A Scatter of Light, page 7
“I hope I don’t embarrass you with my straight ignorance,” I joked.
Mel smiled at me. “We all gotta start somewhere.”
She shared a look I didn’t quite understand with Steph, whose mouth twitched into a sort of smile.
* * *
—
Mel drove the black Jeep, and I sat up front with her while Steph and Lisa took the back. Mel played Rihanna and Icona Pop on the drive down to San Francisco, and as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge I gazed out at the glittering Pacific and remembered driving the other way with my dad only a week ago. Time felt both stretched and compressed in that instant, and then Mel hit repeat on “I Love It,” and it was impossible to not be there in the Jeep at that moment, screaming the chorus with these three women I hadn’t even known seven days ago.
San Francisco was all sunshine and steep hills. When the Jeep careened up and over Divisadero, Lisa let out a whoop. I thought I knew the city from previous visits with my dad and grandparents, but as Mel maneuvered her way across Market Street, which was hung with dozens of Pride flags, I realized I only knew a small slice of it. We were heading for the Mission District, and I didn’t think I’d ever been in that part of San Francisco before. The streets were unexpectedly flat, with long blocks that reminded me of New York, but the buildings were mostly three or four stories with bay windows jutting out over the sidewalks. They were painted pastel shades of blue and yellow and pink, all of them slightly grimy and a little worn. On the ground floors were taquerias and vegetable markets, bars and bookstores, their doors open to the sunny day.
The parking garage was accessed down an alley behind a Pakistani restaurant, and Mel drove up a very steep, dark driveway to the rooftop, where she tucked the Jeep into a cramped corner parking space. Outside, the air smelled of asphalt and gasoline, and behind that came the scent of curry.
“We should pick up some drinks,” Lisa said, flipping down her sunglasses. “It’s such a nice day.”
“We got lucky,” Mel said.
“God loves Pride,” Steph said, and they all laughed. I joined in a little late.
* * *
—
On the way to the park, we stopped at a corner store where Lisa and Mel bought beer and I got a bottle of water. After I paid, I went outside to wait for them, standing in the tiny bit of shade next to the building. A bunch of posters had been pasted to the wall there: salsa night at El Rio; Frameline: San Francisco International LGBTQ Film Festival; Fresh Meat Productions, with a photo of two Black male dancers, arms entwined. One poster featured an arresting photo of a young Asian woman sitting on the floor next to a large blue-and-white abstract painting. The woman was wearing paint-splattered pants, a frumpy blue sweater, and a slightly sly smile. It made me wonder who had photographed her. The poster advertised a movie called The Worlds of Bernice Bing, which was the closing night film for the Queer Women of Color Media Arts Project Film Festival. There was a small tagline at the bottom of the poster: “A documentary illuminating the visionary Chinese American lesbian artist Bernice Bing.”
I was a little disappointed to find that the date of the screening had already passed. I took out my phone and snapped a photo of the poster, and just as I finished taking the picture, Steph came out of the corner store.
“They’re almost done,” she said, cracking open a bottle of water.
“No worries. Hey, have you ever gone to this film festival?”
Steph came over to look at the Bernice Bing poster. “No. She looks interesting, though.” She studied the photo a beat longer and added, “I like her painting. I’m assuming that’s her painting, anyway.”
“Yeah. I like it, too.”
“I’m not saying I understand it, but I like it.”
“Joan says abstract art is supposed to make you feel things.”
“What does this make you feel?”
I looked more closely at the painting behind Bernice, with her enigmatic smile. “Expansive. It makes me think of space. No, planets. Look at that orangey spot. It’s like that storm on Jupiter, the one that looks like an eye.”
“Hmm, I can see it,” Steph said. “If you look at Bernice, too—her eyes and the eye behind her. It’s like she’s looking at you through her painting.”
I felt a warm rush go through me. “Yes! I love that. And don’t you think—well, she’s looking at the photographer, who’s looking at her, and there’s her painting looking at us. I feel like there’s a lot going on here.”
