Books
Author’s life a winding path of queerness, art, pride and disability lineage
Fink explores familial exclusion in new book

When Jennifer Natalya Fink, 55, an English professor and director of the Disabilities Studies program at Georgetown University, was growing up, her grandfather’s house overflowed with his extended family – from aunts to second cousins.
“Though my gruff grandfather argued with everyone,” Fink, who is queer and Jewish, writes in her new book “All Our Families: Disability Lineage and the Future of Kinship,” “his household included far-flung family members in his ever-expanding mishpacha–Yiddish for family, extended family, and that aunt who’s really just your mother’s best friend.”
Yet one family member wasn’t welcome there, Fink, who is married to a Korean-American, gender nonconforming spouse, told the Blade in an interview. She never saw her first cousin, Cousin XY, (her grandfather’s grandson) at family gatherings.
As a child, Fink knew that she had a cousin who no one mentioned. A geneticist’s daughter, she named her “lost” cousin “Cousin XY.”
“My grandfather had an expanded idea of family,” Fink said, “But Cousin XY had Down syndrome.”
Fink’s grandfather was a doctor. His mishpacha included vulnerable people who were unable to provide for themselves. But “there wasn’t room for someone with an extra chromosome,” Fink said, “he said my aunt and uncle should ‘give away’ their child with Down Syndrome.”
There was so much shame around disability when Cousin XY was born, Fink said. “It was like how it was for me growing up queer in the 1970s and 1980s,” she said. “No one talked about it then. The stories of queer people were erased.”
Her grandfather’s vision of family had “one limit,” Fink said. “It didn’t include disability.”
After he was born, Cousin XY was taken from his parents. At first, a nurse cared for him. Then, he was institutionalized.
“Cousin XY’s story was erased,” Fink said. “He wasn’t even given a name.”
The 1970s was the “tail end” of the mass institutionalization of disabled people, Fink said.
Institutionalization of people with disabilities is much less common now. “Yet disabled people are still often being culturally and psychologically delineated from our idea of family,” Fink said.
Nearly one in five people has a disability, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. So, it’s not surprising that Fink’s family (like many families) has had more than one disabled person in its history.
Fink’s grandmother Adina was extremely hard of hearing. “Yet, we never talked about her deafness,” Fink said. “She took no pride in her disability.”
Just as, until recently, many families erased the stories of their LGBTQ mother, fathers, husbands, wives, children, grandmas, grandpas – “guncles,” families still erase disabled people from their family history.
Fink, born in Washington, D.C., grew up in Ithaca, N.Y. “Growing up, I felt like I was the only queer person in the universe,” Fink said, “being queer wasn’t considered to be ‘normal.’”
Many families have at least one family member who is LGBTQ. Fink’s parents were loving and liberal. But, when she was young, “it was as if there had never ever been a queer person in my family,” Fink said. “It felt like being cut off from my family’s story.”
Now, Fink’s parents are supportive of her sexual orientation.
In this era of LGBTQ pride, being queer is more often seen not as “abnormal” or “traumatic” but as a “normal” part of being human.
This hasn’t been the case for disabled people, Fink said.
The stigma and shame around disability became up close and personal for Fink when her daughter Nadia Sohn Fink, now 15, was two-and-a-half-years old.
Then, Fink learned that Nadia was autistic. Fink was gobsmacked.
Nadia, who is biracial, was an intelligent, playful child. Now Nadia is a bright teen who writes stories and poetry.
“It felt traumatic to get this paper saying Nadia is autistic,” Fink said, “as if we were being cut off from what is normal.”
Fink, who isn’t disabled, had internalized society’s perceptions of disability. She’d imbibed the ableist Kool Aid: the idea that disability is shameful – that disabled people should be feared, patronized and/or shunned.
To deal with her daughter’s autism diagnosis, Fink leaned into her experience of being queer.
“Because I’m queer, I’m used to being an outsider,” she said, “I drew on what I know of homophobia. On what it’s like to be excluded – to be considered abnormal – not a part of the family.”
Fink is an introvert. “If I weren’t queer, I’d never have gone into a bar,” she joked.
But connecting with other LGBTQ people had made her feel pride in herself. Her queer connection made her feel part of a chosen family and think about her family of origin’s stories.
She and Nadia connected with other autistic people and their families. Fink came to think of being disabled not as something to be ashamed of, but as a normal part of being human.
Fink began to look into her family’s disability history. She found that Rhona (now deceased), another cousin in the United Kingdom, had Down Syndrome. Rhona, Fink discovered, led a happy, fulfilled life.
“Rhona lived with her family through her childhood,” Fink said, “her mother started a progressive care center where Rhona lived the rest of her life.”
There’s a parallel between families being out and proud about their queer and disability history, Fink said.
“Reclaiming your family’s disability stories will change how you think about disability,” Fink said.
Take her hard-of-hearing grandmother. Fink now looks on her grandmother’s disability with pride. “She didn’t transcend her disability,” Fink said, “but because she was hard-of-hearing, my grandmother had to pay attention. She was a great listener.”
Fink’s daughter Nadia feels pride in her disabled ancestors. “Disability lineage empowers me,” Nadia emailed the Blade, “To know my people were always there. To know I have a people.”
Creativity runs in the Fink family. Like her daughter, Fink is a writer. She was the winner of the Dana Award for the novel and of the Catherine Doctorow Prize for Fiction.
“I write experimental fiction,” said Fink who was a Lambda Literary Award finalist for her 2018 novel “Bhopal Dance.”
“Bhopal Dance” “focuses on disaster, activism, white savior complex, and queer world making,” Corinne Manning wrote in the “Lambda Literary Review. “The book is an astonishing sun-posed magnifying glass on our radical failures and desires.”
In 1988, Fink graduated from Wesleyan University with a bachelor’s degree in a self-designed major in feminist performance art. She earned an M.F.A. in performance from the Art Institute of Chicago in 1990 and a Ph.D. in performance studies from New York University in 1997.
For a time, Fink was based in New York City, where she supervised art teachers in public schools. She noticed that often there were no books, and that the students were frequently alienated from books.
But “the kids loved to draw, paint, cartoon, etc.,” Fink said, “I learn best through making. So did these kids.”
To promote youth literacy, Fink was one of the founders of the (now defunct) Gorilla Press.
Fink’s life has been a winding path of queerness, art, pride and disability lineage. She wears her grandmother’s ring to honor her disability ancestors.
You can’t help but think that her grandmother would be proud.
Books
‘Radiant’ an illuminating biography of Keith Haring
Author captures artist’s complexities in sympathetic new book

