Toy Fairies

My letter to you today about Nolan's cross-dressing grandfather reminded me of a time about myself that I have never shared with anyone. Not mother. Not father. Not sister nor the maid; who made money selling bangles under the coconut tree by Russell Avenue, when she was not in our house. But being twenty five and open about literacy and sexuality, empowers me to write to you about my life as Lola. 

Imagine me, thirteen, in an orange frill dress, swirling and twirling to songs of the land, with palm leaves swaying, power lines spinning, and the sun and moon violently rioting against a blue, cloudless sky. I am smiling at myself, and clinking scores and scores of bangles buttoning my hands, in a secluded corner of our gray, cemented roof. And I feel like Lola. A strong, powerful, independent girl, in the shape of a man. The frills give me power. The bangles make me stern. The powder on my cheeks makes me stiff, and upper-lipped like the Victorian girl from television. My hands are in a V sprouting from my chest, and I am spinning like a top. My feet are buried in sandals, and the frills form cones from my waist to my legs, churning air, fanning bees, and giving out an aroma of mandarin sugar. I am lip sticked in pink, caked in foundation, and pieces of handkerchief are pinned to my hair. And I am giggling at myself; my smiles vanishing in the tips of my fingers. The heaviness of the evening air feels like clusters of cherries slipping down the plateau of my light brown cheeks. And in a shrill resonant screech, I yelp out loud Lola, it's time. 

My neighbor from West Street sees me like that. And freezes. And tip toes away to her ground floor bed. Through her windows I see thongs and rosaries splayed across a tray of tiles. 

For five years after, the Rosenthals and Silvermans, know me as Lola. Little brown Lola, in orange frills and make up. In cloth hair and rhinestones. In white nails and necklace. In pearls and turquoise and violent diamonds. Spinning on a roof. Gaping at the sky. Twirling and spinning and whirling and coiling. Wriggling and swooshing and purling and roiling. Flapping my soul till I fall to the ground. 

This is me, Lola. Welcome to the other side of me. 

In the snow

It is snowing in the quad today. And at least a dozen high schoolers are here on tours talking about scholarships, PhDs, and raising families. I was in a hurry, earlier, to get coffee and caramel; it has been a long day already, and the sky is gray. 

A girl on the stairwell, with a neat braid and lipstick, reminded me of you. Reminded me of the April you came to New York, with your luxury bags and sunken eyes. We chatted on Facebook for three days, reliving a past we didn't remember, and decided to meet up at the patio by Butler Library. And when we did meet, it felt like nothing had changed. We picked up the threads, where we had left, and laughed and hallucinated and drank Vermouth till wee hours of daybreak. 

We would walk to Alma's statue, sticking out like a toe nail at the steps of Low. And you would look at her crown and giggle and shout out loud 'She's worn it for ninety fucking years. She's possibly even seen Eisenhower. What a champ!'. And then we would walk to the statue of the Thinker and sit on the grass by Philosophy. You would laugh, suddenly. Saying that the blades tickled your thighs, and you could feel mist on your underwear. And we would chat about life, and catch up on stories, of careers, communions, and the blue-green of the Pacific. You would talk about Connecticut, being a city girl, and the heinous politics behind the Pulitzer. We would strap our arms around each other's and listen to the wind percussing on our ears. We knew we were gay. You with a lady, me with a man. Yet, enwrapped, we found solace and happiness --the way two strangers become friends. 

People say that there is no undoing when you become friends. But life is more complicated than that. There are entanglements. There are boundaries that you maintain, because friendships are fragile and have sensitive ends. You and I have toured together every corner of our home, with the glitter and aromas of New York City sprinkled along our eyes. We hesitated at parties, smirked at children, talked about literature by fireplaces in Brooklyn, where creativity and the cool are known to erupt. We talked about marriage, and raising kids, the looks of your sperm donor and his wardrobe. We went to the piers along the colors of the Hudson, and stared at athletes oiling there abs, wrapping bandanas around their dark blond hair, and playing with the tips of their light brown nipples. There were moments of solitary understanding. Even if we didn't say anything, we understood each other and what they call body's hidden languages. Finally, the time came, and we moved on with our lives, as you entered into your Chelsea home with the dying landlady, bubbling to her death with systemic metastasis. 

What I would think about, while laying on my bed, is our parents. You told them of a boy. Mine didn't talk. We lived in a shroud of lies. And no one barring you and me knew about her, the one you married after Amelia died on Passover. We talked about secrecy a long time back, by the Thinker, on a muggy September evening, and you said you were tired of lying to them about being with a Wall Street shmuck. But courage takes time. And there is no undoing. And when the time is ready, you will set yourself free. 

I go back to thinking about the girl on the stairwell. And why she reminds me so much of you. Maybe it is the eyes --dark, sunken, tired. Or maybe it is Alma. Who knows? The curiosity will slide, and I will be back to my business. But know that you are thought of. And loved.