Hepburn + Tracy

When I was a teenager, in my “obsession with the 1940s” phase in which I listened to big band music and wore retro a-line skirts and my hair in side-roll victory curls, I was in love with Katharine Hepburn.

To me, she was everything I was and wanted to be: Independent. Unapologetically clever. Elegant and sophisticated. Misunderstood. Progressive. Forthright. Self-assured. Motivated. Accomplished. Uncompromising. Tender. Impatient with the superficial. A loyal daughter, sister, aunt, friend, and lover.

And she loved one man — one imperfect, unavailable man, Spencer Tracy.

Yet their connection was undeniable…to everyone! When they appeared on the screen, their chemistry and their friction and how they were drawn to each other was the thing that not only kept them together for so many years, but sold millions of movie tickets.

Katharine knew that as a devout Catholic, Spencer would never be able or willing to officially divorce his wife and their daughter and son, who was deaf. And she never asked him to. Nonetheless, they built a life and a legacy together. They linked their names forever in people’s hearts and in my imagination.

And most importantly to me, she kept her autonomy. She had the love of her life, and didn’t have to give up anything to be “wife” or “mother.” She could still be alluring and submissive with him and yet completely in charge of her own destiny, which is something I didn’t know was even possible. This fully emancipated woman loved this deeply depressed man, and they shared their lives for 25+ years until his death.

Others could see how smitten she was. Others observed how they both lit up when they were around each other.

And she knew that it could never be more than what it was — a relationship he felt he had to keep hidden.

Katharine Hepburn was probably stronger than I am. Regardless, I don’t want anyone’s love for me to have to be constrained, labeled, or concealed. My vision and experience of love is much bigger and wider and deeper than that. I don’t want love that represents or mimics *that* kind of family/religion/culture/socially-sanctioned status. Taking care of my traumatized self means acknowledging that in no way does that definition of “home” equal safety for me.

I don’t know quite yet how to do that, perhaps. But that wouldn’t have stopped Katharine, who was devoted to creating a life on her own terms and devoted to having great love.

And it won’t stop me.