I Remember Alana

Dear Alana …

Your smile. The way you ate lunch. The way you coveted and shared. The way you walked and laughed and giggled. The way you took me with you on all those adventures. Across town. Down the darkest deepest dankest places. Debauchery and brilliance. Radiant 1980s mania played out like a black-and-white film.

And you. At the center of it. Holding on fast and living even faster.

And the calmness of you. The peace and serenity and kindness and grace of you. The way your hands fluttered when you lip-synched. Your heritage and how proud you were of where you came from. And how ashamed I was of mine. You taught me to hold my head up. Say it out loud. Up to the sky and pass the clouds. Farther than I thought possible.

And then things changed. And we split apart. I went into the theater and you went to New York. And one day you were walking down the stairs of your apartment and a man shot you through the head and left you; twisted and bloody at the bottom of the stairs.

No one knows where he went. No one knows who did it. No one tried. No one cared. Some of the girls got together and tried to find out. A few detectives raised their hands, but it didn’t last very long. And so it remains a mystery. Unsolved. Unspoken. Another trans woman shot to the head by a mysterious cisgender man and it feels like a fable.

But the reality of you stay with me. All the time, Alana. Every time I have a Chicago hot dog and someone comes near me with a fork and I growl. I remember you. Hilarious and charming. Completely out of your mind and one of the most gifted artists I had ever worked with. You made me smile.

You still do.

Maybe you’re supposed to remain a mystery. I don’t know. But it makes me angry, and so I turned my anger into memories. And I think of you.

Thank you for your heart space and becoming my sister.

I remember you…. Alana Kela