For Tracy

This has been such a difficult month. Living in a world without the person you’ve spent nearly
every day of nearly half your life with. How does one begin to capture this life, this genuinely
larger than life person? One way is to embrace the fact that I will fail to encompass everything
that was Tracy Joelle Bachman. And that she would love that—Tracy embraced the value of
failure. It was actually a topic she studied, she wrote a book around the concept—the
magnificence of failure, really. Failure was the kind of postmodern, punk ideal that Tracy
relished.

And so here we go—I will try and fail to bring out everything I want to say about Tracy—and I
will rely on you all to keep trying to grasp and encompass all the aspects of Tracy that we want
to hold and remember.

First, let’s all agree that whether you knew her online or in person you knew her. Tracy was the
kind of madly genius, hugely funny person who named the ovarian cyst removed from her—a
gigantic cyst that contained actual hair and teeth—Pierre, after a Melville novel. We used to
keep the picture of it that our gynecologist handed to us on our fireplace mantle. She was the
person who whooped the loudest at any concert. If you listen to the recordings of Maria McKee
at the Hotel Café or Tanya Tucker at the Troubadour, you can literally hear her above the
crowd. She’s the person who grabbed the sock Patti Smith tossed while performing “Dancing
Barefoot” and caught Tom Petty’s guitar pick. She darted back stage at a Lucinda Williams
concert on Grammy night at the House of Blues and ran headlong into Emmylou Harris. She was
the girl who lost her cowboy boots in the mosh pit, saw L7 more than 100 times, got to pee in
the stall next to a platformed heeled, coked out Stevie Nicks. Can’t you just hear her doing her
helium cartoon voice or doing Parker Posey from Kicking and Screaming: “I can’t stand that
(waving her arms up and down), your shoes, your pants, that shirt you’re wearing, your hair—
your hair drives me crazy. Just get out. I have homework to do, just get out.”

Tracy so excelled at appreciating, at genuinely soaking in the ordinary joys of daily life—of
everyday culture and everyday cultural objects. Y’all know what I’m talking about—Her pencils,
notebooks, and pens; her books—particularly her Deleuze that she always kept close at hand;
her figures of Xena, Gabrielle, Skeletor, April Ludgate, the Incredible Hulk—she took a different
figure as a healing totem to every radiation treatment; surfing music; concrete squirrels;
Christmas blow molds, Gnomes, Art and more Art. But she always held these interests with
humor and irony—only Tracy would have a tattoo of a skull grater to make fun of people who
had skull tattoos when she herself had two from the late 1980s. Only Tracy would have her
students do a deep dive into Punk and Punk aesthetics, studying the lasting impact this
movement had socially and culturally—have them write research papers carefully citing reliable
academic sources—and then, at the end of the course, have students create their own Punk
Rock albums, sharing them with one another during one of her famous end of the semester
class potlucks.
For many of you she was that person you instantly recognized as being absolutely essential in
your life. I was never friends with Tracy on social media while she was alive (we did have some
boundaries), but I’ve become a friend now and have been blessed to see how many recognized
and appreciated her infinite humanism. Her friend Danny talked about this in a post about her
passing: “We met when I was still a teenager, starting out my college career in the Creative
writing program at CSUN. Not out at all yet, I think Tracy could sense something queer about
me and she became my protective big Lesbian sister.” So many of her former students posted
about how she made them not only better writers but better people. They describe her as their
favorite teacher who helped them get through college—as a mentor, friend, punk rock goddess,
and feminist warrior. They talk about the courage, confidence, and pride she gave to them. As
one of them so profoundly put it: “Professor Bachman, thank you for all of it. Thank you for
believing in me, seeing me, and trusting me. I love you.” And then there were so many who
shared how they only knew her virtually but felt she was such a great friend and how glad and
honored they were to have met her even if it was just online.

She was an instant friend, confidante and mentor.

And, as Danny put it, “she was so fucking cool.”

And we had so many amazing times together that will forever spool like a 70mm movie in my
mind and across my heart:

Seeing the shock of the locks of Emily Dickinson’s flaming red hair
Spending New Year’s Eve in the snow at Alcott’s Orchard House
Climbing down into the Devil’s Den at Gettysburg
Climbing up Monmouth Falls on our last trip together
The absolute legends we got to see live—Aretha Franklin, Jerry Lee Lewis, Cher, Adele, Lady
Gaga, Fleetwood Mac, Joan Baez, Rolling Stones, the Who…and Dolly Parton at the House of
Blues, weeping together with all the queers and drag queens giving her a 10 minute standing
ovation before she sang a single note.

No one enjoyed a good meal like Tracy, and it is perhaps those memories of meals both
remarkable and ordinary that will bring her closest to me. There was eating blue softshell crab
in New Orleans, poppy seed chicken in Franklin, always filet mignon at Musso and Frank. But
also Tracy preparing fried chicken and cornbread dressing just like she had lovingly learned
from my mother. All of the extraordinary pecan, coconut cream, and pumpkin pies she made
over the holidays. And then, roles reversed, just before this past Christmas, me making
homemade cinnamon rolls on a pouring rain afternoon while watching When Harry Met Sally
for the umpteenth time. The two of us repeating together, as always, “I want you to know that I
will never want that wagon wheel coffee table.” And then laughing uproariously.

