From the Introduction, by Jon Pahl:

These are the Memoirs of the most intriguing person I’ve known. Loretta Coller was a good friend of my father’s. They met in high school, in Shawano, Wisconsin, which is near Green Bay, in 1945. Their friendship endured until Loretta was murdered in Southern California in 1994, in a shocking event I describe in more detail in the Epilogue.

Loretta Coller's life, however, was filled with fascinating twists and turns. She grew up in a working-class Catholic family in Wisconsin, but eventually left the Church, moved to California, and joined the middle class. She was outed as a lesbian by the military during a McCarthy-era inquisition, but then found relative peace and contentment living a “deeply closeted” existence with her life-partner, Dianne Anderson, while teaching high school in a variety of Los Angeles suburban school districts. Near the end of her life, after suffering the loss of Dianne to cancer, Loretta became an activist in lesbian causes and an amateur stand-up comic and disc jockey, while still protecting the privacy of many of her friends and lovers.

I’ve called Loretta's story An American Teacher not only because she was a high school teacher, but because editing her narrative has taught me a great deal. And I suspect her story—when read as a primary-source document about coming-of-age and coming-out in America, will teach any sensitive reader some rather crucial lessons about the shape of American history, and about the need to welcome gays and lesbians into full citizenship in American society.


From the Memoirs of Loretta Coller:


. . . . Now, as before, inside the small room, Dr. Kempf spoke with the same caring tone as he discussed the latest test results. And, as always, he was honest. The scan revealed that the cancer had spread into Dianne’s bone marrow and brain. He had consulted with other doctors on the case, and they agreed that any treatment could no longer be safely given. There was no reasonable chance of her condition improving. And he wanted to know, were we still in agreement with Dianne’s wishes not to use any heroic measures to keep her alive, but to allow her to die with dignity? Suddenly all the sounds were muffled. In the distance I heard both Dick and Irene affirm this desire. I heard my own voice agree. Then I heard nothing. I tried to put what Dr. Kempf had just told us into some form I could understand: no more treatment, no chance of improvement, no heroics, die with dignity. Dianne was going to die. She was not coming home. We would not have the summer. She was going to die in this hospital right where she was.

“What kind of time are we talking about?” I think Irene asked that question.

Dr. Kempf didn’t know. “It’s difficult to say. A week, maybe. This cancer has spread with surprising speed.”

A week, maybe? What was today, Tuesday? Did that mean Dianne would never see another Tuesday? My mind was speeding in its attempt to make some sense. My body shivered; I was cold.

We walked out of the conference room. I left Irene and Dick and went to see Dianne. She was sleeping. I sat by the bed, took her hand in mine, and just watched her. She didn’t look like she was going to die. But she was. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

I could only say what I felt. “I love you, Dianne. I’m just crazy about you.”

She looked at me with those wonderful blue eyes.

“Why don’t you talk to me?”

After a long pause she said, “It – it’s just so hard to think.”

“Well, then don’t. It’s okay. I’ll just talk to you for awhile.”

And I did. I read some correspondence to her; I told her about the women who were there in the waiting room, but for one reason or another could not come in to see her; I talked about the dogs and the dichondra, about her garden and the algae stating to form in the pool; I told her she had stacks of mail at home all waiting to be opened by her; I told her I had a big brown envelope at home that was filled with notes and cards her students had written; I gave her a weather report. I didn’t even know I was saying goodbye.

On Wednesday, June 13, Dianne went into a coma.

On Friday, June 15, at 6:45 PM, enveloped in love from the women who surrounded her, and while the sun was still warm, Dianne died. It was the last day of school. . . . .


My world ended. Not with a bang; not with a whimper; but with a deafening silence and jolting abruptness.

My world ended and nothing was the same. Not just externally where all around me everyone was doing as they had always done, totally unaware of the horrendous event that had just taken place, but internally as well. It hurt to swallow and I felt nauseous. There was a constant pain in my chest and I moved in a vacuum. My mind could not focus on any one subject for any length of time. Over the last few months people had given me books about death, dying, life after death, handling grief, how to survive a loss and various personal experiences that included all of those. Those books lay untouched. I was not interested in reading about anyone else’s grief. I was not interested in reading anything. I was interested only in trying to make some sense out of what had happened, and come to grips with the reality that it really had happened.

I had lost my lover, my best friend, my anchor. No, I had not lost her. Lost is like misplaced or missing. When someone is lost, you search for them and, ultimately, you find them. I couldn’t do that. Dianne was not lost; she was dead. I tried saying it aloud: “Dianne is dead.” But my heart felt it was a lie.

And so I waited for the sound of her car in the driveway; I expected her to come walking down the hall; I looked for her in every room. At night I would lie on her side of the bed and hold her pillow. It smelled of shampoo and of the fragrance that was so uniquely Dianne. I could not believe I would never again lie beside her. . . .