By Jewelle Gomez—
After a terrible breakup (is there another kind?) in 1988, I wanted to live in Brooklyn near my two closest friends, Marianne and Sandra, also a couple. I found a flat ten blocks from them on 19th Street, off of 4th Avenue; not yet trendy but not a body dump for organized crime. It was a diverse mix with Sandra (Italian and Puerto Rican), Marianne (African American by way of Staten Island), and me (Cabo Verdean, Wampanoag, and Bostonian). We had little in common in our backgrounds, but we did everything together: movies, concerts, and poetry readings; shopping at Costco; and watching TV late into the night. Some mornings I woke up and it took a minute to remember if I was at my house or theirs.
I worked for New York State and they worked for Bell Telephone, so sometimes we’d meet up at the Dutchess on our way home because our train stop was nearby. We traded detective and speculative fiction
novels, discussed the lesbian magazine landscape, and debated about mayoral candidates.
One night alone in a cottage I had rented on Fire Island, I was anxious, for some reason, although it seemed strange to be worried about crime in a place you have to get to by boat. But I couldn’t sleep, so called them. Marianne stayed on the phone with me all night, even after I fell asleep. We were linked by some cosmic force. If Sandra called me at work, inevitably, spontaneously, Marianne would click onto Sandra’s link and she’d patch us together and we’d have a conversation as if we were sitting in the living room.
Despite their skepticism, they flew with me to San Francisco when I moved in with Diane in 1993. They helped me unpack and soothed the shock of leaving the East Coast and them behind. We had our ups and downs, but whenever I went back to Brooklyn, it was always like going home.
They lived across the East River from the Twin Towers; on 9/11, Marianne was a first responder—telephone lines were a priority. The administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency, Christine Todd Whitman, assured the public the toxic air rising from the debris was not harmful, but like many in the vicinity of the site, both Marianne and Sandra got cancer that they battled successfully … it seems.
Then Marianne got Lewy Body Dementia about four years ago. For a while, when Diane and I visited Marianne, the dynamic was the same—by turns contrary and comic. Sandra put up signs so Marianne could remember where the bathroom was; Marianne insisted they were really so Sandra could remember. The hallucinations were disconcerting to her, but just like the mayor of the block Marianne always was, she acted solicitous and communicative to whichever phantasm showed up. The physical and emotional toll was confounding to both of them.
The last nominally ‘normal’ time we all spent together was 2025 when I went home for my birthday, which happens to be September 11. We ended up spending most of the day watching the 9/11 memorial events on television. It was strangely satisfying since it had been an intense work day for Marianne and it was one of the things she still remembered. We mourned the losses as we heard the names called out by the daughters, nephews, and cousins who were left behind. In my heart, I was also mourning the coming loss of Marianne. We ate birthday cake that was so sweet I didn’t think I’d sleep for a week.
I think of that cake now that Marianne has passed away, at home with Sandra at her side. My heart is broken, but the sweetness remains. It is the sweetness of fifty years of friendship, of adventures (like Mississippi in July!), of social justice marches, of stories and clothes we shared, heartbreaks we assuaged, and laughter.
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 October 22, 2026
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