Then we looked at each other, and there was a kind of understanding between us, as if we were seeing the same thing at the same moment, and it was a little surprising to both of us. I saw her mouth open slightly as if she was about to speak, but then behind her the door of the corner store opened and Lisa and Mel came out, carrying their purchases in brown paper bags.
Steph and I turned away from each other and toward Lisa and Mel. I was glad I’d taken the picture of the poster, because later I knew it would bring me back to this moment.
* * *
—
We walked down the broad, palm-tree-shaded sidewalks of Dolores Street toward the park. The rhythmic thump of dance music floated through the air. When 17th Street came into view, I saw dozens of motorcycles lined up all in a row. Leaning against or sitting astride them were women in leather chaps, in pink feather boas, in bikini tops.
Mel must have seen the surprise on my face because she explained, “Dykes on Bikes. They start the march.”
Across the street was a row of tennis courts, and then a bank of porta potties, and beyond them, Dolores Park rose up a big hill that was completely covered with people. I had never seen a crowd like this before, with women of all ages and races and sizes, wearing all kinds of outfits in every color, from head-to-toe rainbow gear to jeans and T-shirts, many with tattoos up and down arms and legs and upper backs exposed to the sun. I was sure now that my outfit was exceptionally straight.
Up ahead, a crowd was gathering at a little plaza where steps led into the park. Everyone was watching an Asian couple standing together on the steps. One woman was wearing a black satin corset and pink ruffled hot pants, fishnets and shiny Doc Martens. The other woman’s outfit could not compare; it was just shorts and a button-down shirt, but she did have on a fun newsboy cap. Now she knelt down on one knee and reached in her pocket, and although I couldn’t see what she was holding up, the gasp from everyone watching made it obvious that it was a ring. The woman must have accepted the proposal, because now the kneeling girl got up and they were kissing, and the entire circle gathered around them was cheering.
“That’s so sweet,” Lisa said. She was clinging to Steph’s arm, and Steph leaned in and kissed her. She was tender, gentle.
I looked away, toward Mel, who was texting on her phone and paying no attention to the proposal or Steph and Lisa.
“Finally!” Mel said. “Roxy’s on the hill behind the playground. Come on.”
* * *
—
Roxy Berlin was a tall white woman with a Bettie Page haircut and bright red lips, dressed in cutoffs and a ripped black crop top that revealed a tattoo of twined red roses inked along the side of her torso. She was what my mom would call “big-boned,” but to me she looked like all she needed was Thor’s hammer to become a superhero. She was also wearing steel-toed boots with metal buckles and had a brassy magnetism that was apparent even from a distance. She greeted Mel with a kiss that left a red lipstick print on her cheek; she squeezed Steph while thumping her on the back with a ringed hand; and she kept her distance from Lisa, leaving a triangle of space between their bodies when they hugged.
Mel introduced me to Roxy, who offered me beer from a big blue cooler and told me to make myself at home. She and her friends had claimed a prime spot beneath a tree at the top edge of the park, where they’d spread a couple of fleece blankets over the ground. From up here, we had a good view of everything: the bowl of the park crowded with people; the palm trees lining Dolores Street; and the skyline of downtown San Francisco in the distance. Down the hill and past the playground was a stage, where a DJ was playing dance music that reverberated up the slope toward us. In front of the stage was a roped-off area for people to sit in lawn chairs or wheelchairs, and all over the park people were dancing and drinking and shouting and laughing. It was so different from the beach parties at Haley’s parents’ house on Martha’s Vineyard, which I remembered in palettes of sand and dun and white linen. Here, Dolores Park was a riot of color: electric blue hair and red vinyl hot pants, hot pink feathers and rainbow face paint.
