Music From Another World

Shoot, it’s getting late and I haven’t even looked at the question list. Oh—favorite TV show. This one’s easy, because it’s the same as yours—Sonny & Cher. Or, well, I can’t stand Sonny, but Cher is hilarious. Even if her music is basically the opposite of Patti Smith’s.

My boyfriend says Sonny and Cher represent middle America’s response to the hippie movement. I haven’t told him I’ve started listening to punk yet, but he’ll probably have an opinion on that, too. He wants to be a psychiatrist, but he can’t afford med school, so he’s majoring in business at SF State.

Yikes, sorry, I’d better stop and go to bed or this will be our longest letter yet!

Yours truly, Sharon

Wednesday, July 27, 1977

Dear Sharon,

I really enjoy getting these letters from you. It’s interesting hearing about your life in San Francisco. I never would’ve thought teachers there would slap kids with rulers. Maybe your city isn’t as different from here as I thought.

Also, I liked what you said—about picket fences and all that. I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.

My school sounds a lot more similar to yours than I expected. Plus, it’s kind of hilarious that we’re both into Cher and punk music.

Would it be okay if I asked you another question that isn’t on the list? I want to know what it’s like having a boyfriend. I’ve never had a real one, I’ve only gone to parties and stuff with guys. My sister says the best thing about having a boyfriend is that you don’t have to worry about whether anyone will ask you to dances, but I hope she was joking.

Yours truly, Tammy

Sunday, July 31, 1977

Dear Diary,

I think my brother’s mad at me.

We were leaving church this morning, and it was gorgeous out. The fog had burned away while we were inside, and I peeled off my cardigan and slung it over my purse. I was wearing a new tunic dress, a yellow one with cap sleeves, and Mom frowned down at my bare arms.

I tried to come up with a strategy in case she ordered me to put my cardigan back on. I could tell her we were outside, and that I’d bought the dress myself, with my own money. Or that I was almost sixteen and what I wore was my decision, and besides, there was nothing inappropriate about wearing a cap-sleeve dress outside, even on the church steps.

But before Mom could comment on my arms, Mrs. Upton started talking about local politics.

“It’s these strange supervisor elections they’re having now,” Mrs. Upton said, fanning herself with a bulletin. She was my Sunday school teacher when I was in fourth-through-sixth grades, and somehow she looks twenty years older now than she did then. And she looked awfully old then. “District elections. I can’t keep track of the candidates anymore.”

“That police officer from our neighborhood is running,” Mom told her in the same voice she uses with students who are particularly slow at algebra. “The one who saved the family during that awful fire—Mr. White. He says he’ll clean up the city.”

“Oh, good. Someone needs to clear out all that revolting nonsense.” Mrs. Upton tilted her head meaningfully, and Mom tilted hers back in agreement.

I glanced around for Peter so we could roll our eyes. He’d been right behind us on the steps, but suddenly there was no sign of him. Mom and Mrs. Upton kept walking, still talking about politics, but I hung back, and a minute later I got a glimpse of my brother’s jacket behind a column off to the far side of the steps.

“What are you doing?” I asked when I reached him. He was alone in the narrow space between the column and a stained-glass window, his shoulders hunched.

“Nothing.” He glanced my way and sagged back against the column. “Just needed to get away.”

“I know what you mean. I can’t stand Mrs. Upton, either.”

“It’s not Mrs. Upton. It’s Mom.” He peered around the column, then added in a whisper, “I can’t believe she wants to vote for Dan White.”

“I’ve never heard of that guy. Aren’t there a ton of people running?”

“Yeah, but he’s the only one promising to get rid of social deviants.” Peter said the last two words in a high-pitched whisper. “He’d carpet-bomb the Castro if he could.”

“Wait, what?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Can you believe what Mom said? About ‘cleaning up the city’?”

“What about it?”

“Come on, you know that’s code for getting rid of all those ‘disgusting homosexuals’ up in Eureka Valley.”

“How do you know? She could have meant anything. Most of the city is literally just dirty.”

“It doesn’t mean just anything. It never does.” Peter rolled his eyes. At me, though, not Mom or Mrs. Upton. “But you don’t get it, because it isn’t about you.”

I sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You never even wanted to go back there with me after that one time. I asked you to come stuff envelopes for Harvey, but all you ever want to do is listen to those bands with the stupid names.”

That hurt, but he wasn’t wrong. Twice he’d invited me to join him at Harvey Milk’s camera shop to put together mailings with the other campaign volunteers, but I’d said no. I didn’t like being the only girl around a bunch of gay men.

But I hated the way Peter was looking at me. As if I’d failed him.

“I already knew Mom thought that way.” He tilted his head back, talking to the sky now instead of me. “It just sucks that she’s supporting this jackass.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got to go.” He pushed off the wall and turned his back to me. “Tell Mom I’m over at a friend’s for lunch.”

“Where are you really going?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He left, stalking up the street in his church suit, heading north. Toward the bus stop.

I could’ve chased after him. Instead I went back to catch up with Mom, said goodbye to Mrs. Upton, and walked the rest of the way home, nodding along while Mom told me not to take off my cardigan until we’d left church grounds next time.

When we got home, I came straight upstairs to my room and got my diary out from under my pillow. I thought if I wrote this down I’d be able to sort it all out in my head, but I don’t feel any better now than I did when my brother first walked away from me.

Yours, Sharon

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