plaque in the sidewalk.  But I hope the next generation tells their AI kids that it was once the magnetic, radiant  meeting place for women, labor, queers; all disenfranchised people who made plans for a brighter tomorrow.

I suppose tourists can walk down to the next corner, turn left to 4127 18^th Street find the LGBT History Museum.  There they can see Harvey’s bullhorn, Mary Ann Singleton’s dress from Tales of the City and the NOW program from 1976, when dykes were only welcome if they did not mention their orientation.  

I went to the History Museum with a gaggle of young people who stood in awe; pointing and conferring with one another, respectfully chatting about those who went before them.  It felt so peculiar to me because what they see as history, I think of as current.

 

But when I saw the pastel suits of Martin and Lyon, I almost got light headed.  I glanced around for a bench with none to be found.  (I guess old people are to be honored but not seated).  I made it through walking around the room and asked the cashier if I could sit in an empty chair behind the table.  I mourn the terrible loss of Harvey’s true legacy of inclusion of all people as falsely portrayed in the Oscar winning movie.  I am sick to my stomach that there is news TODAY of the possible closing of the Martin-Lyon Clinic.

I am not ready to step away, to become an empty black suit with a scarf or round black glasses in a box somewhere.  No, you may not have my torch, get your own torch.  You can light yours from mine.  BUT do know this, nothing is ever accomplished without a lot of energy, confrontation, midnight meetings and sacrifice.  The true stores, the real story is never as sanitized as dry cleaned suits in a museum or movies with big name stars. Change the awning, rewrite history, misrepresent sexual orientation; it seems so tragic to those who know the truth of it.  Make the queers appear straight, make the edgy people seem easy going, make it all cute as a bug.

Let me state clearly ~ the truth will set you free ~ not a sanitized history.

Her Little House

A friend called me this morning to tell me that the house my adored friend Laura Nyro owned is for sale.  I seldom think of the house but when I do, it is almost blinding with warmth and light.  I googled the sale and looked at the pictures.  There is little remaining of her touch there; though I know exactly where her ashes rest with Ember. 

The ad shows pictures of the big house on the road.  She did not live there at all.  A wonderful couple rented the big house.  Maria's painting studio was up the outside stairs.  Laura lived in the little house, across the pond.  The only picture of Laura's true house that I have is the one in the misguided Kort biography.  You can see the Gypsy parked outside which is the first home of Laura's I was ever in.  It was parked in the Magic Speller Bookstore's parking lot as Laura brought her new baby boy to visit. 

The second home I visited was in Amherst.  I spent a week with Laura, Maria, Gil, and the Belgian Tervurans.  Maria had a studio upstairs and a little guest room where I slept.  Maria was painting interpretations of the Dutch Masters at the time and, in particular, Vermeer  After knowing her and her work for over 15 years, it was the first time I saw yellow in her pallet.  I am certain she was deeply happy.  This duplex was walking distance from Emily Dickinson's house which led me to marvel at the birds, insects and foliage in their shared neighborhood with even greater scrutiny. 

Then they moved back to the Danbury house and I went there many times including March and April of 1997.  I have so many memories that I foster as to not let them fade.  So to see the house listed today, to know that her ashes, her pond, her land is for sale is assailing.  I know where she lived.  I know where she died.  No realtor knows this; maybe no one knows this.  And many secrets, bright and dark, will die with me.