Excerpt from Guinevere Turner’s remarks at “Cruising the Horizon: Remembering the Life, Work, and Legacy of José Esteban Muñoz,” January 7, 2014, Human Resources, Los Angeles, CA

I first met José in September 1986 at Sarah Lawrence College. I had woken up fully clothed and with the words “I’m a sex kitten” written up my leg in Sharpie. I decided that this was a reason to go to Health Services. As I sat waiting for the nurse, a guy sat next to me. He asked what was wrong with me, and I gestured to the words on my leg. I asked why he was there, and he said, “I took acid last night and thought I could fly so I jumped out the window. I think I sprained my ankle.” We would later tell the story that he thought “What a slut” and I thought “What an idiot,” and we were best friends for twenty-seven years.

In thinking about speaking here tonight, I was at first at a loss as to what to say. Then I remembered something—from about 1996 to about 2003, I went through a compulsive phase where I wrote down every single voice mail that anyone left me. The whole message, verbatim, often rewinding and pausing to get it exactly right. So I have hundreds of messages from him, in his own voice, the way we spoke to each other. One of his habits was to make up nicknames for me—here are just a few:

Old Man RiverWinnie WastecaseSaggy SadieOld Lady CheeseDisco DuckSporty ShortyOld Chicken HeadUncle WigglyRumplestiltskinJunkie JaneSir Drinks A Lot

He also told me: I was racist for not liking Chinese Food, I was an old woman trapped in an older woman’s body, and that I was only gay for attention. Here are some excerpts from his messages:

• • Damn. I wish I was your lover. Girl you all but abandoned me. You don’t call me up. You’re getting ready to move to LA and leave me behind. Lying on a mattress in the street. Collecting cans and fighting with Becky. Old Street Joe. Coal on my face. I’m sitting by the pool now, feeling sexy. Shake it. Shake it don’t break it.

• • Lady. Little Lady—this is Uncle Joe. Lady. Shake your ass—you love it. I’m thinking of Balzac—isn’t Nana about a prostitute? I should put you in touch with Jennifer Doyle—an expert on prostitution literature. I am as tired as bitch today. I don’t have a leg to stand on. Flopping around on the deck.

• • I’m thinking about our New Years’ resolutions. Throw more people in cabs. Encourage more people to have elective surgery. Less choreography, more dancing. Or maybe more choreography and less dancing. You tell me. But definitely vaginal rejuvenation, more nights in jail, better jihads, and fancier shoes.

• • The Bulls [his beloved bulldog] got up this morning talking so much shit about you, walking around like you, doing her hair like you. Oh my god she totally tore you a new one.

• • Hey it’s me. I got home about a half hour ago, and now I have to have dinner with a fat white man. I could be sleepy but let me know where the night takes you. Don’t ever change for the better.

Finally, I would like to read a poem. It was written by Grace Paley, who was also one of José’s favorite teachers. I have had this poem on my refrigerator for many, many years, and I always wondered why it moved me so much. I am not in a long-term relationship, I have no particular anxiety around death or losing someone close to me. Now I know what it was about. If there was one person I was certain I would grow old with, it was José.

One Day

One dayone of uswill be lostto the other

this has beentalked about butlightly turningaway shyness thisbusiness of con-fronting thepreference forsurvival

my...