Dianne visited Joan’s New York apartment for bagels. That was just the start

In the 1970s, New Yorker Joan Nestle (left), 84, co-founded what would become the world’s largest lesbian “herstory” archive. One morning in 1998, Australian Dianne Otto, 72, came over – and they’ve been together ever since.

Joan Nestle (left): “That’s Di (right). She’ll find the green. She’s my home.”Credit: Photograph by Chris Hopkins

Joan: I was living on [New York’s] Upper West Side and finishing my treatment for colon cancer. My partner of 10 years had left me and I was pretty much in a state of despair, at 58, that I’d never be loved again. One ­morning, the telephone rang. It was my friend, Sue, and she said, “I’m in town and I have my Australian friend with me. Can we come over?”

There’s a knock on the door. Now Sue is my height – I’m five foot one [155 centimetres] – but behind her was this, to me, giant of a woman, henna-haired, with an Australian ­accent. Di was ­living two blocks away, going to Columbia University. Everything she said made heart and brain sense.

Before she left, Di said, “You know, Joan, I’m taking a course in gender and the law and I bet my professor would love you to sit in.” So I’d go with her once a week up to 116th Street. Di ­always had her backpack, walked with long strides. I’m a Bronx Jew with short legs. I was always running to keep up with her.

My old partner, Lee, had left me to be with a younger blonde; she was terrified of cancer. I’d walk in the park and Di would come with me. It’s Riverside Drive along the Hudson River, the sun is setting, and I just say, “So have you fallen in love with Lee yet? All my women friends do.” She walked right in front of me and said, “Joan, it’s not Lee I’m attracted to. It’s you.” I was in shock: how could someone want this cancer-touched body?

I’d given up, in a way. The [Lesbian Herstory] Archives had moved into its new home in Brooklyn and I’d finished my teaching of 30 years. And chemo sickens your body and your spirit, you know? Di resurrected me. The first time we made love, she sweeps in, looks at her watch and says, “I have two hours between a meeting at the UN on world hunger and a meeting on abortions.” Holding her body in my arms was a revelation to me. There was a sturdiness, a woman-ness, a trust in the right of the body to have its pleasures.

We educated each other in our different ­desires. Di was unflappable. I come home from working one day, Di’s sitting there reading The New York Times and she’s ­wearing this dildo. It was so funny. She’s just fooling around, but I understood the gift she was ­giving me. It was an act of translation.

‘Holding her body in my arms was a revelation to me. There was … a trust in the right of the body to have its pleasures.’

Joan Nestle

My father died before I was born, my mother was a gambler. My childhood was filled with evictions. When I met Di, I had a chance to grow up slowly. She wanted to start teaching me about Australia, so she brings me a copy of Possum Magic [by Mem Fox]. My childhood didn’t involve gifts and it didn’t involve people reading me stories. The fact that this woman knew I would love to sit next to her, put my head on her shoulder and be read to … I’m tough, but the wonder is to be in the presence of people who allow you to be tender.

I’m on the verge of yet another change; physically, it’s getting harder to walk. Di’s not comfortable talking about her own fears, but she manages a kind of Adelaidean optimism. Out of harsh conditions, Di will say, “Wow, isn’t that beautiful? Look how green it is.” And I’m looking and I don’t see green anywhere. That’s Di. She’ll find the green. She’s my home.

Di: Joan was still recovering from her colon cancer treatments when we met. I knew she was a great writer, an activist and had helped found the Lesbian Herstory Archives. She was incredibly warm, smart and alive. But in 2001, after she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she was beside herself, ­really. Here was another cancer and it made her think that she wasn’t going to live for much longer. I was horrified, but my first reaction in a crisis is to get really practical. I wasn’t ­prepared to go down that pathway.

After Joan had her treatment, we decided to live together. It was a huge thing she did. She’s 62 years old, leaving her community and coming halfway around the world [to Melbourne’s West Brunswick]. But she did it. It was lovely to have her conveying back to me what she saw and I felt, in a way, like a child again, discovering ants or how sand falls through your fingers. I rediscovered the beauty of this country through her.

She was the first lover I ever lived with; I was the kind of feminist who didn’t live with their lovers. A few years after Joan had moved here, I managed to pay off the mortgage, like all of a sudden. I walked through the door, told Joan, and I couldn’t believe how ecstatically pleased she was. She was over the moon. Dancing, happy, hugging, kissing – everything.

Joan loves to play. We might play with a word that we hear on TV. Or Joan watches a lot of sports, and she’ll always bring out the football, or the basketball, and bounce the ball or pretend she’s one of the players at the break.

‘I’m very secure in Joan’s love for me. I’m very thankful that it’s still there, 26 years later.’

Di Otto

The harder parts are when Joan doesn’t really trust that I love her. If we’re having a difficult time, she’s inclined to say, “I’m leaving” – to throw it in rather than be comfortable with knowing that we’re going to work it out. And that’s all from her earlier experience where she couldn’t really rely on anyone except herself. I give her some space.

The 12 years [age difference] becomes more significant as we get older. When it means Joan can’t do something that we would at other times have done together, it’s just very sad.

I think I’m harder to support because I’m not necessarily as articulate or even aware of my vulnerabilities. She loves me; that’s the most precious gift. I’m trying not to say ­“soul mate” because that sounds a bit overblown or something. I’m very secure in Joan’s love for me. I’m very thankful that it’s still there, 26 years later. I think what means the most to me is the safety that we’ve provided for each other. She’s a haven for me, too.

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