COnTE-nTf
Ki t

Meets the Dragon
J ('anna Ra ~ ~illustrations
Mandy Wa.l'Cace3

Dahomey
Aud~e Londe"So Who's Giving Guarantees?" An Interview with
Audre Lorde
An i ta C("lIl1\'(' CC
disunited nations
HeCCy LtL Conallt

22

MOTHERS ANV VAUGHTERS:
LithographMa'tianne Liebnmall
Miriam-Daughter-~Iod e l,1 .li'tiam Liebnmall

25

24

Licbnmall27
26.27.29

at the Lux (~ mb()rgCCaudia SCt'tt
72nd Stn'(' t,\I ('nica Ratlln('lIdof a Lost Woman
Wt'lIdl' - Stt'\'t'n~
In Vindication
Vebbie ACfi~"II30

Marianne-~Iother-Artisl,lla~iallllr,l la'tiallnc Lirbnlnan

Photographs
Two Women
Sappho on
In Search
An Elegy:

11
15

31
32
·12

LOVERS:
Photographs
Tee Ce .I[ illllc
Circe's Cup
Jud{th ,llcVallir. C
Raspberries
Judith ,\!cVallieC
Diamonds for Dandy's Lady
Hadden Luce
Flannel Morning
S('nya J('lIe ~jean/our disappointments
Vrl'i Katll'tyn Hunt
Elements
JacqueCi.ne LapidlL~
Anita Bryant:

A Lesbian Vipw

ECi:abcth-13, ·15
·1·1
,IS
·16
50
51
52

Kne~etenAd'ticnnc Rich

5 ·1
5'5

WHAT IS A LESBIAN?
Photographs

Peggy

Ba~ba~a

Adam~

56
57 '

KMnegge~

Judy Antone!e..t
Ma~ianne

Ruben~teil1

The Question She Put to Herself
Image
Sue Si!ve~manie
VisionJoy Ju~tice,llau'tccn B'tady

58 \
59
60
65
66

RESPONSES:"Confessional Writing"CCaudi.a Scott"On Leaving the University"
Sue GC(lvn
Poem
Sue Si!ve~ma~ie
Notes for a Magazine
Ha~nietThe Waves
Claudia Scott& Cathc~~lIe

72

74
77

78
81

REVIEWS:
Que~treviewed by Adr i('nn(~ Manns
A Worship of Writers
Jani.6 KetCey

Announcements
Contributors' Notes

H:l
86
92
95

FALL 1977

Harriet Desmo in es
Catherine Nicholson, editors
Special thanks to: Debbie Allison , Gloria Gyn,and the Charlotte Collating Crew
Printed b y: Whol e Women Pr ess
Durham , North Caro lina

cover by mandy wallace

About This Issue -Aunt Flo's tiny kitchen was: breads in the oven;coffee on the range; burned-out Luckies precariously balanced along the counter edges; a screen
door that banged open and shut all day and hal f
the night as neighbor woman after neighbor woman-arms full of green tomatoes, peppers, handmade
potholders, di"rty laundry because the washer'dbroke down, and the stories of their lives--came
for Flo and her talk.
And did Flo ever talk ...
hour after hour, laughing until she choked . A
small girl perched on the kitchen stool beside
Aunt Flo's stove thought she'd died and gone toheaven .
This issue is for Flo because it's a lot like 'her.
Lots of knowledge wrapped up in stories andpoems, lots of laughter keeping off the pain, lotsof warmth -- all of it growing out of shared fortune
and shared lives. There are stories of mothersand daughters and witches and lovers; a tale justfor the girlchild in all of us; personal responses
to "What is a Lesbian"; letters; a moving accountby a word- magician of how she works; reviews; andpage after page of fine poetry.
For you in your own life, we hope this issue
conjures up a glimpse of "Aunt Flow" - -and a tasteof the brew she brews so well .

CopYlL-i.ght @ SINISTER WI SDOM, 1977. Ai.e. lL-i.ght.6 lLe. .6elLved
to -i.nd-i.v-i.dua.e. authOlL.6 and alLt-i..6t.6.
Pub.e.-i..6hed thlLee ~-i.me.6 a yealLInd-i.v-i.dua.e. .6Ub.6ClL-i.pt-i.on.6 : $4 . 50
In.6t-i.tut-i.on.6: $9.00
S-i.ng.e.e copy, No.4 : $2.25
Back -i..6.6ue.6, wh-i..e.e ava-i..e.ab.e.e: No. 1 OlL 3 : $2.00
Boo k -i.M u e No.2 : $ 2 . 5 0(Add 30¢ pO.6tage on .6-i.ng.e.e olLdelL.6.)
3116 Country Club Drive
Charlotte, North Carolina 28205

2

,

G

.

Joanna R..uss . .

It seemed to Kit that she had been walkinl{ for hours
through the fresh-scented forest glades.
It was latespring and the wildflowers were bloo ming eve rywhere;
even some of the trees were still in bloom. with dangling golden catkins or clusters of littl e I{r ee nishflowers that were barely visible.
With B. B. on her
back Kit wasn't hungry but the walking and the warm
sunlight that filtered down through the tre es we r e making her thirsty.
She also wondered wh en' you t'ou I d go
to the bathroom in the woods . and when B.B . woke up she
asked him, but he thought that was the funniest thing
he had ever heard and yelled, "Go to th e bathroom! Go
to the bathroom! Go to the bathroom!" O\' er and O\'('ragain until she had to reach round and thump him I{oodand hard to make him shut up.
The Valley people build
privies behind their houses and us e c hamb e r pelt s atnight or in bad weather, but they don 't lik e talkinl{
about things like that.
Kit had heard many fairytalps
about people having adventures in magi c woods and n(ln eof them told anything about urinatinl{ or moving yourbowels .
Kit felt embarrassed and was e ven morp pmbarrassed at being embarrassed.
She tried to e xplain al I
this to B.B., who only shouted gleefully. "~IO\'e yourbowels! Move your bowels! Move your bowels'" until Kit
got mad enough to undo her shawl, dump B.B. on thp
ground, and threaten to leave him there forever .
Immediately he began to roar like a two-year-old.
She started to walk away from him, just to show him .
and the noise stopped; then came the sound of B.B. sobbing.
He would sob and then stop to see if it was having any effect on her, and then he would start again.
Kit said fiercely, "I don't .!lee tl'Ila .t'~ ~<' ~(lIIIIY!"
B.B. stopped sobbing.
He looked serious.
She added, "I can't he lp the way I was brough t uj)
and I can't help having to do things you don't do'"He looked remorseful.
Kit then said, "Besides, I'm thirsty.
Is that funny?"
B.B. shook his head.
He rolled over and sat up.
Itoccurred to Kit that he was bigger than he had been the
day before--he now looked much more like a two-year-old
child than an infant--and that somehow he was pinker.
Then she realized: he had lost all the hair off his
legs.
It was lying on her shawl in a fine cloud.
He

AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Kit Meet6 the V~agon" i6 chapte~ thkee
06 a "juvenile book" to be publi6hed by Vaughte~6, Inc.
B.B. i6 a 6aun Kit picked up ea~lie~ in an enchanted
60~e6t.
He live6 066 "a pe~60n'6 hea~tbeat" (i.e. doe6
not eat and doe6n't need diape~6) and weigh6 nothing
when he'6 066 the g~ound. He'6 not what he look6 like,actually; the late~ pa~t 06 the 6to~y explain6 thi6.
"B.B." 6tand6 60~ "Baby B~othe~."4