‘Radiant: The Life and Line of Keith Haring’
By Brad Gooch
c.2024, Harper
$20/502 pages
“Radiant” is an illuminating biography of the talented artist Keith Haring, who made his indelible mark during the 1980s before dying young of AIDS. Brad Gooch, biographer of poets Frank O’Hara and Rumi, follows Haring from his childhood in Kutztown, Pa., to his early days in New York City painting artistic graffiti, to his worldwide fame and friendships with Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat.

The eldest of three children and the only boy, Haring learned to draw early on from his father. Art quickly became a lasting obsession, which he pursued fiercely. Growing up in a small, conservative town, he was drawn to countercultural movements like hippies and religious “Jesus freaks,” although he mostly found the imagery and symbols appealing.
He studied commercial art in Pittsburgh but later dropped out, spending several years working and learning at the Pittsburgh Arts and Crafts Center, before moving to New York City in 1978. Studying painting at the School for Visual Arts, he also learned about video and performance art, making interesting projects. He also began drawing images on subways and blank advertisement backboards. One of his most distinctive was the Radiant Baby, a crawling baby shooting rays of light.
Gooch begins the biography with his own encounter with this public art, which felt colorful and “extremely urgent.” It had to be done guerilla-style, before the authorities could catch him, and they were frequently painted over. He was arrested a few times.
Ironically, a few years later Haring would be paid huge sums and flown around the world to create large-scale art on public property. People were amazed at how quickly he worked, even in terrible conditions. Sometimes at these events, while a crowd was gathered, he would draw and give away the artwork. Knowing that his art in galleries sold for incredible amounts, he enjoyed occasionally frustrating the art world’s commercial desires.
His Pop Shops also revealed Haring’s competing impulses. Opened in 1986, first in New York and later in Tokyo, they put his art on all sorts of merchandise, including T-shirts and posters. On the one hand, they allowed ordinary people to buy his work at reasonable prices. However, they also earned him more money and increased his public image.
He made art for everyone. His best-known pieces, featuring babies and dogs, are colorful and family friendly. Some even consider it “lightweight.” He eagerly created murals and artwork for elementary schools and neighborhoods. But he also made art with social and political commentary and sexual explicitness. “Michael Stewart – USA for Africa” depicts a graffiti artist’s strangulation by New York City Transit Police officers. He painted “Once Upon a Time…” for the men’s bathroom of New York City’s Lesbian & Gay Community Center.
Haring worked nearly right up to his death in 1990. The Keith Haring Foundation keeps his work in the public eye, while also funding nonprofits working with disadvantaged youth and AIDS education. Gooch captures Haring’s complexities; he befriended graffiti artists of color and dated working-class men, but was sometimes ignorant about how his wealth and fame affected these relationships. Well written and sympathetic, the book can sometimes overwhelm in detail about life in the 80’s and Haring’s celebrity friends.
Books
New book is a fun whodunit set in London drag world
‘Murder in the Dressing Room’ will keep readers guessing

‘Murder in the Dressing Room’
By Holly Stars
c.2025, Berkeley
$19/368 pages
Your alter ego, the other half of your double life, is a superhero.
When you’re quiet, she’s boisterous. Your confidence is flat, hers soars. She’s a better dresser than you; she’s more popular, and maybe even a little smarter. By day, you live a normal existence but by night, your other side roars and in the new mystery, “Murder in the Dressing Room” by Holly Stars, both of you solve crimes.

