Ode To Emma
November 8th, 2023
I met Emma Dowd at the Bowery Ballroom. It was a boy band celebration party for One Direction fans, so naturally my friend who I attended the event with and I were obnoxiously intoxicated, and emotions were high. When we descended down the stairs into the hazy ballroom lounge, the space was pulsing at the stonewall seams with young women and queers adorned in vintage band merch and the bouncing bass of pop songs. I hadn’t felt this sense of belonging in a while. Not since I moved to New York City. Not since I graduated from my teenage years. Not since I was a young girl. We immediately took to more alcohol and loosely danced with strangers. It wasn’t long until I sniffed out a camera – tequila is an attention whore. Behind the flash of a tiny camera a woman with a butterfly tattoo on her chest and a head of curly mane was scurrying around snapping photos of everyone. Shamelessly, she looked like a young woman embodiment of Styles ((one of) our hero(s)).
I stumbled over to her, and without an introduction, demanded:
Take my picture!
And so she did. And so she did again. And again.
With One Direction’s “Little White Lies” nearly audible through the photo I’m flipping her the bird. I’m flashing my tits to the camera. I’m kissing the lens. Today the vault of incriminating photos of me exists somewhere on Emma’s computer. I trust they’ll stay there for when we need a laugh.
That night she was capturing the glory of young passion that made it into adulthood. The photos she took were truly marvelous. Women in hot pink fits on their knees, clutching their chests or strangers’ hands, belting the lyrics like one of those mega-church prayers. Limbs shaking in a dance only a veteran fangirl can execute.
We stayed together that evening, exchanged numbers, and parted ways once the drunken deli hunger called out to my friend and I. The next day she sent me photos of myself. I was messy in them, yes – but I looked so alive. So myself yet so out of body as I headbanged my long sweaty hair and collapsed to my knees, drink spilling everywhere, lyrics coming from their permanent place in my heart. I couldn’t thank Emma enough. Today, we live together in our laughably small, dingey, boy band poster littered apartment above the Bowery Ballroom.
Deciding we were bound to be friends after our chaotic meet, we went to dinner and a bar one night before I went home for the summer to say goodbye. That goodbye was really our first genuine hello.
We talked about our shared interests of dismantled boy bands, the fucking science of music lyrics, wine, our bewilderment in New York City, and tattoos – that night we sprinted to a sketchy tattoo shop in Greenwich in hopes of getting a matching ink. Thank God we did not follow through (we ended up getting matching tattoos in each other's handwriting today – it’s one of my favorites).
From strangers, to roommates, to best friends, Emma has become one of the most significant people in my life. Though she’s only a few years older than me, and most often than not our age difference goes unnoticed, I look up to her at a great height. Emma is the queen of being an individual. She is so authentic it's blinding at times. Her light makes you wince away and assess yourself in its honest cast. It makes you want to be better, search for yourself so you can exist on her plane without clashing with her genuineness.
New York City can be violently isolating. More isolating than one person can be for themselves – and I’m guilty of locking myself in my body and going through the motions, constantly on trial for false impersonation. When Emmamoved here, she knew no one. She abandoned any shell of herself that she wore. She was a student. She dropped out. She pursued a passion. She did all the things that scare people back into their cave. Meeting someone like her changes your life.
This year I fell in love with a woman, Ashton. She was unlike anyone I had ever met before. Her presence erased any self-doubts I had stitched to love. I would not have pursued her as I did, though if it wasn’t for Emma.
Emma loves like stone.
An element so unbreakable, that despite its shatter there will still be traces of its matter scattered on everything. A red dust, a ton, a fossil, a spark to the fire.
Last year, I had the privilege to watch Emma fall in love. Em & Em. I had never seen such a pursuit. Intention. Self-acceptance. Bravery. These two women are something of feminine beauty – not only physically, but of intellectual luster and a romance that evades the skin.
Unknowingly, Emma extended her hand to me which I held tenderly, as she guided me through the warm fog of gay. Yes, fog of gay — I’m a good writer. And yes, a lot of the knowledge of my sapphic identity already existed. Yes, I owe myself gratitude. Yes, it is an individual journey for everyone. But Emma’s surge search for self-satisfaction and elevation showed me what life can look like if I just be.
If Emma suggests you shave your head, you probably should.
If Emma wants to practice her tattoos on your skin, you roll up your sleeve.
If Emma blasts “1989 Taylor’s Version” in the living room, you go dance with her.
If Emma pours you a glass of wine, you drink it.
If Emma loves you, you love her forever.
I love you, Emma!