had human legs now, straig ht ones, just lik e a r ea lc hild.
B.B. said i n a small voice, " Ki t?" and held out
h is arms to h e r, hi s face woef ul.
He looked as i f hewer e goi n g to cry . But s h e hard ene d h e r h eart.
"No mor e yeJling?" s h e said.
He nodded qui c kly.
"No more makin g fun of me?"
He nodded, a bit more reluctantly .
" Ok ay," s h e sai d.
" I 'll take yo u.
Bu t brush offt he s haw l.
Se e, yo u 're l osi ng you r hair'." And sadly
B.B. did so.
Sh e picked him up ~n d tied h i m o n her
back again, feeling bad b ecau se he h ad looked so mi ser able, and so to c hee r hi m up she said, "B.B . , wh ata bout your hair? Aren't you happy about it?" She felt
a so rt o/' no d against her back . "Well, are n 't yo u? I t
mea n s you're b ecomi ng h uma n .""Y e - es," sai d hi s voice at her neck, but doubtfull y
as if he weren't sure.
Then he began to shake up anddow n . B . B. was cryi ng . He sai d:" Oh, Kit!
We' re- - we' re gllowillg up ! "And Kit didn't notice until afte rwards that he had
sai d "we" and not " I. "As the afternoon wore on, she got thirstier.
Th egoat -h air left in the sha~l kept working its way und e r
he r clo thes , making her itch.
Wh e n she h eard the soundoj' running water off to her left s he was pleased a ndrelieved, but however far s he walked towards it , th e
st r eam seemed just as far away.
S he kept hearing it ,though, an d B.B. qui etly insisted ( he h ad stopped c r ying, but r emai n e d subdued) that this was the right way
to go /'or water . Th e woods had been getting darker-e ithei the sky was c16uding up or t h e su n was sett in g,
Kit coul dn't tell wh ich -- a nd the trees got bigger andolder until walking between t heir trunks was lik e walki ng through enormo u s colum ns covered with green moss.
I t got hotter, dark er, and more sultry un til s he could
barely see.
Wh en occasional beams of su nli ght strag gle d d ow n t hr o u g h t h e broad leaves t hey showed clumps
of toadstools under t he tre es, an d h ere and t h ere
little stag n ant ponds covered with scum, a nd o nce or
twice Kit both saw a nd heard mosqu ito es . She t h o u g h t
t hat was h a rdly fa ir , si n ce the sto ri es she ha d h eard
about magic and magi c adventur es n ever said you h a d to
put up with mosquit oes.
B.B. in sisted he co uld drivet he m away by saying "Zzzzzz ip!" and " Sh oo !" a nd "Scat!"a nd ma kin g magi c signs with his fi ng e rs at them , but
no n e of that seemed to h elp .
Th e n h e said, " Th e weather isn 't c hangin g; it's t h eforest.
Go that way," and there right in fro nt of h er
were two piles of h eape d-up boulders crowned with t u fts
of grass and nodding plants, betwee n which she walked
as if they had b ee n th e gat es of a n e no rmo u s building.
It h a d gotten very dark by now , the gree ni s h-b lack ish
d a rk of a thunderstorm about to happ e n . And then, s ur e5enough, ther e came an enormous dazzle of light and a
Q~a~h! to one side, and then a cracking, ripping soundand a long-drawn- o ut thud as if something very large
had falle n onto the forest floo r, perhaps a tree struckby lightnin g.
Th e next mom e n t came the tumbling, grumbling, bounding , d eafening r oar of the thunder, as if
the whole sky h ad opened up, a nd a mom e nt after t h at
thousands of ti ny needles of co ld water soaking Kit to
the skin.
Th e n there was a tapping that became a pattering that deep e n e d to a thrumming sound that turned
into a loud drumming.
It was raining.
Every leaf inthe forest danced.
"No change in the weather, huh?" Kit shouted (so B.B.
could hear her above the rain) .
"What do we do now,
smarty-pants?"
She heard B.B. yelling back that h e couldn't b e a
smarty-pants because h e didn't have any pants on, butthen he prodded her hard in the left side and shouted,"That way! That way!" So she splashed along between
the trees , stopping every once in a while to drink from
puddles (B.B. was saying, "Well, at least I got you
some water anyway"), trying to avoid the boulders which
seemed to jump up in front of her no matter which way
she turned, and finally- - confronted with the biggest
boulder of all -- she said, "B.B . , I Qayt ' ;t go this way!"and he poked her again , saying, "No, into it, into it!"and Kit saw that she was staring at the entrance to acave.
It was a small entrance, barely big enough for her.
It would have been too small for a grown-up.
It looked
like two big rocks leaning against each other with nothing much beyond.
But when she ducked through, she
saw that the cave was bigger inside than it looked fromoutside and that the floor was covere d with fi n e, dry
dirt.
B.B. poked her again, saying , "This way," andwhen Kit said " Why?" h e answered, " Because you're cold."
Which was tr u e; the rain had wet her so thoroughly that
her teeth we re .chattering.
"You have to get warm," B. B.
said, kicking h e r.
So Kit crept through an even smaller
crack in the back wall and found hers e lf in anothercave, and went through this at the prodding of B.B. into yet another cave, a nd then into a tunnel, and theninto a cave, and so on . The caves wound about likerooms.
It was getting dryer and warmer all the time,with gusts of hot air blowing past her like the heatfrom a radiator.
(Kit didn't think of a radiator , never having se e n one; she thought of a fire .) There wereno stalagmites or stalactites in tee cave, no rock cur - *tains, and no crystals growing in bursts from th e floor.
This might mean only that the caves were young; still,
it was odd . Odder still, she could see quite well.
Caves , since they're underground and away from thelight of the sun, are darker than the darkest night; if
you st a nd in a cave a nd wave your hand in front of yourface, you ca n't se e anything; the darkn e ss is lik e
6black velvet over yo ur eyes.
But there was light h ere,alt ho ugh Kit h a d brought none in with h er . She began
to worry, but B.B. was very excited, drumm ing his h eelso n her back and whispering fierce l y, "Go on ! Go on ! " sofinally she did, down a rock passageway a little wider
than her front wall at home , a nd t h e light got brighterand the air got hotter until finally s h e saw--way up
ahead -- a door or a r c hway filled with very bright light.
For some time s h e ha a been hearing a strange sound.
Wewoul d compare it to the sound made by a flood of steam
from either a factory c himn ey or a n ol d- fas h ioned railway train, but Kit didn't know what to make of it.
Sh e
was curious now, as well as scared, a nd B.B. 's excitement was getti n g her excited, too . He kept jumping up
a nd do wn o n her b ack, saying, " Thi s is it! This is it!"
So s h e went quietly forward, and the light got bi gger
and brighter a nd the air hotter until Kit saw t h atthere was indeed a ki nd of rough archway at t h e end oft h e passage . Fr om t h ere she seemed to b e l ook ing into
space . Wh e n she got there (watc hin g h er footi ng very
carefully) she found t h at she was in a kind of hole
high in t he wall of a vast caver n a nd that she co uld
see clea r ac r oss the cavern to its shadowy, fart h e rwall.
At h er feet the path dropped precipitously (thatmeans very fast), so that Kit had to h o ld o n to theside of the arch in o rder to lean out past the cave rnwall. Doing that, s h e could just get a look at what
was below.
I t was a sea of gold .
From wall to wall, like a carpet, lay a g r eat heapof treasu r e, a pile of s h ifting, glinti n g lig ht s.
It
was like looking at the stars on a very clear night.
It was as if the beautiful minerals she o u g ht to hav e
fo und in t he caves a nd passages h ad all been tur n e d tohuman wealth a nd stored on t he floor of t hi s vast, inte ri or cavern: gold a nd jewels beyond cou n ti n g a nd beyon d pr i ce, things that glowed and thi n gs t h at glittered,e n cr u ste d things a nd smoot h things, all thrown toget h er
willy -nill y in heaps a nd heaps , the smallest of t h e m*When water drips in a cave for many cent uries it leaves
d epos its of mi~ e rals behind it, just like s now dripping
fro m the eaves of a ho u se an d re-freezing into icicles.
Stalactites are the rock-icicles t hat han g down fromthe ce iling of an o ld cave a nd stalagmites a r e theblunt er ones that poke up f r om the floo r.
If the two
fi nally meet they form a co lumn or pillar.
When a sheetof wat e r drips down for a very long time, it forms ac urt a in of rock which is sometimes so thin that it'stranslucent- - that means you ca n see light through it,
but not enough to make anything out clearly .
7

bigger than all the houses in the Valley put together.
Kit was so astonished that she sat down on the edge ofthe path (with her feet over the edge) as if the breath
had b een knocked out of her. The only gold she had
ever seen in her life was a tiny pair of hoop earrings
Mot her Miller kept as a n heirloom for her eldest daughter.
And she had never seen jewels at all.
She wanted
desperately to go down a nd examine.all those strange
and beautiful things.
B.B. seemed to want it, too; hewas so excited now that he was dancing, bounding about
in her shawl like a ball in a net, exclaiming-, "Go! Go!
Go!"
She yanked at the shawl and pinched one of his legs
to quiet him down. Then she took a careful look aroundthe cavern, straining her eyes f or the dragon.
But there did not seem to be anybody there .
B.B . said, "The dragon's out visiting! Go!" Kit
figured the same thing, so she slid over the edge andhalf scrambled, half fell down the path to the cavern
floor.
She wondered if she'd ever be able to get up
the path again . She was thirty feet from the outlying
pieces of the treasure and could see it clearly now, or
thought she could: hug e plates and embossed chests,
swords, bowls full of jewels, little things that might
be necklaces or rings, and far our in the middle of thefloor a heap of something-- no, a mountain of something-that glowed and dimmed like a fire-mountain.
(Kit
meant a volcano.) She knew that the dragon might comeback at any moment, screaming like a jet plane (although
she didn't, of course, think of a jet plane) and thatwould be very dangerous for her . She knew from thestories that you were supposed to kill the dragon, killit or take something, or be very clever and steal some thing and then run away.
She also knew stories inwhich the dragon gold burned your hands, made you ill,and finally killed you. There were stories in which aman had to rescue a woman from a dragon , stories inwhich dragons ate young women, stories of houses set on
fire by dragons.
Remembering the stories made her feel
unhappy.
Then she felt even worse and then, ~or someawful reason, she just wanted to sit down and cry. She
felt that life was bad and pointless, that everyone suffered, that everything hurt, that little animals killedeach other, that nobody was friends with anybody, that
it was all dying and making things dead, and if life
was as cruel as that, it wasn't worth living.
The truth
was that Kit had come under the spell of the Hoard andthat she wanted it more than anything, more than food,more than sleep, more than money.
She wanted it somuch that her bones hurt.
But not to be rich or tokeep it: she wanted something else . She just couldn't
bear to go away from that golden light and back to therest of the world, which now seemed awful to her. What
she wanted to do was rush down into the Hoard and stay8

there forever, but she knew from the stories that if
she did, she'd turn into a dragon herself.
She believed
the Hoard was evil, and felt she ought to get out of
there very fast.
B.B. , it was clear, did not agree,
because when Kit started back up the path (saying "Holdon tight" because it was so steep) he began to fuss desperately, pulling her hair and shrieking like an enraged
snowflake.
His grabbing at her hair and yelling bothered her seriously.
More than that, the farther up the
path she crept the steeper it became until it flattened
above her like a wall, going straight up.
Kit didn't
remember it being so steep.
She clung to it with hands
and knees while B.B. screamed, "You're going the wrong
way!"
Then the path began to shake.
It turned upside-down, making Kit dizzy.
But still
she held on.
Then she heard a voice, more in her head than in theair.
A vast, deep voice like the thunder speaking, andyet a woman's voice, so sweet that it made her shiver:
Tuttlt, .thou.
So she did.
The path was quiet again.
For a moment
nothing happened.
Then before her eyes the Hoard shifted
and changed, the way things do wben you look at tbem
through the heated air tbat rises from a fire.
The
gold melted and flowed together.
It changed shape.
What Kit bad seen as swords were really the barbs along
an enormous back and a still more enormous tail; wbat
she ha~ thought were chests were now the dragon's feet;what she had taken for a heap of gold coins was now abody covered with glittering scales.
The voice said:Imy¢ei6 Qm .the HOQttd.