During the time she was sick there were so many simple joys. Another gift Tracy gave. The great
fun of putting together a Cuckoo Clock with her best friend Michelle and Tracy racing to video
the bird tweeting on the hour. Tracy organizing a family trip to Underwood Farms in Simi to see
live reindeer. Her excitement and tenderness as she approached the two reindeer. And then
driving right after for her first meal out since the pandemic, having tri tip sandwiches at Green
Acres, and Tracy literally crying over the experience of being out in the world with her mom,
brother, me and my sister. Getting Darrick to drive us to the beach at Ventura so Tracy could
walk along the beach as she so loved to do but also because she was on a pilgrimage to have a
Pina Colada—which she had never had. Seeing her drink that gigantic frothy cocktail while
overlooking the ocean and then Tracy’s delight in getting brain freeze.

We were the old school maybe vanishing cliched lesbians who the U Haul joke was invented for.
Yep, we wore plaid flannel. Yep, we went to Indigo Girl concerts and sang along loudly. Like any
good, old school dyke, Tracy made sure her nails were closely clipped until the end. She was
always happy to share a required Lesbian Literature reading list (I got one early on too). She
may have rolled her eyes often at Brandi Carlisle but bought us tickets to see her on our 20th
Anniversary nonetheless.

And make no mistake, we were part of a historic time. We didn’t think back in 1999 when we
went into “Cupid’s Chapel” in Las Vegas and had our first wedding ceremony performed (yes
there were several over the years) and the Minister handed us the marriage certificate and told
us that if same-sex marriage ever became legal in Nevada we could come back and have that
certificate endorsed that it would actually happen in our lifetime. But we kept at it—Tracy
leading the way—organizing and cajoling us into performing our own act of civil disobedience
by driving up to San Francisco with our friends Shira and Hannah on Valentine’s weekend—the
weekend of love—in 2004, when the then Mayor and now Governor Gavin Newsom threw
open the doors of City Hall, issuing marriage licenses that the City Hall staff had stayed up all
night printing for the hundreds of us who made the pilgrimage. We were married by
Representative Mark Leno in the great rotunda. And all the staff lined City Hall and cheered
each of the couples as they exited out into the California sunshine. I can’t describe what it’s like
to receive a notice some months later from the state of California revoking your marriage—it
was a gut punch that hit Tracy really hard—but, we were back in West Hollywood on the first
day, June 17, in 2008, when California once again –via constitutional amendment—issued
marriage licenses. Behind us in the line that day were George Takei and his husband. And even
after the campaign of hatred that was Prop 8, our marriage couldn’t be revoked as we were
married when it was constitutionally legal.

And so it is really hard to think of a me without Tracy. We are the embodiment of:

Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people
and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord
deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me.

Tracy taught me well the lesson of the Book of Ruth—that it is in those ordinary moments that
a relationship and lives are cultivated and committed to. It is those moments I hold onto now.
Browsing the Country Fair Antique Mall, often on Christmas Eve, and finding little treasures to
add to what we called our house, Ye Olde Junk Shoppe. Driving to play in the snow at Ft. Tejon.
Hours spent in record stores, book stores, oh and Blockbuster video. Watching music
documentaries and old movies. How many countless times watching Mr Blandings Builds His
Dream House, Philadelphia Story, The Heat, Baby Mama. Crying with laughter when Kirstin Wiig
describes the pilgrim garbed woman on the plane wing in Bridesmaids, crying with love when
Barbara Stanwyck plays piano and sings “The End of a Perfect Day” in Remember the Night.
During the first year of the pandemic, belting out the entirety of Jesus Christ Superstar on
Easter. Wearing our Googly Eyes during the Oscars. Then in her last weeks, Tracy carefully
putting a new Kleenex, as a fresh bed, under her Googly Eyed Pet Rock every day on the side
table next to her hospital bed.

So how about we keep sharing our simple joys and ordinary everyday life events and interests
with Tracy? Tag her on social media with stuff you know she’d like or want to know about—cool
stuff for Record Store Day, your top ten album list for the year, a meme that strikes you as so
Tracy. Share a new art exhibit or book signing event. Share your wishes and aspirations, just
like she always did. She was making lists of things she still wanted to do up until the very end.
Her last list had at the top, “Visit Wordsworth’s house” and “Visit Walt Whitman’s house.” Let’s
imagine we can, like any good transcendentalist, pierce that veil into the World Unseen and
picture Tracy doing very Tracy things, like explaining postmodern theory to Wordsworth or
teaching Whitman how to mosh pit. At the very least, let’s console ourselves with the
knowledge that for Tracy rock and roll never dies—and Keith Richards is genuinely immortal.

Finally, let me say that Tracy was always revealing important lessons to not just her students
but to everyone around her. And as I’ve thought about the most specific thing she wanted for
today—that the song “Trespasses” by Patti Smith be played—I know she is imparting some
final, beautiful wisdom, about the impermanence of life, about understanding yet not being
defined by regret, by remaining open and kind and forgiving. When you listen to this song
today, I hope you can hear her and remember and hold the words she held so fulsomely,
reverently, and wholly close to your heart as well.

I don’t know what’s beyond this life, but I want to believe and I will imagine that Tracy mended
all the fences that she needed to and that she is free, out there somewhere in the World
Unseen, joyfully whistling. And I will listen for and honor her spirit every day of the rest of my
life on earth.