Cassie Nova • 06/28/24 – Dallas Voice

Grateful for Grandma Christine

Hello, my lovelies. As we come to the end of a wonderful Pride month, I thought I’d share the story of when I knew it was going to be okay to be openly gay. I told a version of this story when I first started writing for the Dallas Voice about nine years ago. I’m revisiting it now because hopefully my writing skills have improved, but also for my younger audience – assuming I’ve gained some new fans.

My paternal grandmother was the best person I ever knew. Her name was Christine Love and she took care of me a lot when I was little. In fact, my sister and I spent most summers with her in Mineola, Texas.

She encouraged me to pursue art of all kinds from a young age. She had an amazing eye for making something out of nothing. My grandfather was a garbage man and would bring home the craziest stuff he could find and my grandmother would turn it into something pretty to display in her glass cabinets. She painted everything from plates to beer bottles. She crocheted beautiful, elaborate doll clothes out of beer cans and yarn. She repaired broken things and painted them to give them new life in her eclectic home.

Every morning when I woke up, she would rip a large sheet of butcher paper off the roll she had in her kitchen, put it on the table and ask me to draw her something while she made breakfast.

While she made the most amazing biscuits and gravy, I drew whatever came to mind. My favorite was a furry little creature that looked like “Cousin It” wearing sunglasses and sneakers.

Some days she would ask me what he was doing in the jungle, and I would draw him in the jungle, dangling from vines like Tarzan. Other days she would want me to draw him on a Pegasus or on a boat.

I was always a very lousy little kid and hated being outside too long, so she kept me busy with arts and crafts. Sometimes she would ask me to tell her a story, so I would make up complete nonsense, and she would nod and laugh and always seem interested in what I was saying.

She had other grandchildren, but I knew I was her favorite. I was a really good kid around my grandma because the worst thing I could imagine was that she would be disappointed in me for some reason. But what I was most worried about was losing her.

Every time I prayed, my first “request” was for God to protect her so I could see her again. Seriously, I still remember saying a little prayer every time we left my grandmother’s house in my dad’s truck that she would be OK so I could see her again.

Except once.

It was Christmas Eve, I was in sixth grade, and we had spent the first part of the Christmas holidays at her house in Mineola. It was a great Christmas. Since our parents were divorced, my sister and

I selfishly enjoyed double presents. My grandma bought me a cassette player with a microphone so I could record myself (apparently I liked to talk). My dad bought me a small TV for my bedroom, and we got lots of toys and knick-knacks to keep me occupied while we drove away from my grandma’s house.

So I was too engrossed in my “things” to say my little silent prayer.

My grandma died three weeks later.

I knew the moment she died. I was sitting in math class. The windows were open because it was a beautiful January day. It was sunny and unseasonably warm (we’re in Texas, so what does that even mean?), and a pleasant breeze blew into the classroom. The smell of that breeze was unmistakable: It smelled of my grandmother—a mix of the Virginia Slims she sometimes smoked, a slight whiff of something fried in bacon grease, and the sweet floral scent of her perfumed soap. It was undeniably the smell of her house, but it was mostly the smell I remember of her hugging me.

I knew at that moment that she was dead.

My mother picked us up from school that day and when we got home she asked us to go upstairs to my room because she had something to tell us. Before she even closed the door I said, “Grandma’s gone, right?” I just shrugged when she asked how I knew. I went for a long walk, crying and cursing myself for not saying my little prayer.

The night before her funeral, she appeared to me in a dream and we talked while sitting at her kitchen table. She told me that everything would be OK – and eventually it was.

Since then, I still dream about her, we sit at her kitchen table and I ask her for advice when I am at a crossroads in my life.

When I was 16 and suicidal because people would find out I was gay, she told me to hold on and stop being stupid. When I was 17 and the only gay people I saw on TV or in movies didn’t look or act like me and I doubted I would ever be happy, she told me to hold on and wait for a sign. Three days later, when I skipped school, I got the sign that I think she sent me.

I was strolling through downtown Dallas feeling depressed. I stopped and sat on a bench in the water garden at San Jacinto Plaza. As I watched in fascination the dancing water shooting into the air, briefly looking like people doing somersaults before disappearing back into the ground, I saw something that changed my world.

The water parted and at a table diagonally across from where I was sitting were two guys eating lunch. They both looked perfectly normal. In the few seconds that the water was in the middle but high next to us, they held hands, leaned forward and kissed. It was quick, but I saw it, then they were hidden under the water again.

My heart skipped a beat – not because I saw something I had never seen before, but because of the normality and the way they looked at each other. In that moment, I knew that being gay was more than

I saw it in the media. I just had to see it in real life to know it was out there and a possibility for me.

I’m not the naive boy I once was, and I’m not sure I believe in signs anymore. But I know in my heart that when I talk to my grandma, those dreams are absolutely real. When I pray, I’m more likely to talk to her and some of the other influential people I’ve lost.

My grandma Christine helped me come out. She helped me decide on a career as an entertainer. She gave me the OK to pursue my dreams. She always told me I would be famous and encouraged me to find my art. If she were alive today, she would be Cassie Nova’s biggest fan. I think she would be proud of me.

I miss her every day and can’t wait for her to visit me again.

To celebrate Pride this year, say thank you to the people who have always encouraged you to be yourself! Remember to always love more, complain less, and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova