I don’t remember when exactly I met Donimo, but I know, bodily, my uncommon impression of her that I’ve felt ever since — her solidity, her calm presence and extraordinary grace, inquisitiveness, her thoughtful considerations, her deeply moral and big-thinking way of knowing this world. I know Donimo as authentic, electric. Special. Especially among so many of us in the queer community who are still shedding, or trying on, or experimenting to be ourselves, there is Donimo as our example.
I think I felt a little shy around Donimo because, unusually, I felt “seen” by her. I felt like she listened, and listened carefully, and when she spoke she was either delightfully wry, or punny, and remarkably considered. I felt a happy challenge to be my best self with her because this is what she offered.
It’s unhelpful and fruitless but still I wish that the many, extraordinary, harsh and enduring tests — all of the pain — wasn’t part of Donimo’s life and Sarah’s life. I wish, maybe, that she wasn’t brilliant enough to know that her enduring pain, her lack of easy options, were things that many in her greater circle, nice people, even, wouldn’t be able to comprehend. I think about Donimo often. We are lucky to have an old wooden cabinet that she loved. We call it “Donimo’s cabinet.” Ellen and I keep our bedding and some of Ellen’s sheet music and tools in Donimo’s cabinet. It’s full of everyday things and beautiful things. It seems right.