It was the dragon Taliesin* who lay coiled fold upon
fold in the cavern, a vast , Chinese firedrake, long andthin, Her body touching tb e outer walls, Her smallest
claw three times the length of Kit's own body.
She wasgold allover, armored and barbed and ridged with gold,and Her great wings, membraneous like a bat's wings,
were folded back against Her spine.
Fire and steam
came from Her nostrils.
As Sbe moved, Her coils made arUstling sound like wind through grass, and She looked
like a bucket of golden snakes in oil, like the pistonsof a giant engine in an oily nest.
The cavern was
filled witb Her ' smell; She smelled rank and musky andbitter and snaky and marvelous.
Kit had never seen anything so beautiful.
Clumsily, her knees shaking, she made a curtsy to
the Worm (it wasn't easy , in pants) and said in a trembly voice, "Your Majesty--" but as she did so, it allchanged again.
For a moment the cavern held not a dra*"Taliesin" is the name of an ancient Welsh bard and amodern American house.
But they were both really named
after the dragon.
9gon but a woman, a giant wom a n (she could have filled afootball stadium) lying propped o n h e r e lb ows o n thesand of the caver n floo r , a nd l oo kin g at Ki t with t h einte nt, t h o ugh tful look Rose Bottom had o n ce bestowed
on a kitten saved f r om drowning.
Onl y it was not one
woman but many: a black - skinned woma n wit h a flat nose
and a long , thin skull , a brown woman with a face t h at
kept c hangi n g, a pale, bleached woman covere d with al most invisible p ale do wn , a sq u are - face d , go ld e n-skinn e dwoman . Rose was se ntimental about animals but not aboutt h at o n e; Rose h a d only said, " I want her.
She'll makea goo d hunter." And t h e kitten had.
Th e n Taliesi n was a dragon again . Kit walked fo rw a rd
a nd dr ew h er h a nd s shakily over t he scales of the fi rs t
coil that lay b efore h e r lik e a small hill.
Sh e h a d
expecte d to f ind it cold and metallic but it wasn't; it
was like the sl i ck, s hin y, nylon c l ot h we use in raincoats a nd d own jackets .
(Kit h a d no n a me for it; s hejust lik e d it.) Then t h e gr eat coils shifted, waking
ec hoes in the cave rn walls . Th e voice said:

How many 6umme~ 6 ha6t thou?
Kit said, "Eleven , Madam." Int o h er mind came a pic ture of g n ats dancing in the air above a stream as sheherse l f had seen t h em ma ny summe rs past, but she didn 't
know what it meant.
Then the voice sai d:
A~t

6utty human yet ,adventu~ou6

Qh~td?

--but Ki t didn' t know wh at t h at meant, e ith e r.
Shet houg ht perhaps t h e dragon was asking i f she were g ro wnup.
Sh e said, " Well, my mother -- " and was a n swer e d b ylau g ht er almost too sweet, like getti ng ho ney i n you rteeth, which mak es t hem hurt.
Th e laughter fell d own
in pitch a nd then farther down, and then eve n fart h er
down than yo u would have believed possible un ti l Talie sin's a mu seme nt was a frighte nin g rumb le in the cave
floor, until it was almost an avala n c h e.
Kit got d own
o n he r knees, c los e d her eyes, a nd stuck her fi ng ers inh er ear s . Sh e could feel B.B. trembling on h er b ack.
The n there was a bump and something li ve a nd muscularwrapped its e l f around her a nd li fte d her off h e r feet,somet hing soft as velvet o n e way and r aspy as a n est of' dagg e rs the other .
It smelled of hay and d ais ies.
Sh e o p e n e d her eyes . There was foot up o n foot upon
foo t upon foot of it.
It was Tali esi n's l o ng , green
tongue.
Nearby Ki t co uld see a hug e, black well withbrown lines radiating f rom it as thick as a huma n f ist.
That was the pupil of Taliesin's eye .
Stay the~e , Qub, said the voice, a nd Kit was dropp e dinto a golden valley between coils, as if she'd b ee nlying on a n est of n y lon raincoats.
Far away acrossthe caver n floor she could see the dragon' s eyes, ashining emerald- green or leaf -gr een, lik e the light,
pure color of the early leav es in Spring.
Th e voice
said:

11

L~e~ : that I am only a g~eat bea~t, I~Qe a l~on o~t~ge~, w~th one appet~te nO~ gold and jewel~ and an o the~to c~unch l~ttle l~v~ng th~ng~ between My teeth. Know,
thou : all g~eed ~~ g~eed nO~ love. Know: My body ,<-6mo~e golden than the m~ne~ On A~~a, My eye~ mo~e p ~ e c­~ou~ and jewelled than the ~um On Pe~u .
I am the Hoa~dwh~ch men hunt.
My nood ~~ the heat wh~ch bubble~ andbu~n~ at the cente~ On the planet, My natu~al home thatwh~te-hot , molten co~e.
Once all mounta~n~ moved ~nn~~e; once all bea~t~ we~e on My Q~nd, even thou andthat pale Idea on thy bacQ . All wa~ n~~e, joy, andt~an~no~mat~on.
All wa~ the many-~haped Godde~~ .
So w~ll ~t be aga~n!

Taliesin's great eyes closed: lighthouses shutting
down.
One vast wing came over them, cau sing B.B. tomutter, "Hey, watch it!
I'm down here too, you know . "Kit had thought the wing would be slick and tough likethe dragon's armor, but it was covered with fine fur
only a few inches long.
I t felt delicious.
She p u shed
her face against it , like a baby in a crib or a cat on
a lap . She thought that it made sense for a creature
so big to sip red - hot metal from the center of theearth like a dragonfly snacking from a flower; dragons
would never get enough to eat if they ate only people.
She thought it nice that she had been a dragon once.
Even B.B. had been a dragon.
She thought she could
hear him sigh from time to time the way geese do on asummer day when they're happy; the gander and the geese
sit in the shade of a tree, close their eyes, and open
their bills, from time to time making a tiny sigh of
ecstasy. Taliesin's smell was under her and around her,making her dizzy; she yawned and turned over, burrowing
into the body beneath her . A ripple went through her
bed: Taliesin moving. Kit wondered if a dragonfly were
only a very tiny dragon and if Taliesin's childre n had
all dwindled away until they became dragonflies. Per haps she and B.B. were Taliesin's children . She wished
B.B . would take his hands out of her hair.
Kit began to dream.
She thought she was back homein bed and wanted something, although she didn't k n ow
what.
She thought she was little and wan ted her doll .
She knew there was someone in bed with her (t h at was
B.B . ) but didn't want him there because there wasn't
room.
So she called out, hoping that someone would
come, "Mother .... "Kit dreamed of a statue.
A woman sat quietly with asword laid across her knees, but both t h e woman an d thesword were made of stone, like a monument.
Kit dreamed
that the woman didn't know how to use the sword andcouldn't touch it or pick it up; she could only sit
there with closed eyes and hands resting in her lap .
Then Kit dreamed of another woman, or maybe it was thesame one. but this one was real.
She too was seated,

12

but as Kit watched, s h e sprang to her feet . Then she
shouted, c l ap p e d o ne hand to he r fo r e head, and like amagician she dr ew ri g ht out of he r own h ea d a l o ng,
s hining r ay of lig ht , which s he dashed backwards andfo r wa rds through the ai r.
It was a sword.
It was athought ma d e r eal.
Kit said to h e rself, " I'm o nl y
dreaming this b ecaus e B.B. is grabbing my' hair," andturned to pu ll Tali es in 's wing closer to her, like a
bl a nket.
But there was no wing there.
Kit woke up to br oa d dayli g ht.
She was lying in asea of l o ng , dr y g ras s with h e r face pressed into it.
It smelled like hay a nd dais ies . There was no cave, noforest, and no drago n.
B.B. was s noring next to herear.
But in fro nt of he r on the g r ass lay a golde n sword
a nd bu c kl e r, as dazzling as o nes from a fairy - tale, andalo ng t he sheath were cur l y , twisty, fiery letterswhich spelled out :TALIESIN.

