girls ever since I was a kid. It started with…
God, this is embarrassing, but…it started with Cher.
I never missed an episode of her show. I’d sew exact replicas of whatever she’d worn that week for my Barbies. I was too old to be playing with Barbies by then, but my parents didn’t notice, thank God.
I don’t remember exactly when I figured out that my fixation wasn’t on Cher’s clothes—it was the fact that Cher was in those clothes. She had this one outfit where you could see her belly button, and I remember so clearly when my mom gasped and switched off the TV. I had to stop myself from lunging to turn it back on.
Your brother’s so lucky. He gets to live in San Francisco, and he has you.
I could never tell my sisters. They’d go straight to my parents, for one thing, but also, they’d hate me if they knew.
I think my aunt might suspect already, though.
I’ve never really told you about her, but ever since Anita Bryant started her campaign, my aunt and uncle have been running a group to support her. Now they’re leading the Orange County branch of the campaign to pass Proposition 6. You’ve heard about that, right? The initiative to ban gay teachers? Last week my sister and I stood out in front of the grocery store and got a hundred pledges to vote yes in an hour.
I hate having to lie to everyone in the middle of all this. I started a whole diary to get through it. That’s what my letters to Harvey are. I always thought writing to an imaginary Harvey Milk was the closest I’d come to telling anyone, but…well, here I am now. Telling you.
Write back, please. As soon as you can. I’m nervous putting this in the mail, but also…I just enjoy getting letters from you. Especially now.
Yours truly, Tammy
Monday, November 28, 1977
Dear Tammy,
I just got your letter, and tonight I’m going to walk down to the post office so I can put this back in the mail to you. That way you’ll get it faster than if I leave it in the mailbox out front. I wish I could send it faster. Having to wait for the mail is terrible sometimes.
But you don’t need to be nervous. I meant what I said before—you can trust me.
How about we both try writing to each other, the way we write in our diaries? I did that a few times during the summer, but I guess you never really could. Now that I know, though, if you wanted to write to me the same way you’ve been writing your letters to Harvey Milk, I’d want to read them.
I’ll start. Here’s what I would’ve written in my diary about today.
I went to the women’s bookstore on Valencia Street after school. It was my first time, and I was nervous. I’d changed out of my school uniform and put on some lipstick and a leather jacket I’d just bought at a secondhand store. As soon as I stepped off the bus and walked inside, though, I could tell no one there cared how I looked.
“Hi,” I said, as I stepped toward the girl at the cash register. “I’m, um, I’m looking for—”
“LOOK OUT!” a voice shrieked behind me.
I whipped around and barely managed to jump back before the dolly laden with a six-foot-high stack of boxes could careen straight into me.
“SHIT, I’M SO SORRY!” the same voice yelled as the girl behind the cash register leaped out to grab the top box before it crashed to the floor. The box below it was tottering, too, and I instinctively jumped forward and wrapped my arms around it. It was heavy, and I staggered backward, but I managed to hang on.
“I told you not to stack them so high!” the girl who’d come out from behind the register admonished. “Christ, Becky!”
“I know, I know, I know!” Becky ran out from behind the dolly and up to me. She was about my height, with pale skin, red hair, and freckles across her