I know I’m not in any imminent threat of death, but it’s a little unheimlich/eerie when you note an acquaintance and someone of your age having died. I had been involved in enough queer activism to have met Heather McAllister a number of times over the years when she lived in Michigan. I knew that she had worked at Triangle Foundation. She had a sharp intellect and a positively wicked pair of cat-eye specs that I thought were her trademark long before Lisa Loeb. She also had a HUGE bottom. It never bothered her. In fact, what always touched me about Heather was her conscious choice to make it YOUR issue rather than hers. She left Michigan to capitalize on her radical view and created a big-girl burlesque revue in California. And as has happened for so many Michigan emigres, I thought she would go on to a fabulous life in San Francisco and be happy.

While casually listening to my NPR commie-pinko feed, I heard Leonard Nimoy speak of his new Full Body Project. I didn’t know that he gone on to become a photographer, good for him. He talked of the daunting task of taking pictures of very heavy women, good for him. He spoke of meeting Heather and being inspired by her performance work as both a political and artistic effort, fine, fine, nice to see a Michiganian find some success. He then said that she had died. My eyes bugged out. I stopped the feed and started searching for her frantically online. How could she be dead? She was vital, smart, beautiful and motivated to make real change in American culture. She was in California living the good, queer American dream. And she was young! Rather, she was my age! That didn’t make sense at all! She had so much to do! She had died of ovarian cancer this past February. I hadn’t heard anything here back home. And I had felt no sign of her passing as I imagined great ladies might, silly git. For me, it was the divine whispering, so softly, I will cut all threads–even yours–without your assent.