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Obituaries are histories. They memorialize our dead and bring them back to life. I had forgotten Firestone over the years. But reading Faludi’s tribute to her reminded me of what that time was like, the fervid nature of early Second-Wave feminism and how it changed my own life and the lives of so women around me. Re-reading Owen’s poetry reminds me of how much we lose without concomitant histories; Faludi interviewed dozens of people who had known Firestone. But Owen’s family destroyed every detail of his life that wasn’t a poem. And so we never know, for sure. Just like we never know for sure about Sakia Gunn. Because she was only 15, because she was black, because she was a lesbian, because she was just starting to live her real life, heading to the queer hangouts in Greenwich Village, feeling her strong butch self, details were scant about her. Unlike Shepard, her father wasn’t a diplomat, her mother wasn’t an activist. Keeping her legacy alive has been left to those of us who consider her female, of color life of equal importance. Sakia Gunn’s murder told me a lot about her life. It tells me she fought. It tells me she made her voice heard. It tells me she wasn’t about pretense. It tells me she was brave. It tells me she died telling the truth about her life. These lives–and sadly violent deaths–remind us of why we need to take note of our dead, pay tribute to their lives, leave a lasting memorial. In respects, obituaries are our only histories. In small-town newspaper where we read of someone survived by their longtime companion, this is the only notation of a queer life and death. For centuries that was the only thin marker of our queer lives. adult breastfeeding relationship in Gozhdarazhda fuck buddies Nashua New Hampshire
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