The Dressmaker

Growing up, Tina Knowles counted her nephew Johnny among her best friends. As he found a place for himself in the world by making clothing, he showed Tina—and her daughters—a way to leave it a bit more beautiful.

- Tina Knowles

My oldest sister, Selena, was 27 when I was born in 1954, and she and her husband, John, had eight kids by the time she was 30. My nieces and nephews were closer in age to me than my siblings, and they were my very best friends. The music of all that life in Selena’s house enveloped me, excited me, held me. The sounds of her five daughters and three sons: Deanne, Linda, Leslie, Elouise, Elena, Tommie, and of course Ronnie and Johnny. Don't try to keep track of all of them—even Selena couldn't.

My nephew Johnny was four years older than me, and he was my very best friend. If you ask me what my earliest memory is of him, you might as well ask me about how I knew I needed air to breathe or water to drink. Johnny was just there. Once a week, Ronnie and I would have to have at least one real fistfight, always squaring off. But Johnny cut in.

“It was funny, Tenie,” said Johnny, using my nickname, trying to get me to see the humor. And maybe it was funny, I thought, but only because Johnny said so. Johnny was the boss, and we all knew it. Even at just nine years old, he ran everything. As powerful as Johnny was in the family, he could be instantly fragile in Galveston, Texas, where we were all growing up. Johnny was obviously gay, and I had never known him to hide that light. Selena filled him with such love and had him so confident that he never hid who he was. But he would be called things, and strangers would sometimes eavesdrop on our conversations and grimace. They would shoot him a look, menacing and judgmental, and I would give it back.