At Last

By Jewelle Gomez—

When former President Barack Obama chose the classic “At Last” as his first dance song with Michelle Obama after his inauguration, he signaled to a major portion of the population that he knew his blues and R & B. More significantly, he expressed the frustration that it had taken so long for a person of color to make it into the eponymously-named White House. 

The meaning of the phrase “at last” can also signify “final,” as in the last time you walk out of the doors of your high school, or the last time you see your sister when she marches off to war, or when you move into the last home you’ll likely ever live in. In terms of the latter, it’s that situation—realizing you’re in your last probable home—which can be quite startling. But I’m jumping ahead here.

Let’s start in Boston, where, after I left my great grandmother’s tenement flat following graduation from college, I settled in a succession of apartments around Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and New Jersey. The housing market was tight. Not long thereafter, in the 1980s, young and mostly white investment bankers became rich and wanted to renovate the entire island of Manhattan. I therefore at the time never thought any of my places in the Northeast, and especially in New York City, would become my final home.

Since moving to the Bay Area in 1993 to live with my now spouse, Diane, we have lived in three houses, and each one has felt more perfect than the previous. I recognized our privilege in making our selections and being able to find the financing to afford them. Recently, we sold our Oakland house and moved into an “active living” community. I realized that this is probably the last place I’ll live in.

I wish I’d listened more closely to my friend Marianne the last time I visited her in Brooklyn before she passed away. I wish I’d taken a picture of my old high school, poor and neglected as it was; I was extremely happy there as a young woman finding friendship.

But I don’t think that the “last” is always about loss. When you’re 20 years old, or even 50, you don’t think anything is the last of whatever it is. But in your 70s, everything could be, so I now look around me more closely. The concept has for me become a sharpening of my perceptions. I’m noticing how the light comes in the living room and the pattern of the leaves turns on the autumn trees. I let the sound of others talking or laughing ripple through me.

I have a friend in Manhattan who was one of the first people to teach me about feminism and theater. We “grew up” together in the 1970s and remained in touch, even as our paths diverged. For whatever reasons, over time, she became less satisfied and more bitter. Each phone call was melancholier than the one before. I became uncomfortable, so I started avoiding her calls. Then I felt bad. What kind of lesbian feminist was I? She’d had terrible losses, some of which she’d precipitated herself, but still.

When I look around at the community I’m living in now, I see that most of the folks are my age or older and they too are probably in their last homes. My grandmother, as she got older, used to cross off the names in her phonebook of her friends who passed away. Their shadow, however, remained behind the slash of the pen as she kept the book for years.

I don’t want only to remember my friends by looking at a name behind an erasure. I decided to pull out some pictures of my friend who is so sad and obviously lonely. I’ll send some of them to her and make a phone date and create an agenda of things we could talk about—or things she needs to talk about. At least we can be certain that our last phone call will be one that leaves us not feeling alone.

Jewelle Gomez is a lesbian/feminist activist, novelist, poet, and playwright. She’s written for “The Advocate,” “Ms. Magazine,” “Black Scholar,” “The San Francisco Chronicle,” “The New York Times,” and “The Village Voice.” Follow her on Instagram and X @VampyreVamp

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Published on November 5, 2026