I grabbed a can of PBR from the cooler and took a seat on the corner of the blanket next to Mel. She introduced me to the other Madchen band members, Talia Dutton and Jasmine Harris, before she spotted someone selling tamales and went over to buy some. Then I tried to not look like I was listening in on everyone else’s conversations. Talia, the drummer, was half Filipina and had dyed the ends of her dark hair hot pink. Jasmine, who played keyboards, was Black and had a shaved head and a lip ring. Talia’s boyfriend, Gabe, was trans, and he was also a sound engineer who was helping the band record a new demo—this time without Steph.
“We miss you,” Roxy said to Steph. After Mel left, she had scooted into Mel’s seat between me and Steph. “Gabe keeps telling me we need a new guitarist but I can’t find anyone who gels with us like you. We’ve tried out a few people but nobody seems to work.”
“What are you going to do about the demo?” Steph asked.
“We might hire someone,” Roxy said. “We haven’t decided yet. Mel told me you did an open mic last week. How’d it go?”
“I guess it went fine. I miss you guys, too.”
“You can always come back.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m all about tempting you.” Roxy glanced around. “Wait, Lisa’s not here, right?”
Lisa had passed out pot brownies when we first arrived and then gone off to find her friend Joey.
Steph shook her head slightly. “Come on.”
“Sorry, babe. You know what I mean.”
“We’re trying.”
“I know, I know!” Roxy raised her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, I take it back. Just listen. We got into QMF. It’s one day in August. You could join us.”
Steph didn’t answer for a bit. Roxy simply sat beside her as they both looked out at the park. The sounds washed over us: laughter; the roar of conversation; motorcycle engines gunning.
“I’ll think about it,” Steph finally said.
“Okay,” Roxy said, all low-key. “It’s August third in Golden Gate Park.” Then she checked her phone and said, “Mel’s texting me. I’ll be back.”
After Roxy left, I asked, “What’s QMF?”
“The Golden Gate Queer Music Fest,” Steph answered.
“You should do it.”
She took a sip of her beer. “I should, huh?”
“It sounds like you want to.”
“I want a lot of things. That doesn’t mean I get them.”
* * *
—
The Dyke March was a raucous but slow-moving tide of people waving rainbow flags and carrying protest signs and banging bongos. At first I felt like an interloper, but after a couple of blocks, I realized there was so much going on, nobody was paying any attention to me. Above us, people leaned out their bay windows, unfurling sheets painted with GO DYKES or HAPPY PRIDE!!! Some of the women in my vicinity were marching topless; one had written LOVE IS LOVE across her chest in rainbow letters. The smell of grilled meat wafted out of taquerias; the funk of weed floated on the air; and the sound of drums and dance music was a moving soundtrack around us. I was a shell buoyed by a wave in an ocean I’d never known to exist.
We parted from Roxy and her friends at the end of the march in the Castro, where Pink Saturday was already a massive street party hemmed in by metal barricades and police officers. Roxy, Talia, Jasmine, and Gabe were headed to a club where they were playing, and Mel and Lisa both had crack-of-dawn shifts at work in the morning. Everybody said their goodbyes in the middle of the street, and then we walked back to the parking garage, stopping at a taqueria on the way to inhale tacos al pastor doused with green salsa from a sticky squeeze bottle.
By the time we got to the Jeep, I was tired and full, the way you feel after spending a day in the sun with friends. It surprised me to feel that way; it surprised me that climbing into Mel’s Jeep and smelling its leather interior already felt familiar.
Mel put on Frank Ocean as we drove back to Marin. As we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, I twisted around to look back at the city lights glimmering in the darkening night, and Steph smiled at me from the back seat. Lisa had fallen asleep, her head on her shoulder. I smiled back and felt as if I had passed some kind of test.
Outside Mel’s place we climbed out into full night. The streetlight at the end of the driveway cast harsh shadows. Lisa was still half asleep as Steph bundled her into their car. Before I left I said to Mel, “Thanks for inviting me today. I had a really good time.”
“I’m glad,” Mel said. “And you’re invited to this summer. Period, okay?”
I smiled. “That’s really nice of you, but you don’t have to babysit me.”
