And I wanted to say that I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, or with Carolyn for that matter. Or my brother, or anyone else. I understand about wanting to keep it secret, but that’s not the same thing as there being something wrong with you. That’s just what you have to do to survive from one day to the next.
I’m so glad we’re still writing to each other, because there’s a lot I want to say to you. I want to hear everything you have to say, too.
Shoot, got to go. I’ll write again tomorrow.
Yours, Sharon
Summer, 1978
Saturday, May 20, 1978
Dear Diary,
I haven’t used this diary in months—not since I started writing every single thought in my head in my letters to Tammy. But I had to get it out again to write about tonight.
I went to a show in North Beach. I’d thought about inviting Kevin, but I decided I’d rather be alone. Now I wish I’d called him after all.
The show itself was great. This band called Crime opened, and then the Avengers came on. It was my first time seeing the Avengers live, and their singer had short, spiky bleached hair and cool makeup—big red circles of blush up high on her cheeks and dark, over-the-top eye makeup, as if she was making fun of girls who try to look like Farrah Fawcett-Majors.
The way she moved around the stage when she wasn’t singing was cool, too. She gave off a very clear signal that she didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She was just moving the way she wanted to move.
When the band took a break, everyone started churning toward the bar, as usual. I didn’t want to get crushed, so I headed for the front door and stepped outside. It was cold out, and I hadn’t brought a jacket since I always get sweaty from dancing, so I was shivering in my Clash T-shirt. It was one I’d found in the same secondhand store where I’d bought a bunch of things lately, but I’d worn it with jeans because the last couple of times I’d gone to clubs in my vinyl skirt, jerks had kept grabbing my butt.
I got so cold so fast I gave up and turned around to go back inside. That was when I spotted the poster. It was one of a dozen worn, tattered posters that had been up on that wall by the door for ages, but it jumped out to me so clearly it might as well have been outlined in neon.
It was the same poster I saw on the side of a phone booth on my way out of the Castro, almost a year ago now. The one with the picture of Midge Spelling in her leather skirt and tie.
I froze, staring at it. The poster was gray and wrinkled, with a long tear running down the side. The picture of Midge was faded, but intact. She stared straight into the camera with no trace of a smile. As if she was looking right through me.
I remember that night so clearly. The moment I first saw Midge onstage. The passion in her voice. The way she shut her eyes when she sang. The way her lips curled as she growled into the microphone. Everything about her was strong, and fierce, and beautiful, all at the same time.
Suddenly, staring down at that worn poster, all I wanted in the entire world was to go back to that night, climb up onto that stage, and kiss her.
Wait. What?
I shut my eyes and sucked in a ragged breath. Had I imagined that thought?
No. It was real. Completely, unavoidably real.
I turned around. When I opened my eyes again, I was facing the cars and buses speeding by on the street in front of the club. I couldn’t see Midge’s photo, but I could feel it looming behind me.
What did this mean? What was I supposed to do?
I’m not gay.
I have a boyfriend. I like him. I like being with him. I like it