Lady Lady had been a little off all evening.
As owner of London’s most fabulous, elegant drag club, she was usually in command but her protegee, Misty Devine, could tell that something was wrong.
She discovered how wrong when she found Lady Lady on her dressing room floor, foaming at the mouth, dead, poisoned by a mysterious box of chocolates.
Hours later, Misty de-dragged, morphing from an elegant woman to an ordinary, binary hotel employee named Joe who was heartbroken by the tragedy. Only employees had access to Lady Lady’s dressing room – ergo, someone they knew at the club had to be the killer.
Obviously, the London detectives assigned to the case had a suspect list, but Misty/Joe and their boyfriend Miles knew solving Lady Lady’s murder was really up to them. They knew who the killer wasn’t, but who had reason to kill Misty’s mentor?
Maybe Mandy, the club’s co-owner. The club’s bartender and bouncer were both sketchy. Lady Lady had spats with two employees and a former co-worker, but was that motive enough? When the dress Lady Lady was wearing that night proved to have been valuable stolen goods, Joe’s investigation list grew to include people who might have sneaked backstage when no one was paying attention, and a shady man who was suddenly following them around.
Then Misty learned that she was in Lady Lady’s will, and she figured the inheritance would be minor but she got a huge surprise. Lady Lady’s posthumous gift could make others think that Misty might’ve had reason to kill her.
And just like that, the suspect list gained another entry.
When you first get “Murder in the Dressing Room” in your hands, hang onto it tight. It’s fun, and so fluffy and light that it might float away if you’re not careful.
The story’s a little too long, as well, but there’s enjoyment to be had here, and authenticity enough to hold a reader’s attention. Author Holly Stars is a drag performer in London and somewhat of a murder maven there, which gives her insight into books of this genre and the ability to string readers along nicely with solid characters. If you’re unfamiliar with the world of drag you’ll also learn a thing or two while you’re sleuthing through the story; drag queens and kings will like the dual tale, and the settings that anchor it.
As a mystery, this is fun and different, exciting, but tame enough for any adult reader. If you love whodunits and you want something light, “Murder in the Dressing Room” is a double delight.

‘When the Band Played On’
By Michael G. Lee
c.2025, Chicago Review Press
$30/282 pages
You spent most of your early career playing second fiddle.
But now you’ve got the baton, and a story to tell that people aren’t going to want to hear, though it’s essential that they face the music. They must know what’s happening. As in the new book “When the Band Played On” by Michael G. Lee, this time, it’s personal.

Born in 1951 in small-town Iowa, Randy Shilts was his alcoholic, abusive mother’s third of six sons. Frustrated, drunk, she reportedly beat Shilts almost daily when he was young; she also called him a “sissy,” which “seemed to follow Randy everywhere.”
Perhaps because of the abuse, Shilts had to “teach himself social graces,” developing “adultlike impassiveness” and “biting sarcasm,” traits that featured strongly as he matured and became a writer. He was exploring his sexuality then, learning “the subtleties of sexual communication,” while sleeping with women before fully coming out as gay to friends.
Nearing his 21st birthday, Shilts moved to Oregon to attend college and to “allow myself love.” There, he became somewhat of an activist before leaving San Francisco to fully pursue journalism, focusing on stories of gay life that were “mostly unknown to anyone outside of gay culture.”
He would bounce between Oregon and California several times, though he never lost sight of his writing career and, through it, his activism. In both states, Shilts reported on gay life, until he was well known to national readers and gay influencers. After San Francisco supervisor Harvey Milk was assassinated, he was tapped to write Milk’s biography.
By 1982, Shilts was in love, had a book under his belt, a radio gig, and a regular byline in a national publication reporting “on the GRID beat,” an acronym later changed to AIDS. He was even under contract to write a second book.
But Shilts was careless. Just once, careless.
“In hindsight,” says Lee, “… it was likely the night when Randy crossed the line, becoming more a part of the pandemic than just another worried bystander.”
Perhaps not surprisingly, there are two distinct audiences for “When the Band Played On.” One type of reader will remember the AIDS crisis and the seminal book about it. The other is too young to remember it, but needs to know Randy Shilts’s place in its history.
The journey may be different, but the result is the same: author Michael G. Lee tells a complicated, still-controversial story of Shilts and the book that made America pay attention, and it’s edgy for modern eyes. Lee clearly shows why Shilts had fans and haters, why Shilts was who he was, and Lee keeps some mystery in the tale. Shilts had the knowledge to keep himself safe but he apparently didn’t, and readers are left to wonder why. There’s uncomfortable tension in that, and a lot of hypothetical thinking to be had.
For scholars of gay history, this is an essential book to read. Also, for anyone too young to remember AIDS as it was, “When the Band Played On” hits the right note.
The Blade may receive commissions from qualifying purchases made via this post.
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