-by joanna russdrawings by mandy wallace

13

DAHOMEY"in J.Jpi.te on .the nilLe ' J.> hea.t.the .tongJ.> ean ne.teh i.t . "I.t waJ.> in Ab omey .tha.t I nel.t.the null blood On my na.thelLJ.J ' walLJ.>
and whelLe I nound my mo.thelLS e bo uliJ.J a
J.J.tanding with ou.tJ.>.tlLe.tehed palmJ.> hip highone blL eaJ.>.t ea.ten away by WOlLmJ.> On J.JOILILOW
magie J.J.toneJ.J lLeJ.J.ting up on helL ningelLJ.> 'dlLY aJ.> a eo ug h.
In .the doolLyalLd On .the blLaJ.> J.J wOILRelLJ.>
noulL women joine d .toge.thelL d ying .theilL elo.thmoeR EJ.Jh u ' J.> ilLon quivelL
J.>.tanding elLee.t and nlamingly namilialL
in .theilL doolLyalLd
mu.t e aJ.> a pOlLeupine in a nOlLeJ.J.t on lea d
In .the eoulL.tyalLd On .the elo.th wOILRelLJ.J
o.thelL blL o.thelLJ.> and nephewJ.>
aILe J.>.ti.tehing blLigh.t .tapeJ.J.tlLieJ.J
in.to .taleJ.> On blood.
Thund elL iJ.J a Woman wi.th blLaided hailL
J.>pelling .the naJ.J On Shango
aJ.Jleep be.tween J.>aelLed py.thonJ.J.tha.t eanno.t lLead
nOlL ea.t .the lLi.tual onnelLingJ.J
On .the AJ.Je.in .
My .thlLoa.t in .the pan.thelL'J.> lailL
iJ.J unlLeJ.JiJ.J.ting .
BealLing .two dlLumJ.J on my head I J.JpeaR
wha.tevelL la.ngu~ge iJ.> needed.to J.JhalLpen .the RniveJ.J On my .tongue.the J.JnaRe iJ.J awalLe al.though J.Jleeping
undelL my blood
J.Jinee I am a Woman whe.thelL OIL no.t
you aILe againJ.>.t me
I will blLaid my hailL
even
in .the J.>eaJ.>onJ.> On lLain.
-AudILe LOlLde

14

"SO WHO'S GIVING GUARANTEES?"An Interview with Audre Lordeby anita cornwell
and Po~t--all thA~e aA~ 6aet~
the Aealm 06 ehoie~. My eye~ have apaAt in my ~eeingj my bAeath in my bAeathingj andali that I am in who I am . Aii who I iove aAe 06
my people; it i~ not ~imple.
I wa~ not bOAn on a 6aAm OA in a 60A~~t but inthe eentAe 06 the iaAge~t eity in the wOAid--amembeA 06 the human Aae~ hemmed in by ~tone andaway 6Aom eaAth and ~uniight . But what i~ in myblood and ~kin 06 Aiehne~~, 06 bAown eaAth andnoon ~un and the ~tAength to love them, eome~ th~Aoundabout way 6Aom A6Aiea thAough ~un i~iand~ to
a ~tony eoa~tj and the~e aAe the g{6t~ thAough
whieh I ~ing , thAough whieh I ~e~.
I am Biaek, Woman,

out~ideHow do I work? I work with great difficulty.
As amatter of fact, it's hard sometimes for me to tap into
the squrce ' of t h at feeling, that stren gth, out of which
I've got to write no matter what the experiences I'm
dealing with.
No matter what the world of the poem I'mtrying to write.
It's also hard because I do so much .
And so I try to discipline myself, the kind of discipline that doesn't always work.
There are always a hundred other things, legitimate,necessary, pressing things into which I can escape awayfrom my work.
So I have to be careful because my poetry
is the thing that completes me.
What I'm trying to do,what I'm tryi n g to say, what I know d~~p in~id~ m~:That is my work .
I try to work every day, but what that means sometimes is merely small journal entries or simply holding
myself to that kind of self - conscio usn ess that I want
to feel, that I want to record.
What kind of self - consciousness? A eon~eiou~ne~~ 06 ~ei6, an awareness of
feeling, of being, of sharing .
I certainly try to dosome formal writing every week . Also, I try to do that
*Excerpted fro m the poetic stateme nt written by Audr eLorde for the Heritage Ant hology, Six e~ and S~v~n~,
1962.
15

shaping out of the poem- -the cutting out of stone-- atleast o n ce a week.
But there again, it ' s sometime more,
and sometimes less.
Then, too, I always carry a journal with me in whichto write thou ghts, snatches, impressions, et cetera .
When I work these things out, I use lots of different
colored paper.
I love colors. Blue is for the very
first draft, usually typed because that removes theemotion.
I can see the emotion in my handwriting . I
can see what moved me as I wrote it.
So I type it out , as type is bland and neutral . Then
I can start working from that.
Sometimes I retype apoem six or seven times at a sitting, which is part ofa process I like.
It's an editing process.
It's also
a process by which I hold myself to- - to the experienceand to memory and to touching again what I was feeling.
And that sometimes is very painful . Yes, writing ishard, but it's like breathing.
I t's something I haveto do in order to stay alive.
Wh at would happen if there was nothing in my journalthat I wanted to work with at any given time? Well,there are always piles and piles of things, I 'm so far
behin d.
Why I've got a year of journals! There'reeven two or three journals that I really haven't gone
thr o u g h .
Sometimes I pass over things that don't move me.
Then wh en the time is right, I go back to them and something clicks. Also, there is always a lot of material
to rework, and a lot of rewriting that I have to do.
Somet i mes when I cannot bear to get into the central
core of me, I start revising stuff . It's sort of likesliding into myself by the back door.
You know thatfeeling?
Yes, sometimes I find my material is painful . Yet
truth is never without pain, because if you are seeking
it, it means you do not yet know it.
And if you do not
yet know it, you are functioning in its lack.
And ifyou are functio~ing in the lack of truth, there is anadjustment when you begin to know.
So there must al ways be one kind of pain or another, if only that which
we call work .
H a~d wo~k.
Then perhaps we will begin to distinguish between
what is hard work and what is pain . I use the word
pain to cover those things that one would avoid as wellas those things that are such hard work that they try
you past your utmost . We call bot h of those thi ngs
pain, but there is a difference . One gives results .
Right? One is a learning experience, and the other isa was t e.
How? Useless pain is the biggest waste . Which pain
is u seless? The pain that is a distortion. The painthat comes from a lack of truth, that comes from thingsout of kilter.
The pain which comes from a disorder.

16

That kind of pain as opposed to the pain which comesfrom being tried beyond your utmost. Eventually, thatpain mutat es into knowledge. The other pain may end or
mutate into something else , but one frequently doesn'tknow.
So I call it waste although that may be shortsighted of me.
Of course, I am speaking of it in larger terms thanjust of us as writers.
As writers we share a double
knowledge that is both tortured and triumphant.
Right?
A knowledge that is both hard to bear and yet is oursalvation.
In a sense, our writing is only a vehicle
or a tool.
Is that not so? A~t i~ pu~po~e.
One's artand purpos e in living being the same .. .
Do I ever have problems with people trying to relate
to me because of my work and not because of myself?
Well, there does come a point, you know, when you can
no longer separate the self from the poetry.
I justcan't say "They're only interested in me because I'm apoet, not because of who I am." Because poet and self
become synonymous eventually. We all come to thatpoint. When I say "I'm Black, Woman, and Poet," I
really mean it.
It's not something I can separate.
It's a question of where you center your identity.
Most young people are still trying to define themselves,
so they move toward those whom they feel have a kind of
definition.
Of course, I'm just discussing how I feel,how I move.
A lot of things I just take on faith .
Like, how many years did it take me to learn to trust
the way the roots of my hair feel? Right? So when I
feel 'that suspicious' warm dampness behind my knees, I
know it's telling me something .
I mean, I don't have to wait for a headache, an ulcer attack or stomach gripe or pimples to come out on
my face . I can 6eei that left eyelash quiver, and I
say, "Hey, that's right!" Those are the things thatyou use to tell. Besides , who's giving gua~antee~?
You move, and you move more and more fluidly.
Youmove more and more freely until there's nothing more tobe afraid of, you know? Of course, I can certainly be
wrong any time! But what of it? The worst it can mean
is death.
Or pain. But pain either changes or stops .
Once I learned that , not just up here in my head, butbegan to know it so I didn't even have to understandit.
Once I began to ~eaiiy know what I'm saying now.
Began to 6eei it. Baby, it was like becoming Wonde~
Woman! Not in terms of having extra power, but interms of having my own power .
When did that come about? Well, it's been a long
journey, baby.
There are pieces of it all along theway. The latest came very recently, about a year ago .
Like ole Sister Gertie said, "Messages are received all
the time!"
So what was this latest piece that occurred about ayear ago.
Well , to make the connection between that17

which is physical and that which is otheA- -what iscalled otheA-- the rest of the time, is difficult . But
I did it! And now you're goi n g to ask, "How did you doit, Audre?"I
Well, we have to go back to the physical process.
~lmoat died.
Right after my first book came out, during
Christmas of 1967.
I got the flu, but I got it veAy
bad.
And my li6e Ae~lly ~lteAed! A weird trip, honey,
let me tell you !
Although, at the time, I didn't even know how dramatic an occurrence that was . But while I was recuperat ing, someone from the National Endowment to the Arts
called about the business of the grant to Tougaloo
College where I went as Poet-in- Residence in the springof '68.
A number of things happened there. First ofall, I met Frances. She was Visiting Professor from
Brown University.
And, of course, what I found at Tougaloo with theyoung people at the poetry workshop was an intense anda very critical experience . I felt myself working tocapacity, and it was exhilarating. When I speak ofworking to capacity, I'm speaking of that sense of being 6illed with wh~t one doea so that there is no room
left for hesitation or caviling.
It's a terribly seductive feeling, and it's one that I value .