Steph and Lisa’s car turned on, and Mel and I waved to them as they drove off.
Mel said, “You must be bored out of your mind over at your grandma’s.”
“It’s not that bad. I’m helping her with a project, but I do miss my friends. We had big plans for the summer.”
“Like what?”
“Parties on Martha’s Vineyard. Lobster rolls and beach parties. Cute boys.” I laughed; it sounded like a foreign country.
“All the cute boys I know are gay. Maybe you should branch out a little.”
“Got any suggestions?” I said, without thinking.
Mel stepped a little closer and I saw her smile change, making the tiny switch from friendly to flirtatious. “You want a suggestion?”
I heard the unmistakable invitation in her voice, and for a moment, I was tempted. Only half of her face was lit by the streetlamp, turning her into dramatic color and shadow. The edge of her jaw was golden, the curve of her mouth was soft and full, and the tiny hoop earring that hung from her right ear glinted.
“I thought your heart belonged to Roxy,” I teased her.
Mel grinned. “Roxy and I have a long history, that’s true. She’s poly. I wasn’t ready for that when we were first dating. I guess I’ve . . . matured since then.”
“Polly?”
“Polyamorous,” Mel explained. “Nonmonogamous.”
“Oh.” I had never heard of it, but the tone in Mel’s voice didn’t make me feel ignorant. It made me feel like she was inviting me into a private club. “Are you poly also?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. It sounded like a relief to her.
Later on, I wondered what would have happened if I’d given Mel a chance. It would have been a lot simpler, because Mel was fun to be around, and she was kind, and she was available.
In that moment, though, standing in Mel’s driveway, I thought: I wish I was attracted to you, but I’m not. And once that thought came into my head, there was no erasing it.
I said apologetically, “I should get home.”
The flirtation vanished from Mel’s face, and if she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “You didn’t drink too much, right? You’re okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You know, you should give me a call if you ever want to talk about . . . anything.” Mel sounded oddly serious.
“That’s really nice of you. Thanks.”
“Drive safe,” she said, and she pulled me into a goodbye hug.
On the drive back to Woodacre, I thought about what Mel had said to me. I was pretty sure she meant I should call her if I wanted to talk about gay stuff. Or was it queer stuff? I had no idea what the proper words were. I only knew what it was beginning to feel like in my body. An edgy, slightly queasy feeling; anticipation mixed with seasickness. It was that Frank Ocean song, “Thinkin Bout You,” playing on a loop.
On Sunday morning I woke up remembering the day before, and I picked up my phone to scroll through my photos. A selfie with Mel on Market Street right before we left, the Castro behind us. A truck with go-go dancers that had driven past us during the march. A shot of Dolores Park filled to the brim with people and color and palm trees. And the picture of the movie poster I’d seen outside the corner store. There was Bernice Bing seated on the floor beside her big blue painting, looking straight at me like a challenge. I hadn’t taken any photos of Steph, but I could feel her standing beside me.
I opened Chrome and googled Bernice Bing. There were links to the documentary, but there were also links to the Queer Cultural Center, which had hosted a retrospective of her work in 1999, the year after she died. Her bio was sparse, but dramatic. She had been born in San Francisco in 1936 but lost both her parents as a child, and was raised by foster families. She’d gone to art school here and started exhibiting paintings in the 1950s at the height of the Beat era. She had been out as a lesbian and accepted by the art community, but the bio didn’t mention her having a surviving partner.
The Queer Cultural Center website included small photos of her paintings; the images were so tiny on my phone I pulled out my laptop so I could enlarge them. Bernice Bing used giant sweeps of color in some; in others she painted with strokes that looked like Chinese calligraphy. I lingered on one painting in particular. The top third looked like water with a mountain emerging from it; the bottom two-thirds was dark, with a swirling mass of blue and white on the right. I wanted to know what the swirling mass of color meant to Bernice. I studied her photo in the documentary poster, but she eluded me.
