Eating Words: Kathy & Marilyn & Me

There were two pivotal events that stand out from 2001. One, of course, were the events of 9/11 and the total upheaval and sadness that enveloped the nation and permanently scarred our national psyche. The other was obscure to most of the rest of the world but wounded me permanently on a personal level. Almost a week to the day--and almost to the exact time--I lost a dear cousin to cancer. She was so much more than my first cousin, however. She was my friend--and oftentimes, my surrogate mother.

We had drifted apart in the intervening years. She married and divorced during that time and although we kept in touch by phone and reconnected at various family functions, we weren't as close as we'd once been. I always knew she was just a phone call away, however. Her name was Kathy and she was an angel.

Being gay in a small town in the 1970s wasn't easy. When I first moved to Texas after graduating high school, I thought I could live a bit more "openly" but quickly found out that the world wasn't as accepting as I thought it would be. Also, the age of AIDS was dawning so any coolness that a gay identity may have had for me during the disco days of the 70s had evaporated like precious drops of water on asphalt in the hot Texas sun. I lived with an aunt and uncle in a suburb of Fort Worth and began to attend a small community college within walking distance. That aunt and uncle were Kathy's parents. Although I confided what was then my dark secret with my aunt, things unraveled quickly when my uncle found out. I was ordered out of their house when the semester was finished. Of course they knew that it meant I would need to move back to Pennsylvania as I had no real means of supporting myself. I was--at that time--working at a fried chicken shack, the kind one finds on just about every street corner in north central Texas. When the semester was over, I changed course. I found a roommate and a new job and, much to my aunt and uncle's and parents disgust, decided to stay on in Texas. That only lasted until November, when my crazy roommate and I parted ways and I found myself in a predicament. Tail between my legs, I went running home to mom and dad and the small town from which I had so desperately wanted to escape. I was by that time eighteen and my future didn't look very bright at all.

I stayed on with mom and dad with no real direction and, after a brief flirtation with joining a religious order in New York, accepted an offer to go back to Texas and try again--this time with a dear friend who was about to be married. She offered for me to stay with she and her soon-to-be husband. I jumped at the chance. In June, I was back in Fort Worth and my friend Natalie was happy to have me there. With an almost gleeful attitude, I drove her car over to my aunt's house and, with my new Madonna cassette blaring on the car stereo, expressed how happy I was to be back. We were still quite a bit at odds and the look of disgust on her face pleased me. It just so happened that my cousin Kathy, who lived in the neighboring town of Arlington, was visiting her mom at that moment. "Tom," she said, "why don't you come live with me? I've got an extra room. You'd get a job in Arlington in no time!" Aunt Bernice looked disapproving and that inspired me. Well, it sounded good. I knew she'd go easy on me regarding money until I found a job and my friend Natalie didn't mind. About a week later, Natalie and Dave were dropping me off at the little house on Pilant Street where my cousin and her teenage son lived. It wasn't long before I did in fact get a job flipping burgers. I was happy to have found a new home. Kathy was about as open and accepting as a person could be and she embraced me just as I was.

What followed were some of the happiest memories I have of my early years in Texas. Of course, none of it would have been possible if not for Kathy. She supported me emotionally during that time and all the while doing a damn good job of being a single mother to a teenage boy as well. I came of age in that little house. I can picture it perfectly just closing my eyes. I met my first (what I thought) "true love" while living there and Kathy comforted me after the inevitable breakup. I can't possibly forget her wise advice. "Tom, I know it hurts. Believe me, I've been there. But you'll get through this and you'll be happy again. Just wait." She was so fucking practical. Her cheerfulness just added to it. Everything she said was both practical and cheerful at the same time. One couldn't help but be infected by it. We both loved Marilyn Monroe. We shared deep conversations about everything under the sun--very often infused with the deep contemplation that comes from good weed. Yes, we shared that too. I think she may have been the coolest confidant I ever had.

Of course, it had to end. I finally got serious enough about a guy to try a place of my own with him. It ended disastrously and Kathy was right there...helping me pick up the pieces. Years rolled on with the usual ebbs and flows of life. Mine seemed to thrive on drama while Kathy finally found what seemed like contentment in a relationship with a guy she married--who would eventually break her heart. In the intervening years, when we'd visit, we'd always pick up right where we'd left off. I'd bring her a copy of the latest find from a bookstore--usually Marilyn related. We'd catch up and be on our separate ways. Then...

It was my mother who called me. From Pennsylvania. Kathy was in the hospital. Her cancer had returned and it didn't look good. She told me that I needed to be with her. Yes, even mom knew how important Kathy was to my life. No current drama could obscure that fact. I needed to be with her. I went to the hospital and there she was...looking like a concentration camp survivor--but with that incredible smile and infectious cheer. "Tom, you need to go over to the house and get that Marilyn statue. I want you to have it." I never did get it. At that point, all I cared about was being there with her. She eventually went back to that same house where I'd had it out with her now deceased parents all those years ago--to their old bedroom where my relatives and hospice cared for her until she died.

I'll never forget you, Kathy. You made a difference in my life.