Final Firsts (or, This Shit Never Get's old but I do)

It feels strange to write about firsts when it feels like I’ve reached the stage where I’m facing more goodbyes and farewells, but even those can lead to new paths and adventures. And therefore, more firsts—just different, sometimes bittersweet ones. This may not be my first time writing for a queer publication, but it’s my first me doing so in almost 20 years; a Gen Z lifetime ago, I played at being a contributing editor for an LGBTQ lifestyle magazine in San Francisco.

It was fun interviewing people and producing photo shoots, working with friends and other creatives in the Bay Area. But after 9/11, my priorities shifted, and I thought I should try to focus other careers. So, I became a graphic designer for 10 years, working mostly with nonprofits. Then I went back to school and became an interior designer for another 10 years. During all these milestones (and firsts), I was also an actor, initially appearing on stage and later in commercials, films, and television. And for the past five years, acting has been my full-time job and life—it’s one of the few things I have left at this point.

At 27 I met and fell for the man who would become my husband. At 32 I became one of the first in my friend group to get married and part of the first wave of gays and lesbians in California who legally wed before a statewide proposition banned same-sex marriage and left us all in limbo. And at 42 I became one of the first of my friends to lose their partner after my husband Jim died of cancer. Once I was a positive example to everyone. Then I suddenly became a cautionary tale of loss and sadness.

After 15 years of living in the same home I shared with Jim, I decided to pack up and try another series of firsts elsewhere. I spent the pandemic living and working in Canada (a first, despite being a Canadian citizen), and now I find myself living in LA for the first time. I’ve avoided living in the region my entire life, but figured it was me to face whatever hesitations I had around SoCal head-on.

This is one of the first times I’m writing publicly about my late husband, Jim Nawrocki. He was the real writer in our family. He was a published poet who also wrote short stories, essays, and book reviews for various magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. As cancer ravaged his body, one of his last wishes was to “just” get a book of his work published—to have a written, printed record of all his work. Easier said than done, babe. Jim had spent a lifetime submitting to publishers, literary companies, and almost every open call for manuscripts, to virtually no avail.

After he died, I spent my first foggy year of grief trying to realize his dream. It was the first time I had ever reached out to publishing houses and small presses to try to get his manuscript published. As the rejections began rolling into my inbox (instead of Jim’s), I decided to stray from the cut-and-pasted cover letters Jim had set up and wrote my first personal letter to an independent publisher whose founder had a very similar journey with cancer as Jim—except this other man lived. I like to think my letter (and of course Jim’s writing) worked to change their hearts and minds, or at least pique their interest. I cried my first tears of victory and relief when they agreed to publish a collection of Jim’s poems and stories. I spent my first global pandemic compiling and editing what would become my husband’s first (and only) book, House Fire. A friend and former lover of his wrote the introduction, while I wrote the afterword. Catharsis and healing can take any number of forms, and this was my way of keeping a part of Jim alive forever.

I’ve discovered over the last few years that there’s a kind of coming out as a widow(er). I mention it often with the friends I made from my former support group for spousal loss (archly dubbed the Grief Buddies.) When do you let a new friend or colleague know you’ve lost someone you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with? How do you explain moving forward with your life and sometimes painfully discovering new firsts without your husband or wife? The first Christmas without him. The first spring without him. The first year without him.

Starting over in a new city, making new friends, and creating new firsts, I discovered it’s possible to still feel that sense of possibility that I experienced over 20 years ago. The creation and mission of The Fruit Slice alone takes me back to that magical feeling of, “Hey gang, let’s put on a show!” The openness and honesty of the Gen-Zers I’ve met (as well as their younger successors) give me hope that we can all have second (or third) chances and new acts while discovering and sharing a new set of firsts together: First time driving along the coast to Malibu; a first year of professional successes in LA; the first time in years I thought I could possibly fall in love again.

As I get closer to 50, I tend to think not about the chapters in my life but the volumes that mark it. The first volume was made up of chapters of youth, adventure, and folly. The second volume has been filled with chapters of successes, failures, love, and loss. But as I approach what might be my third volume, I look back and want to offer a clichéd piece of advice to anyone still going through all their first set of firsts: This is the first day of the rest of your life, so do something with it.

You’re already reading this first issue of The Fruit Slice—get out there and make the world a more colorful, queer, sweet, and fruity place. I’ll be there with you, ready to take that first step together because I’ve learned how scary it can be to try to do it alone. And isn’t that the best part of our community, knowing that we don’t have to do it all alone?