II

AudAe LOAde once told ~n ~udience th~t ~he wAote
wh~t ahe lived, ~nd th~t ahe ~pe~ka out 06 ~ll the~elve~ th~t ~he ~eek~ to de6ine.
To d~te, ~he h~~ h~daix volume~ 06 poetAY publi~hed, ~nd h~~ ~ ~eventh book,
THE BLACK WOMAN, Ae~dy 60A heA publiaheA. HeA thiAd .
book, FROM A LANV WHERE OTHER PEOPLE LIVE, w~~ nomin~ted
60A ~ N~tion~l Book AW~Ad in 1973 .
She dAove down to my hou~e in Phil~delphi~ l ~ Powelton Vill~ge 6Aom heA home on St~ten I~l~nd one aimmeAing, ~ummeA-l~ke ~6teAnoon in l~te M~y 1975 to give ~poetAy Ae~ding th~t night ~nd ~o th~t I might inteAview
heA 60A my book 06 inteAview~ with nine contempoA~Aywomen . When I ~aked heA to tell me ~omething 06 heA
e~Aly ye~A~, ~ WAy ~mile touched heA mouth, then ~hea~id in ~ mocking tone :I went to Hunter High School.
It was the school for
exception children, honey! And how this little bl~ck~pot ever got in it, is more than we need to deal with.
But the nicest thing I remember about my father is his
going down and fighting the nuns at my elementary
school to get them to allow me to take the test for
Hunter High.

18

We had just moved to the neighborhood and were thefirst Black people on the block in this dinky little
apartment.
And soon after we moved in I learned that
our landlord had hanged himself in ou~ basement because
t hings had gone so bad for him he had to rent to Black
people : And eve~ybody over there at St . Catherine's
was talking about it .
Really, I think I would be insane today if I hadn't
gone to Hunter High School.
I've had a lucky life becaus e I' ve been tried a lot. But I've found the rightpeople at the right time, and that's really helped because, otherwise, I would not be here. Hunter High was
like that for me.
It saved me.
It helped me to holdon to my sanity at the time when I was ju~t on the edge.
I was a very disturbed child-Why was I disturb ed? I was disturbed because I bore
the weight of a tortured sensitivity for which there
was no escape because I was BlaeR and Woman . And I
guess I was born knowing that there are certain waysthat one could live, so when you were living in a waythat didn't fill that , what one did was ~e~eam!
You didn't bear it; you didn't turn the other goddamn cheek.
You yelled! And, honey, I yelled long andloud.
But my parents were West Indian , and they didn't
dig yelli~g. So why was I tortured? Because I could
not express myself. Because I was not being given thetools by which to deal with the world that I lived in.
And I . had no way to deal with the hate and the furythat that made in me.
And because I felt unloved andwas supposed to be sweet and quiet, which I wasn't.
Why do children suffer? Why do they die? Why dothey go insane? Because we live in an abnormal, sick ,insane society, and our parents try to raise us as if
this were not so.
No , I don't really think I was unloved . I thinkthat my parents spoke a language that for some reason I
couldn't hear.
Or didn't want to hear.
I was a difficult child.
I was wild.
I wa~ liRe a ~avening wind!
I was silent when I should have spoken, and loud when I
shoul~ have kept my mouth shut.
And I expected a hellof a lot!
I expected things my parents weren't about
to give me.
I have two older sisters, but in ' many respects, I grew up as if I were an only child.
So what happened to me when I got to Hunter High?
Yes, I met teachers.
I met girls.
It was an all-girls
school, you know? And they were all very very brightand very together .
It ~eally tu~ned my head a~ound.
There was a kind of loneliness there, too, but I wasn't
enough in tune with it.
And also I didn't really recognize in those years the kind of lack that it was.
I
mean, there were so few of us Black women there.
But one very pivotal occurrence happened in my second term at Hunter. One day, Pearl Primas came!
She
19

was a Hunter High School graduate.
She had just corneback from Africa, from her first fellowship there .
Pearl Primas --beautiful, fat, Black, gorgeous ! Shetalked about Africa, and she talked about the African
women.
She talked to us about BlaQRne¢¢, and she talked
to us about beauty. Up there with 700 Hunter HighSchool girls, I ¢at the~e and I ate it up!
I couldn ' t
believe what that woman was saying to me!
What else happened to me there? Yes, it was the atmosp here.
It was being free to think, having someplace where I wasn't repressed, where my head wasn't
constantly turned off.
Where, when I wrote a poem orsomething, my mother didn't say, "You'd better be Qa~e6ul, Child. Among you children, you do n 't ~ealize what
the world is like . People wi l l t h ink you ' re queer!"
Then there was Genevieve whom I met ... I loved Genevieve very much. Practically all of the Memorial poems
in most of my books are to Genevieve.
She killed her self.
We were sixteen . ...
Was s h e talented? Yes, fantastically so . Sh e wrote
and she danced.
She was like a shooting star.
The
first time I met Genevieve I thought I didn't like her
because she was so open and on the surface.
She wasjust the opposite of me.
I was so closed and withdrawn.
But as I got to know her, I carne to see that t h e flipside of her was really only one piece.
It was a cover,and I'd never known anyone who covered so well and socharmingly before.
So I carne to love her, and she
loved and needed me in the way that children do .
Sh e killed herself because she was u nhappy, because
she did not believe that any piece of her world could
make it better.
When some people believe in something,
they will stay on when it rains because t h ey have faiththat the sun will rise tomorrow . Genevieve never · be lieved it would.
And when pain carne, no one had ever .
given her anything to believe, or to want to hold on to
until the storm passed . She was full of anger, as we
all were . But she turned hers inward . At the lastcrucial moment, Genevieve tu~ned he~¢ inwa~d !
I think about Ginny a lot, sometimes.
I felt ter ribly sad, and I vowed that no one would ever be impor tant to me again . But what is most important is that I
never forgot.
Genevieve helped me always to remember.
I'll never forget what it is to see young waste and how
painful it is.
And I never got over wanting to help sothat it wouldn't happen again.
Ve¢, I ¢ee Ginny o6ten! She had no one to turn to
except me, and I had my own pain.
There was no one
else she'd speak to.
We had no role models. We had noone to go to in those days, you know . We were lost.
Wandering.
We were children of ourselves.
We used to playact a lot . We used to cuddle up in
bed, and playact at loving so we wou ldn't have to deal
with the real thing. Or rather, we thought we were20

playacting, but we really weren't, you know? We neververbalized our feelings.
I knew how I felt, and I guess
she knew how she felt.
I never really believed that I was as important to
her as she was to me.
It wasn't until after she diedthat her mother talked about my being her best friend,and all that.
I knew that she was going to do it.
She
had left Hunter and had gone to another school because
she wanted to major in dance.
She came to me that day-I was having exams--and I got out early.
I cut therest of school that afternoon and went with her to Central Park.
Ginny had bought these capsules, and she told me she
was going to commit suicide. No.
She didn't tell me.
She'd tried to commit suicide the year before.
She hadcut her wrists, and her grandma had found her. That's
when her mother had let her go to live with her father
whom she'd just met.
She had never known her father
before, but she went to live with him and his woman.
And some aw6ui things used to happen in that house.
Sometimes he used to beat her . .. .
Once she came to my house at nine o'clock at night
which was unspeakable to my parents.
I wanted her tostay, but we never had people sleeping over, you know.
So they told her it was time to go home.
And she left.
Then we had an argument, and we didn't speak for about
three weeks.
It seemed interminable.
It was in February--about a month before she died- - and then we came
together.
It was just so good to see her again - Well, anyway, Ginny felt that she couldn't go backto he~ mother, and there was no othe~ place to go .
There was nothing she could do. Yes, I knew she wasgoing to commit suicide. Or I guess part of me knewit.
I don't know . What do you do when you're sixteen?
I hoped that she wouldn't, and I felt powerless to stop
her, except to pray.
And you know how much good that
does!
Then I went home. Her father called me that night
asking if I'd seen Ginny.
And 1 i~ed. I said no. He
And I knew then that she
said she hadn't come home.
was going to do it. But I said nothing. What wasthere ' to say?
Next morning, her father called saying she was inHarlem Hospital.
She had ridden the subway all night
long, and then she'd stuffed arsenic into capsules andeaten it.

21

holly lu conant

disunited nations
who are these foreigners who have landed on my bodyplanted flags between my breasts
charted trade routes and highways across my belly
all of my wildernesses have been homesteadedby aliens and given discordant names

TOPOGRAPHICAL MAP ON FOLLOWING PAGE
this nation is not contained by surface geography
i have stratas of caverns and strange molten ores
which only a native could track

THE BORDERS ARE CLOSEDALL COLONISTS WILL BE REPATRIATED
this is the motherland
i will not be settled-holly lu conant

DAUGHTER ON MOTHER'S HEAD
Marble statuette, Aegean Islands, c. XVI century B.C.

23

MIRIAM - DAUGHTER - MODEL(How did you feel about posing nude?) I found it exciting and fun.
I felt very much at ease.
I remember
telling mother that she was the only one who could takemy picture; usually I'm intimidated by cameras .. . There
was also a real , satisfying sense of sharing an experience with her.
(How did you feel when you first saw the photos?)I
think I just stood there and giggled--that in-between
modest and proud giggle-(Did you see the image of your mother at first?) Yes.
It stunned me for a moment--all of a sudden I see thisdominating figure and realize it's my mother!
("Dominating mother" is conventionally a bad image ... )But it's not here!
When you think of a shadow, of what
it means--and she is a shadow--she's not in the foreground, there is no face--but there is an obvious power,
obvious effect on me . ..
(Did you feel that your mother's using you as a model
was possessive of her?) No . Earlier I mentioned "sharing" and that's what it was . I remember as a child-from when she sculpted my head to when she painted me-I always enjoyed the fact that I was taking part in her
creating something .
I didn't feel at all that it was aposs~ssive act of hers. t(Do you think your mother is unusual?) Yes . She's
honest--painfully honest.
Now I realize that she put a
lot of herself into protecting my brother and me when
we were children but in a way that let us be ourselves
and make our own mistakes . A lot of my friends' mothers
didn't, couldn't do that for fear of what might happen ...
And she took up for me a lot ...
(What is your earliest recollection of her protectionand · supp.ort?) When I was about four, I guess . I used
to masturbate on this stuffed animal .
(My parents never stopped me, but they did suggest that I might liketo go into my room, or watch TV or something . ) One
time when my grandmother was visiting, I dragged out mylittle stuffed dog, and boy, she hit the ceiling.
I
remember her screaming at me, telling me how awful I
was and that what I was doing was awful, and my mothercame in and sent her away.
I remember this scene of
their screaming at each other and me crying and not understanding what I had done wrong.
But I remember, too,that my mother took up for me.

