October 20, 2009

In high school I lived two lives. This is a theme of my life. A natural way to live for a gemini. Standard stuff.

I always ran with girls. No big surprise there. And while I was relatively popular in high school I longed to live among the misfits. I was too normal. Too accepted. Too likable to ever be too odd.

My mother tells me I have always had the ability to relate to anyone. In college I partied with the queers. Cut up with the black girls. Got stoned with the swim team. I was a chameleon.

And this ability still holds true today. I run alongside women and men in equal measure. Stepford queers/circuit boys and those who are sickened by them. Trannies and those my mother's age. I like all people. I want to be like them all. I want them all to like me.

So in high school I was one person by day and one person by night. By day I was smart. Played sports. Hung out with cool people. And by night I sought refuge in Kelli Prive's house. She had cats and a loving mother and a butch little sister. Kelli had a crush on me once, but of course, that went nowhere. Kelli also had a friend, Angie Grant.

Angie had a sense of style years before I'd develop my own. She owned her look. Mary Janes or Creepers. Black and white striped tights. A pleated short skirt. A big, black sweater or shirt. Dyed black bob. Pale face paint. Blood red lips. She was Kelli's foil. Kelli was innocent and insecure, romantic and nerdy. Adorable and caring. Angie was bitter and angry. Aggressive and judgmental. But also accepting and generous. There was a summer, maybe two, when the three of us were inseparable. Kelli had an entire network of freaks: Heather, Dan, Ellie, Jason. They were a bit odd. Not mainstream. Alternative. Goth. Gay. Etc.

Angie idolized Robert Smith. She gave me my copy of Bjork's Debut. She taught me what an art fag was. She taught me what unity skinheads were.

I am sad today because I found out Angie died last week after a bout with influenza. I had not thought of her in probably 10 years. And, sadly, I have too few memories of this time in my life. I don't recall much. Which is a blessing and curse.

I do know this. There was a time she was one of my dearest friends. Someone, whether she knew it or not, who helped me figure out who I was. She left a mark on this man.

And though I don't remember much. Missing conversations and events and friendships. Hidden somewhere very deep in my mind. One thing is easy to remember.

I am a visual leaner. I appreciate the visual. They stay with me longer than any word whispered. Any song sang. Any line written. The image still remains strong. Striped tights, plaid skirt, stained lip. A vision in complete opposition to the style of the time. Someone unafraid and individualistic.

Good night Angie Grant. My heart bleeds the color of your lips.