I contacted ‘LGBT She-Ra’ a few weeks back to see if she would do me the honour of sharing her life story, to potentially create a memoir together. I should add at this stage that ‘She-Ra’ is not her real name. It does, however, reflect what an absolute warrior she is – a warrior of the heart.
She-Ra was thrown out of the Navy for being gay in the seventies and went on to love fearlessly within the confines of a relationship that was destined to always remain a secret, even from those she loved the most, even after her partner’s death a lifetime later. She is a hero and her story fascinated me. So why was I nervous?
I had met She-Ra already on a number of occasions and we had clicked well, which is half the battle won. I was excited to hear all about her life, I had set up the Zoom meeting, got my snacks, notebook and flask of tea ready (I panic when if I don’t have easy access to tea), but I was fidgety. Excited, but unable to settle.
I think it’s because I had been proactive and approached her – it’s usually the other way around – and she had taken a while to get back to me. I assumed that I had overstepped the mark in some way, that I was hoping for too much from her, because asking someone to trust me enough to share their entire life story is massive. I was asking her to lay herself bare, to think about painful memories that she may not have wanted to revisit, to speak her truth, however difficult that may have been. When she finally got back to me, however, she was far from offended; she was just surprised that anyone would care about her story. She’s a sixty-seven-year-old woman now. Why would anyone care about her experiences? It’s funny how we’re blind to how incredible our own lives have been.
So, I was satisfied that she was happy, but it didn’t stop me twisting myself up in a knot, obsessively trying to make sure that the whole experience was okay for her. I created a framework to make her feel safe, deciding that we would speak for just an hour at first, so she would see it as a finite process and not feel stuck with me. I wrote a bunch of prompts and questions, nothing too intrusive to begin with, mostly sticking to her timeline, and she could elaborate when she felt comfortable. I didn’t want there to be any uneasy silences where she felt uncomfortable. And I would make sure that we ended on something positive, rather like the way a counsellor ends a session. She lives alone now, and we’re in lockdown; I didn’t want to send her away with the weight of her own grief or injustice on her shoulders.
I told my girlfriend all about my welfare provisions, and she gave the pat on the head that I always need when I’m being a bit weird, and at 6.30 p.m. she appeared in my waiting room and I welcomed her onto my screen. After a few minutes of pleasantries – a discussion about lockdown hair and our mutual experiences of past crew cuts – she said, “So how do you want to do this?”
Referring to my notes and the rigorous plan I had to control the environment and every second of our exchange, I told her (relaxed, like!) that I thought we could start with a rough timeline.
“Well,” she enthused. “I was born in 1953 …”
Two and a half hours later, she was still talking. She had taken me through her childhood and the navy years, with more bravery than She-Ra facing off against the shape-shifting Catra on the smoky plains of Planet Etheria (Thank you, Google!).
I needn’t have worried at all, and at the end, when I thanked her, she couldn’t believe that she had spoken for so long either. She’s normally a listener.
“I guess I’ve lived my whole life in secret,” she told me. “I want to be heard.”
So, this week, I am grateful for LGBT She-Ra, for not only being an absolute gift with her honesty and ability to articulate her story, but for reminding me of how important stories like hers are, and how privileged I am to be in a position to listen to them and pass them on … Oh, and that maybe I just need to chill out and trust that everything will be okay.
Follow Hayley Sherman, Writer