25

MARIANNE· MOTHER· ARTIST(Why did you c hoose to put yourself in the photograph?)
I didn't put myself in t h e picture; I put my shadow int he picture- - as a protection -- as a shell - - to allow her
to ex p er ience h e r body a nd her nud ity as a positive andnatural thing.
How else am I goi n g to express my j oy
i n my r e lationship with my daughter unl ess I d o some t h ing that is private and personal and t h at s h ows thatr e lationship as co n trary to society's stereotype of amother-daughter relationship?
( How did it all come about?)
I t came about because I
was studyi n g wome n in myt h a nd history and became intereste d in t he Demeter - Persep hone myt h.
First , I did
my mother a n d me in a drawing and in a lithograph--amedia more suited to express my relationship with myown mother.
Photography was a new medium to me; I waslearning it and I felt it better suited to my relatio n~ship with my daughter because it would allow me a new
insight, a new perception.
It would be a challenge.
Since it was a new skill for me, I'd be forced into new
ways of seeing and there would be no chance of my falling into old patter n s I'd developed wit h drawing andlithography.
The difference in the two relationships
d e ma nd ed a new technique .
(Technically, how were the photos done?)
I was stand ing outside t he window a nd focusing into our ho us e .
Miriam was inside.
Th e landscape a nd exterior of t h ehous e are reflected in t h e wi ndow glass . Th e r easo nfor Miriam's existence i n t he photograph is the shadow
I ' m t hrowing into t h e ro om: I was blocking o ut a partof that reflection with my body and exposi ng h e r inside
my shadow .
In p r inting, I had to first expose the interi or of my shadow, an d then dodge t hat area to printin the reflection.
(Did you h ave a good time whil e taking these p hotos?)
That's an understateme nt.
It was like a flas h--I su ddenly reali zed the whole composition and what I would
do and how to position my se l f, and t h e whole pr oce dure
took only 30 minutes; suddenl y things clicked and t h e reit was a nd it was simpl e.
I didn ' t realize how comp licated they would l ook until photograph e rs began asking,how did you do t his? or say in g , it's obvio u sly a montage, a nd I said no, it's not a mo ntage, it's o n e n egative, o n e exposure.
I t was almost like givi ng birth toMiriam a second time.
In fact, her actual birth was awonder f ul experience fo r me.
And I r ecall a comment of a student artist who was
my daughter's age: " I t's a mazi ng--sh e's standing there
as if she were wearing her confirmation dr ess--her coming-out dr ess--as if she weren't co ns cious of being
nude ! ".
( ... as though she were ritua lly cost ume d . So these areritual photographs?) You might say that.
The painting
in the bac kground--it was done ten years earlier thanthe photos--is an exp l o ration in green that turned out
to be a cave painting . The r e' s somet hing like a little
primitive shrine in front of the cave.
I moved thepainting so that it could b e in the picture.
I wasn't
conscious at the time of why I wanted it th e re , but I
must have related it to something in th e Demeter andPersephone myth .

28

( Wh at was you r re l at i o n s h ip wi t h your d a ugh te r at t h etime you took t hese p h otos ? ) I k new t h at i t was a ve r ydiffic ul t time i n h e r life-- a ve r y exc i t in g t ime -- a nd I
wan ted to b e a bl e to reaffirm t h a t , in s pit e of t he di f fic ul t i es a t ee n age d woma n h as, al l t h e tr eac h e ri es a nd
pi t fa ll s of tee n age l i fe, in s pi te of a ll th a t , I wa nte d
he r to h ave some me mo r y of i ts a l so b~ in g p os i t i ve a nd
j oyo u s . I was n' t g i ve n tha t, a nd i f I h a d b ee n I fee lt h at it mig ht have c h a n ge d my li fe to a g r eat d eg r ee .
I wa n te d to g i ve h er time -- a n exce rpt -- a q ui et mo me nt
wh e r e sh e will reme mb e r t h at I a ll owe d h e r to expe ri e n ce
he r b o d y b eau tif ull y a nd to free h e r s piri t so t h at sh e
could go o n f r om t h e r e -- -PHOTOS BY MARIANNE LIE BERM AN

claudia scott

TWO WOMEN AT THE LUXEMBOURG
caught once again
ignoring shamelessly the celebrat e d
sailboats, churches, water
lilies, painted lightthey hang here through December,two months yet!
across the crowd
a tiny woman, one arm drawn
around her daughter's waist,
js diagramming with her left handcolors, the relationships of shapes
and flows of light
her hand rises and falls
as with authority
inflections in her voice exactly
playing over, amplify
the lined smile in her words,
the corners of her mouth,
her grey green eyes
her daughter's eyes are larger
and brown green; her images
float on their placid surface ,slowly are absorbed, and sinkuncertainly a nascent smilerises rippling, gathering
direction, . waits
she holds herself still
seems to stand beside behind
this woman, watching on the terrace
walking through a field of poppies
wave cresting on wave

30

monica raymondsappho on seventy-second street
do anything yo u want but don'ttell me about it says my motherthis on the subjectof c utting up some mushrooms
to fry in butter
while the rest of the family
has hamburger
my sister Lu cilleis playing la dam~ aux eam~llia¢
with a headcold
my youngest sister
is flirting with megiving me
pokes in the ribs
while the middle one
has just come back from her first day at workat Mon~y¢wo~~h magazine
the entire house smells of paintthey are throwing out
old biographies of George Washington.1 probe in the boxes
for valuable juvenilia
but there is only
a book called Manmad ~ Sa~~l li ~~¢I rejected when / 1 was eight
this is the mother and sisters
you all have been raving about
you lo versof matriarchy
no wonder my friends
take off for different cities or centuries
to find some woman to worshipenvy sappho
on h er island the present day
equivale nt probably Vassar~here everything was lotus and palpitation
freed from old ti es and family except forthat dau g hter who wore fresh flowers in her hair
whose words moreover like the antique columns
stripped of the ir gilt and paintare burnished cleanof the stringy str a nds
the gristle of daily co nnections
by the twin mercies of time and mistranslation31

in search of a lost woman-by wendy stevens

They say the woman who lives down the street is a witch.
she lives all alone in the brick front house at the endof the block , closest to the water.
she rarely has any
visitors, she doesn't seem to have any relatiyes--nochildren.
the only ones who are ever seen coming andgoing from the house are older women like herself.
neighbors say they do magic when they are together.
they confer on new spells and gather energy like other
women gather spare balls of yarn . sometimes it i~ said
that howls and giggles shake the panes of her windows.
but the blinds are always drawn, so, more difficult toimagine than clattering windows is the face of the woman, who is said to sporadically look out the top floor
window, which faces the ocean.
there is no inlet here
and so the waves come right up to the shore .
before she moved into the house there had been manystorms, one storm had blown the roof off her very house .
it used to be that once every two years or so the waves
would push through the beach wall and roam the streets ,leaving books and fish and salt and cars mingled.
the slices of apples sit at the bottom of a plasticbowl.
i peel grapefruit a's if it were a revealing gift,a premonition.
the luxury of summer is so easily for gotten - it is impossible to sweat its memory, but thetaste of the salads of summer, the berries, peaches,
grapes, plums and melon remain, making winter salads ofapples, bananas and citrus, waxy imitations.
i'm going to be all the way to manie's before dad gets
home, watching the pinball machine twitch and jangle
like how i imagine people look as they are electrocuted.
lately dad comes home from working the swing shift andhollers:-hell, why does this place always look like its gonna
cave in the next stiff wind that blows.
no matter what
i do, he whines, there is always a leak or a pipe busting or a floor board coming up . there is no keeping up
with this place, it's like dressing a spoiled woman infurs.
and i ' l l say:- but dad this is our home and it's been our home almost
all my life.
- it's nothing but a damn summer bungalow for rich people
that we live in all y~ar round like regular people.
the other half of the argument goes like this--32

