Saturday's Douchebag You Should Know About: My Friend Stella O.

Stella O. came into my life as a student. She is much older than I am, but one of the most beautiful, vital woman I’ve known. She must have been in her 70’s when I first started working with her. She is now in her 80’s. She TANGOED. Literally, every night. She was mysteriously wealthy, but also tragic and sensitive, and too generous. She is also brilliant.

I worked with her on her writing for several years, and I really loved her.

Stella loved JJ before JJ became JJ. Stella sent JJ dresses, shoes, bracelets, bags, bird feathers, fur hats, you name it.

JJ loved Stella.

Once we got through Covid, Stella and I were able to meet for lunch again in the city. Oddly enough, she chose (she always chose because she paid) a restaurant in the Trump Tower. I was in that just-coming-out-of-masking spook mode, so the location just seemed the latest in the ongoing series of chinks in my reality.

When we settled down to our long meal — we always spent two to three hours over lunch — we dished about our lives. I told Stella about JJ’s transition.

Back when I first told friends, I would hesitate, worry, wait to see how they responded— and I was often surprised at how happy my friends were for JJ. They understood, better than I did, that this was really an amazing thing. That JJ knew who they were.

These generous friends taught me how to understand what was happening.

I guess I got used to that response.

Unlike those friends, Stella immediately demanded to know, “When did it happen?”

She wanted verification of every last bit of of JJ’s “decision,” and I have to say that it was really uncomfortable to sit there across from her, trying to read the menu, knowing that she, as a person, was hurtful to JJ. Even though JJ wasn’t there.

Here I was in the Trump Tower — WTF? — being interrogated by a friend about what was essentially my child’s personal business.

I used to always make a point of seeing Stella when I went to NYC. Now I’ve been several times, perhaps dozens of times over the past two years, and I haven’t let her know.

This is odd because I very much worry about her literary estate and legacy (she is a great, unrecognized writer) as she approaches her late eighties. She is also alone, having recently been been dumped by a partner who was 25 years her junior, who made out like a thief, who used her, broke her heart, destroyed her — I despise him, and I want to lift Stella up.

But I don’t and I can’t. A boundary was crossed.

It was crossed in that moment that, as I peered over the menu to meet her eyes, Stella asked me once again, “When did it happen?” Demanding to know. Irritated. Disrespectful.

Stella, my kid did not decide to be trans. They are who are and in that sense they are who they always were. And, besides, it’s none of your goddamned business. It is my child’s business.

And that is how Stella O. has earned the honor of being “Saturday’s Douchebag You Should Know About."

And that is also why our friendship ended.