Tara is perched half-stool, one black high heel to the floor, ready to get up and go as far as her small stage allows when the Stonewall spirit moves. She’s on about history like I’ve never seen even the most enthused civics professor get, and we can feel the vibration in our hearts if not in our media center chairs, because this story of drag queens and broken bottles and fuck the police is personal for Tara. They were her friends, and this is the story of her people; and she means it.
She has a thick, 63-year-old face, delicately made up, reading glasses tipped down at the end of her broad nose; she’s got ample breasts, not much in the way of hips, but then, hell, neither do I, and ain’t I a woman. Her voice is Jersey baritone and it is all passion, words cut off only when age forces her to go retrieve them, and then it’s back to the story, to the dozen tangents she seems to need to follow out loud because we are listening. And if you don’t tell your stories, they die with you, gone. And Tara needs telling.