i scream:-why the hell do i have to be stuck out here in almost
the middle of no where.
there is hardly anyone for me
to talk to . . . .
and my father says:-but kisper, this is your home and if your mother hadn't
deserted you when you was six she'd be the one to stayand take care of me.
but i can't be here alone, now
can i?
-oh you and this damn bungalow, it's like being in apaper mache cage.
i have only one clear memory of my mother, from rightbefore she left.
we had been sent home from school
early cause they thought there was going to be a nuclear attack.
it was raining very hard and the thunder
and the lightning slashed the beach air like a siren.
mother took me into the bathroom and pulled down abrown bottle from the medicine cabinet.
this is poi son, she said, when the bomb is dropped it is going to
be terrible. millions of people will die, millions
more will suffer and then die.
it will bring this ugly
world to a very ugly end.
but you and i should nothave to go through this.
she held the bottle out for
my inspection.
-when the bomb drops, we will run into
the bathroom and you'll drink this.
she placed a small
bottle on top of the sink, within my reach.
-and i'll
take ~his one, she pointed to her bottle still in the
medicine cabinet.
- there is no point going throughthis, let the men who make the wars suffer.
i will not
suffer for them.
all a~ternoon i sat gunken in a chair next to my mother,
who read aloud to me as if we were awaiting a dental
appointment.
each time the thunder slashed i looked up
for a signal to self - destruct.
what do bombs soundlike, how will we know when it is THE BOMB? will wehave time to run into the bathroom and say good-bye andthen drink our clear liquids and slowly ooze onto thelinoleum floor? will mom make sure i finish mine before she drinks hers or will we hold hands as we slink
out from under the bomb like jumping off rocks intochilly waters with a friend.
the next morning when nobomb had come, i woke and went to the bathroom to wash
my face.
so this was where we were to sacrifice ourselves to the thunder . but the bottle was gone.
itold my father the 'thunder and liquid death instead ofbomb suffering' story and he swore and said that crazywitch of a no good woman, trying to kill herself andyou -- no wonder she left.
-left? no, i said, maybe the bomb fell and killed herwhen she wasn't near enough to the bathroom?
whenever there was a rainstorm i would hold my pee until my body pumped against me . years later when i33

would argue with my father i would threaten to go join
my mother and he would answer something like: i didn't
see her leave you no directions as to where to find herwhen you needed her, now did she?
i would run into the bathroom and latch the door, sitting there scrunched between the shower and the wall.
this was the last place i remembered seeing her.
i put a note on the salad and slide it next to a platefilled with sliced roast.
i stretch plastic wrap
tightly over the meat but it snaps in the middle like a
guitar string .
a co ncr ete but distant memory remains.
younger, i feltthat i was not from this world.
i believed that justbefore my mother was to give birth , i was substituted
into her womb by beings from other spaces.
no one but
i knew, and i just suspected.
i was aware, as a child,of an energy cycle which would culminate in a drained
sensation about every two months.
after being put tosleep a high-pitch ed tone would charge my ears and thenext morning i was vitalized again, ready to begin an other two months.
i imagined i had power, power no one
knew of.
i could zap people with my eyes and my longstares could transfer energy and create subtle misfortunes for those who deserved it. perhaps, it was anillusion; but only because i could never realize orvalidate it on my own . by naming it 'illusion' i dis credited mys elf and did their work for them.

not ve~y iong ago and not ve~y 6a~ away 6~om he~ethe~e i~ved a woman wh06e name you ca~~y -- R~6pe~.
R~6pe~'6 g~eat, g~eat g~andmothe~, cei~ne, had i~ved~n 6~ance not 6a~ 6~om the 6maii v~iiage6 the anc~ent
cuitu~e06

6ae~~e6

had c~eated.

cei~newa6 a 6eam- '6t~e66 and 6he 6~wed the 6ec~et6 the 6ae~~e6 had 6ha~ed
w~th he~ onto the ~n6~de6 06 6R~~t6 and biou6e6, ca~­~y~ng the~~ my6t~cai Rnowiedge w~th he~ whe~eve~ 6hewent.
each a6te~noon, ' cei~ne, bundied ~n a 6hawi w~th a ba6Ret 06 th~ead6 and cioth, wouid 6t~oii to the 6~eid6
and wa~t by the huge 6had~ng t~ee 60~ ~ai~na. ~ai~na
wa6 much oide~ than cei~ne, 6he waiRed ve~y 6iowiy tothe~~ 6ha~ed 6pace.
the t~ny 6~gu~e c~066~ng the ia6t
pa6tu~e wouid aiway6 exc~te cei~ne, who wa6 d~awn tothe ~nten6~ty w~th wh~ch ~ai~na waiRed on the g~ound.
cei~ne 6a~d ~ai~na waiRed a6 ~6 6he we~e a t~ee 6p~ead­~ng ~t6 ~00t6 ~ap~diy, me6h~ng w~th the g~ound, pay~ng
homage to the an~mai6 a6 6he pa66ed.
60met~me6 cei~ne and ~ai~na wouid 6~t t~ii pa6t da~R,
voyag~ng ~nto the deep Rnowiedge that ~ai~na ca~~~ed.
they taiRed 06 heai~ng, they taiRed 06 i~v~ng w~th the
piant6 and an~mai6 wh~ch nu~tu~ed and 6u6ta~ned them.
cei~ne'6 hand6 we~e con6tantiy mov~ng th~ead th~oughcioth, th~ead th~ough cioth, a6 he~ m~nd heid t~ghtiy34

~alina ' ~ wo~d~ . ... whit~ c~da~ t~a 60~ woman pain~,thi~tl~ and ~ton~~~~d 60~ cont~ac~ption . . .. and 60~ mydaught~~ who ~u66~~~ ~uch ~~v~~~ h~adach~~? c~lin~a~k~d ~alina .

toth~~~ wa~ g~~at pati~nc~ 6~tw~~n th~ wom~n ,pati~nc~

which i~ca~v~d on wall~ 06 ~~~p~ct.
a~ it b~gan tog~t da~k c~lin~ would gath~~ h~~ mat~~ial which lay
ac~o~~ h~~ and ~ach woman would tu~n in h~~ own di~~c­tion; ~alina to th~ ~i~ing moon, c~lin~ towa~d th~~~tting~un.

on~ lat~ a6t~~noon c~lin~ a~~iv~dat th~ ~hading t~~~to 6ind ~alina al~~ady th~~~, 60~c~6ully p~~~~ing h~~hand~ to th~ g~ound, h~~ ~y~~ impati~ntly awaiting
c~lin~'~-what i~att~ntion.
th~ matt~~, c~lin~ a~k~d.
-i hav~ com~ upon ~om~ knowl~dg~ which i mu~t ~ha~~with you. i hav~ k~pt it a~ long a~ on~ da~~~, p~~­pa~ing you 60~ thi~ mom~nt which can no long~~ b~ igno~~d .
th~ p~opl~ with whom i g~ow hav~ b~~n dwindling.
th~ wo~ld a~ound u~ ~h~iv~l~ in viot~nc~ and di~~onanc~,
w~ cannot ~u~viv~.
what u~~ i~ th~~~ 60~ h~aling andha~mony in a wo~ld which count~~~ that v~~y notion?
w~ a~~ di~~uptiv ~ to th~i~ id~al~, w~ a~~ ~o~c~~~~~ 06~vil -- th~y hav~ ju~ti6i~d ou~ ~xtinction .
c~lin~ ' ~ a~m~ 6~11 a~ound th~~mall woman .
th~~~ wa~
littl~ ~h~ could ~ay .
-tak~ what you hav~ l~a~n~d 6~om m~, c~lin~, and pa~~
it on , 60~ p~opl~ will continu~ to d~~am and ~~~k way~
to ~~ay h~althy and to und~~~tand th~i~ ~l~~ping andwaking -- that knowl~dg~ cannot b ~ d~ni~d . tak~ th~~~~p~ct my cultu~~ ha~ 60~ wom~n and in~till it inyou~ ' gi~l-child and t h~~~' a6t~~ that .
i will no long~~b~ abl~ to v~ntu~~ pa~t my dw~lling .
w~av~ with ~t~ong
th~~ad 60~ all mu~t l~a~n th~ di66~~~nc~ b~tw~~n~t~~ngth and pow~~ .
that wa~ · th~ la~t tim~ c~lin~ ~aw ~alina; ~h~ wait~d
60~ th~ ~mall woman to di~app~a~ into th~ moon'~ ho~i­zon b~60~~ ~h~ li6t~d h~~~~16 6~om th~ g~ound andwalk~d to th~ ~avaging ~un~~t b~60~~ h~~.
th~ knowl~dg~ c~lin~ ca~~i~d wa~ dang~~ou~.
wom~n withwhom c~lin~ ~ha~~d th~~~ in~ight~ w~~~ con~id~~~d b~d~vil~d and mo~~ pow~~6ul than any woman ~hould b~.
th~y w~~~ b ~at~n and bu~n~d 60~ th~i~ knowing; gi~l­child~~n d~~t~oy~d 60~ th~i~ pot~ntial .
th~ th~~ad~ou knowl~dg~ ~u~viv~d and w~~~ ca~~i~d to thi~ count~y,a~ w~~~ ~mall pi~c~~ 06 p~opl~'~ hi~to~y, hidd~n inhollow~d bo ok~ and gutt~d b~ain~ awaiting b~tt~~ tim~~.
ki~p~~ ' ~ g~andmoth~~ b~ought h~~ h~~itag~ to thi~ landt~lling c~lin~'~ tal~ di~~ctly to ki~p~~ 60~ ki~p~~ ' ~moth~~ ~~6u~~d to li~t~n to th~ knowl~dg~ that would~ndang~~ h~~ li6~.
ki~p~~ took to c~lin ~ ' ~ ta~k: ~h~ p~oclaim~d h~~ knowt~dg~ with th~ vigo~ 06 a ~aint .
c~lin~'~ ~t~~ngth6~~m~d to ca~~y ki~p~~ ' ~ blood.
~h~ kn~w that th~i~olation 06 ~alina ' ~ p~opl~ had 60~t~~~d th~i~ d~~-35

t~uQtion, allowing them to be e~a~ed with ha~dly Q~umb~lent behind a~ a t~ail. ~he wa~ bu~ned, a~ we~e ninemillion othe~ women, a~ a witQh. and ~o i name you

ki~pe~.

