guidance from a funeral

Diane transformed a lot of lives. The significant tweak she did for mine she managed after she was dead. I went to Diane’s services on Saturday, at the tiny little church on Winchester avenue across the street from Riverdale Farm. It was the first of two services - the tiny private prelude to what I can only imagine was a staggering public event.

As a neighbour, Diane was quiet, a gardener, dog lover, kid appreciater and beloved partner to her even quieter partner of thirty years. Turns out Diane was a force of nature. Maybe it doesn’t matter what she did. Except that it does - she founded co-op housing to replace "slums" for those with HIV and AIDS, deliberately welcomed and nourished diversity and, ultimately, created a community of young people in that housing development who will go to college or university - every single one of them.

As one of the young men said (through sobs) “you don’t understand - we went to schools - not like your schools - but schools where they still say, “you didn’t do your home work? Well, we didn’t really expect you to.’ and then we’d go home and Diane would say “you are going to do your homework and I know you can and here are the computers. She was like - a mother - like - she - you - I can’t - it’s - when I went to the hospital she said, “what can I do for you?” and - she was fighting for her life - what kind of person…?” Older friends and colleagues spoke of Diane’s spine. Her “my way or the highway” forcefulness. She was sometimes a brute. The bear you wanted on your softball team when the ump made a questionable call. The dyke who made enemies by tackling the misogyny of drag queens taking over the softball league. She spelled womyn with a y.

I was a mess before the funeral. Sad that Diane died young, pathetically, narcissitically self-pitying because I can't seem to find my people. I am neither fish nor fowl at work - I have befriended people in highish places only to lose connection to them (because I am not them, I do not speak the language and if I knew how to I've forgotten), and I am hopelessly, ridiculously, inappropriate. More so now than ever, I seem to careen through public events, filter two steps behind me, devil-may care as I cleverly berate judges and embarrass law partners. I am the brown-panted high-heeled version of Chevy Chase sauntering up to ask if you want to see his record collection - drunk, but not half as drunk as he's going to be in ten minutes, so you'd better run.

I had resolved to call X, who seems in his older age and high position to have mastered the game. I'd ask him the rules over lunch. Ask for his tutelege. Ask for another chance at admission. Apologize for being such a failure, beg for style tips – hair to finger nails to stride – something about the way I walk is wrong. Must be. Ask him to fill the hollow unwell feeling in my stomach with the promise of dinner parties and Mojitos, ask him to return my emails so that I can feel that light airy flighty feeling again.

But then I found out about the Diane I hadn't known. The rest of the woman who quietly played with her dogs, laughed too loud, fought too hard and built a garden so beautiful that she messed up the pedestrian patterns on our street. I bet she didn’t insult judges by accident and she might never have been lewd, but I’m willing to bet she didn’t beg any of the people who looked down on her or doubted her ability to build a meaningful legacy to teach her how to walk.