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Cheryl B. was a writer, editor, activist and slam poet from NYC. She died in 2010 at the age of 38 before I had the chance to meet her. But we had corresponded off and on for a number of years before that. Our paths crossed when she was in the process of editing an anthology of bi women's writings for Suspect Thoughts Press, back before they went under, and she accepted an essay from me. Between cash flow problems on their end and other obstacles, the book never got published. I was reading a review of Cheryl's posthumously published memoir, My Awesome Place, today and got to thinking about her again, as I do from time to time. And that, in turn, made me think about this unpublished essay that I've had kicking around for a few years. So I decided that I'd publish it out here. Today, it being National Coming Out Day and all. I don't know if I would write this piece today, but there are definitely some things that still resonate for me. If you like or even if you don't, consider picking up a copy of My Awesome Place anyway. I want some company regretting that I never got to meet her.
“Strange, But Not a Stranger”
Feral: the act of escaping into or going back to the wild. Of leaving behind a bed, warm or cold, and an almost certain meal, of choosing outside over inside. Sometimes you choose to be outside, other times it chooses you. You can see the
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