As a child, I knew nothing about the east coast; what I understood about the metropolis of New York City came from Sesame Street. The show debuted in 1969, so my family was probably living in Wisconsin when I first dropped on the floor in front of the television set to watch it. Although we wouldn’t have a color set for another ten years, even in black and white the show captivated me. New York was an exciting place where all kinds of kids ran down sidewalks to upbeat music. Friendly people sat on stoops. And they sounded different, like that grouchy puppet whose voice, I didn’t know then, was based on a Bronx taxi driver’s. If I could have, I would have moved to Sesame Street.
As I grew older, I read books set in New York, like E.L. Konigsburg’s From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, in which a sister and brother sneak into the Metropolitan Museum of Art and live there. I longed for a museum so vast and sumptuous that a girl could hide for days, collecting pennies from the fountain at night.
In my M.F.A program, everyone had read Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney, and although its New York of cocaine-fueled parties wasn’t one I wanted to enter, I was captivated by the bravura of the second-person narration. As a counterpoint to the mostly white and male writers in the curriculum, I made my own reading list, and that’s when I discovered Paule Marshall’s 1959 novel Brown Girl, Brownstones. Here again were those magical front stoops. By now I was living on the east coast; not only could I sit on a stoop myself, I could easily travel to New York.
On my first visit, I arrived on Halloween. My college friend was staying there temporarily, and, after I arrived, we dropped off my duffel bag and descended into the subway. We emerged in a Greenwich Village weirder and wilder than anything I’d imagined; of course, it was Halloween. Late that night, we returned to the subway, but my friend wasn’t sure if the next train was the right one. At the last second, she jumped on the train, the door closed, and I was left on the platform alone. This was pre-cellphones, and I didn’t have a phone number or address for where we were staying. A few people in scary costumes stood nearby. My throat closed in fear.
What to do? I waited many long minutes for the next train and got on it, hoping it was on the same line. At the next platform, there was my friend. We grabbed each other and held on, laughing.
That was over thirty years ago, and I’ve visited New York many times since, most recently last month. The magic for me this time was spending a morning doing research for my next novel in the Lesbian Herstory Archives in Brooklyn. I am so grateful to the women who thought to collect all of this pre-digital material, attesting to the fact and beauty and persistence of lesbian lives: cassette tapes and videos, photographs and flyers, magazines and books (alphabetized by first name because, of course, last names are patriarchal). I could have spent days there.
Coincidentally, when we returned home, the Seattle Queer Film Festival was showing a documentary about the archives called “The Archivettes” – I highly recommend it.
Did I mention that the archives are housed in a beautiful old brownstone? In another version of my life, I am moving to Sesame Street, where I can visit the Lesbian Herstory Archives any time I want or just sit on the stoop, chatting with friendly neighbors.