When I exit the elevator into the hotel lobby, the urgency of my own voice startles me. We have to be discreet. The Miami-Dade homicide detective explained that, because my aunt died alone in her home, the law required a forensic account of the scene. After they removed her body, I requested the property remain untouched. I wanted to piece together her final days to better understand her life, but I was not prepared for the chaotic state of her final months.
Perhaps my journalistic approach to her death is a way of coping with guilt and loss, but my investigation has revealed a heartbreaking reality. My aunt, an educated, politically passionate, older gay woman, died isolated, financially destitute and alone. What could I have done to prevent it?
I had never asked Carol questions about her health or well-being. I was terribly wrong, and I wanted to understand why. Instead, Carol excelled in sports, was known as a class comedian and had a boyfriend, despite being in love with her best friend, according to my mother. He said they were going steady until she suddenly cut off contact right before his senior prom. When he drove by her house to speak with her about what had happened, she ran inside. He was heartbroken and confused by her behavior.
Surprisingly, between the dreaded high school prom and the empowered run-in with her high school ex at Temple in , my aunt married a young man from the neighborhood.
I can imagine how difficult it may have been for Carol to come out to them. They raised their family with the understanding that public appearance was social currency, and heteronormative relationships were the gold standard. Still, Carol was 25 when she got married in And what happened during the three years between her wedding and , when she was fully out of the closet? What had changed? Was there some specific catalyst for her coming out and accepting who she truly was, or had she simply grown tired of hiding?
