Annie on My Mind

“Don’t let ignorance win,” said Ms. Stevenson. “Let love.”

Female Homosexuality, by Frank S. Caprio. Sappho Was a Right-On Woman, by Abbott and Love. Patience and Sarah—our old friend—by Isabel Miller. The Well of Loneliness, by Radclyffe Hall.

“The one thing that having a temper has taught me, Liza,” she said, “is that most of the time it’s better to do one’s exploding in private.

Annie, are you all right?
Are you happy, did you find what you wanted to find in California? Are you singing? You must be, but you haven’t said so in your letters. Do other people get goosebumps when you sing, the way I used to?

I said “Liza Winthrop” before I realized that wasn’t what she’d asked.

I was surprised to find that I didn’t; I usually like to be by myself in museums, especially when I’m working on something.

the best way to begin a story is to start with the first important or exciting incident and then fill in the background.

So I’m going to start with the rainy Sunday last November when I met Annie Kenyon.

to imagine what it would be like if people always reacted to Annie and me that way—being hurt by us, or pitying us; worrying about us, or feeling threatened—even laughing at us. It didn’t make any sense and it was unfair, but it was also awful.

3
Mrs. Poindexter didn’t look up when I went into her office. She was a stubby gray-haired woman who wore rimless glasses on a chain and always looked as if she had a pain somewhere. Maybe she always did, because often when she was thinking up one of her sardonically icy things to say she’d flip her glasses down onto her bumpy bosom and pinch her nose as if her sinuses hurt her. But I always had the feeling that what she was trying to convey was that the student she was disciplining was what really gave her the pain. She could have saved herself a lot of trouble by following the school charter: “The Administration of Foster Academy shall guide the students, but the students shall govern themselves.” But I guess she was what Mr. Jorrocks, our American history teacher, would call a “loose constructionist,” because she interpreted the charter differently from most people.
“Sit down, Eliza,” Mrs. Poindexter said, still not looking up. Her voice sounded tired and muffled—as if her mouth were full of gravel.
I sat down. It was always hard not to