My friend Janet Kirkland died on August 16 in Albuquerque after a battle with throat cancer. Although an intrinsic New Yorker, she was always reaching for something outside the City—an idea if not quite a place, a context not a lifestyle. She made the Sandia mountains her final home, which matched her indomitable spirit and unique perspective. Throughout life, Janet saw beauty in barriers.
I met Janet at a job in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. A woman with a bald head in a web design office stood out. She wore dark layers head to toe, walked like the leader of a lesbian biker gang, and could menace you with a sharp side-eye or uplift you by flashing a smile. I immediately clocked her as the woman in charge. Her competency and knowledge in a pool of staff barely keeping their heads above water, as managers flailed about, was a lifesaver on several occasions. Yet, I discovered she was not the boss and remained reserved in meetings.
Over a lunch break one day, I scolded her obsequious behavior. With patience and guile, she walked me through the tensile dynamics of a black woman trying to excel in this world. She demonstrated how I could be an effective ally by properly directing my umbrage. Another New Yorker would have taken me down a peg; Janet devoted her energy to raising me up.
For nearly 15 years we bonded over debates about racial justice and politics, classic literature and our own fiction writing, art and pop culture, and especially feminism and philosophy. At corner bars that served decent gin or rye, we solved the world’s greatest conundrums and rectified our most intimate discontents. As New York culture changed and no longer favored an odd couple occupying stools with eccentric banter, our discussions turned towards getting out. She traveled abroad and fell in love with Europe. When the pandemic hit along with an inkling of disease, her plans shifted to be near her brother in New Mexico. The mountains, I believe, were also calling.
Several years ago we were on vacation together in Montreal at a Jazz club. Between sets of a bass and piano she turned to me and said, apropos of nothing, that she loved mountains because you can appreciate grandeur while fording an obstacle. Janet had a habit of dropping random profundities after a few cocktails (often with a Campari chaser that she called “my poor student’s cocktail”). It struck a strange note at the time. Only in hindsight do I now appreciate the full chord of what she was expressing.
Janet overcame early struggles and embraced her life in maturity. Her strong visage was not a mask but a natural convergence of her self worth. She used her insecurities and foibles as grist to build an authentic woman, day by day. For Janet, how you tackle a mountain of adversity is the ultimate measure of your soul.
When reaching life’s final summit, many pray to rest in peace before an eternal vista. I see Janet in the afterlife forever enjoying the climb.