For lovers who go unnamed

There is a story in Ruthann Robson's collection Cecile called "Theories of Men" that follows the narrator, Cecile's lover and partner, into the classroom of her feminist coursework at what one could presume to be Mills College. Here she struggles with the assigned theories--some written by men the way that men have always written theory and some, even more frustratingly, written by women the way that men have always written theory. She struggles to find theories that can explain her existence--as a lower-class woman, as a mother, as a lesbian-- and to find a place in the classroom--as a mature student, as a native of Florida, as a lesbian. The story comes to its revelation with the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, whose epicenter was just 10 miles north of Santa Cruz.

As the narrator describes the aftermath and the emotions she experiences, she singles out a particular part of the news report that strikes even more close to home. The narrator describes a young woman calling out to rescue workers to save her friend from a collapsed building in downtown Santa Cruz, calling over and over to them to save her. The narrator states quite solemnly that the woman on the news program does not actually mean "friend" when she calls out to the rescue workers, she means "lover."

I read Cecile this fall, with my lover curled into me, for coursework I designed for myself. Every two weeks I would read something new and show up at Bettina's office ready to discuss something about the work. Over the weeks I read Cecile, I decided I wanted to discuss the story "Theories of Men." It had resonated deeply with me and what I didn't know, but should have expected, was that Bettina already knew the story, but knew it in the context of Santa Cruz instead.

She told me the woman caught under the collapsed building was the lover of woman who called out to save her, and she was also the owner of the cafe the building had housed. When the earthquake had struck, the woman had run back into the building to clear everyone out, saving them, and had gotten trapped herself. The building was deemed too dangerous to continue rescue operations and her lover's cries were in vain. She told me the building had stood at the end of Pacific Ave and the lot had not been built upon since, a foundational hole in the ground with chain-link fence guarding it.

Today there is an additional chain-link fence around the lot and a large sign that advertises the new apartments to come in that valuable downtown prime location--but it does not say anything about what used to be there, why it isn't any longer and it does not tell the story of the friend who was really a lover.

But today there are also two deep-red roses, with their stems wrapped around each other; today they are woven into the fence, together; today there are roses for the past and for the future, for you and for her.