i calculate carefully , cause it is hard sitting aroundmanie's too long.
mostly the men who go there sit andcomplain about h a ving four children to clothe and feed
and if only their wives wouldn't spend so much mon e y.
they joke about the last time they took their wives to
bed or about the way a woman's body stretches to bear
six children -- it's like fucking a sail that's luffing.
- you take hazel and i'll take vernel.
i'll trade you.
at least vernel has tits.
-wh y'd you marry hazel if she didn't have tits?
-well, half a woman's better than no woman at all,right boy?
and i know these women, i see verne 1 and hazel andmartha every week in the grocery and at the laundermat,
juggling babies and packages, maintaining soft voices
when i would be screaming, then losing their tempers
and slapping their children with 'i don't know who
else to slap for this mess' looks on their faces.
this one woman hazel has it real bad.
she got an infection in her womb and they went and took it all out
and sent her home to her six kids to rest, with thismedicine to put up her.
the medicine didn't agreewith her; it actually blistered and crusted her insides like someone had put a firecracker up her for a
prank.
she had to go back to the hospital again andyou can imagine how angry sammy was then . he would
come to manie's, consume twice as much beer and thenhe would yell to hazel at the wall:-why'd you go and do this.
you're doing a good job ofmaking me miserable, hazel.
you've been trying to do
it for years and now you've succeeded, leaving me withsix children to care for while you lay in bed withyour legs up in the air like you was waiting for oneof those handsome interns to come in and snuggle on
down inbetween them -- 'cept there's nothing left foryou to offer him.
that'll teach you.
-but it's not hazel's fault, sammy.
i finally interrupted one night.
the men around me looked up.
theonly ot h er thi n g people had said to him was -- it could
happen to any of us, sammy.
- can't you imagine how awful hazel feels knowing that
she has had to leave you with the kids, how awful she
must feel knowing that you had to bring your mother into your house and she sweep~ twice in places haz eldoesn't even have time to look.
she'd mu c h rather bewith you and the kids, i'm sure .
i'm
i wasn't real sure where hazel would rather be.
sure if she could have made a list, i don't thi nk sammy's house would have been on the top, but never mind .
36

before the silence let up in t h e bar that night i walked
out and home.
but first i walke d toward the beach , on ly as far as the wall.
i pulled myself o n top of it
and instead of watching the ocean i face d the so - called
witc h 's house and stared at the close d curt ains, hoping
if i stared h a rd enoug h i would catc h a glimpse throughthe woven s h ades .
i imagin e d the room filled wit h women c h a ntin g and. moving to t h eir voices.
i imaginedt h e l arge spaces of the ho us e ful l of pulsating dark,
lit b y cand les.
i imag in ed the force of a room filledwith s u c h wome n , women who were not afraid.
women who
carried their st r engt h throughout thems elves, carrying
it with te nder n ess and brilliance, t h e way young womencarry pote n tial.
t h e way breakfast appears silently,
from wome n' s hands while everyone sleeps; the quick si lent motions no one ever notices.
i am helaina.
i was born a woman in the state of massachusetts - - not an old witch at that.
t h e house igrew in was within t h e walls of a prison.
my father
was the dir ecto r of a federal penite ntiar y and so igrew with bar s on my windows -- iron .
i could look o u t
and see th e hug e building in t h e di stan ce, there too,
there were bars on every window.
in fantasy, the prison was a castle of a cruel noblema n wh o kept me cap tive in my small room.
the bars on his wi ndows, allthose windows, were to protect his riches from bandits
and thieves.
but t hat fooling child's play co u ld not
cou nter the demising sense which hung like a low tent
str etc hed fro m guard tower to guard tower, from east
to wes~ wall.
my fat h er would take me into the prison
building with him som e~im es; a c hild 's sense of justicedoes not ~llow for prisons.
there is littl e within ac hild t hat allows for cages .
if witches are those who see through the opaque rul es
and powe rs , then all c hildr e n a r e witches.
witches are
the women who would not ignore their strength, who did
not submit to th e as sumed power.
a ll women b ecame
viewe d as bearers of forbidden powers, all women trai tors to their me n -- h arbors for secrets, greedy sewers
for male jui ces .
t h ere are paths b etween the smaller houses which makethe walk to mani e 's mu c h quicker and blo ck t h e ch ill
coming off the wat e r.
the hou ses a re still and glow anin v isibl e solitude .
i feel eeri e as i f an un settli ng
wind has begun to blow at me.
i want to take t h i n gs
b etwee n my fingers and br eak t h e m into s mall bits,
cr umpling them to mors e ls ; i want to test my stre n gt hagainst walls . i realize i h ave never swung at a n y thing full force; i begin to cry.
i will get myself agood strong drink when i get to manie's, i deserve it.
manie ' s is a low slung bar .
it is a dark wet placewith dri e r spots where the b o di es of men huddl e and thelight refle cts through the c lust ers of o ran ge bottles.
37

there is the caked smell of salt one becomes immune toafter living by the ocean for many years, the smell ofsalt rotting wood and metal which makes children thinkof salt as a hungry beast.
i am helaina -- an old witch perhaps -- hidden andanonymous as i must remain because i have struck out
against the powers who make bomb deaths.
long ago, iwould have sacrificed myself and my child to them, knowing that i wanted no part, unaware of the force of mysurvival.
they hunt me now, afraid of our combined
knowledge which calculates their disappearance.
heads turn as i walk into manie's. why we bother toturn around is beyond me, but heads whip about likebobbing dolls in the back windows of cars, as the men
leave their drinks for a minute and nod my name, kisper ,kisper, kisper.
where did you get a strange name like that lady , likekiss and whisper, heh?
-what 's the occasion, sam shouts at me.
you aren't
usually here on wednesday nights.
-i needed to get out .
- can i buy you a drink?
- no, no it's okaY, "i got my own money.
i can get myown, but thanks.
manie, make me a bourbon and ginger
ale.
there is confusion here tonight, it feels like young
boys waiting for a parade or young men waiting to get
into the back room with robin glober -- 'they can't
wait another minute cause it isn't going to be there if
it doesn't happen right now' feeling.
last summer , some boys came in from the city to stay
the weekend.
wh~le on the beach, they stopped to get
soft ice cream from robin, who was working behind herparents' concession.
the boys noticed that robin had
her hands full watching her brother thomas and serving
customers, so they offered to let thomas spend the daywith them, playing football , swimming and horsing a round, like young men do so well.
thomas begged andbegged and sulked until robin just sent him off withthe city boys.
the day went easily without thomas tolook after and wrestle with.
the boys stopped backsomewhat later and asked robin if it wouldn't be okay
to head down the beach with thomas and have her pickhim up at their cabin.
robin asked if this wasn't anawful burden, for she knew what spending a day with "thomas could be.
they laugh~d and said they were having a swell time, no problems.
after work , robin rodeher bike over to the fancy cabins on the channel side.
surprisingly, thomas was asleep.
the boys were sitting
down to dinner and invited robin to join them . they
were having steak and baked potatoes, there was coleslaw and potato salad and loads of beer.
robin said at38

first, she felt like a princeqs, sitting with the sevenhandsome boys .
she hardly knew when it al l began.
she had gone tolook around the cabin when one of the boys cornered her
and told her he thought she was very fine looking . heasked if he could kiss her.
she had never had a boy'ask like that before.
he pressed himself against her
like an axe presses itself into wood and rubbed hissmooth skin on her neck.
before long they were barely
clothed on the double bed in the back room and she began to feel nauseous , a belly f ull of food and a salty
flavor coming from all parts of him.
there is no saying when but the door slipped open and one of the otherboys walked through the bedroom to the toilet, coming
out naked a nd pushing the other boy aside . h e shoved
his tongue and penis in and out of her.
she looked to
the first tender boy who was transfixed on the otherboy's penis as it appeared and disappeared, and was
swallowed and spit up and forced down again.
then moreboys came in.
she didn't scream . she didn't want thomas to wake up
and run in to find her smothered in come and sweat .
she arched her back against the flat-bodied boys, tossing from side to side until they took to holding her,cutting their jolly panting through her skin . they
were gathered around the bed mocking her silence with
their noise, dangling their soupy cocks.
she remained
awake, squeezing the muscles inside her vagina, closing
her~elf off.
, how could god have done this to women,
she thought, given them just an open channel with nodoor, no way to say no , and given men needs like cats,in co nstant heat . when the boys ran dry, still huffing
with energy, they took the leftover salad and began to
rub it into her .
the city boys didn't pack up and leave the next day theway i would have expected them to, but everyday theywould pass by the concession and not say a word.
thomaswould say hi to them and plead with robin to let him go
play with them .
-they're my pals, robin.
how come i can't go?
-no, cause i said no. we wouldn't want to bother themany.more than we already have.
she swallowed the smells of the cole slaw, the way women ingest modern medicine, sacrificing whole breasts
to greedy physicians; their insides tied in secretknots, the combinations buried with all the other brown
and red women.
sam is sitting at the bar, he has taken what looks likehis old high school jacket and draped it over the chairof the nearest table to the bar.
sam is talking tocharley about the retired couples who come down here to
the coast and spend their days fishing, thinking theyknow what they are doing with their expensive poles andlines.
charley agrees, but ,sam sits there, still try39

ing to convince him what fools those retired people are
and charley once again agrees.
i pull a chair out, to share the table with sam's jacket.
the chubby men and women who stand in the cold
water with their waders hanging like riding britches
over their thick thighs are always smiling at one an other, sitting there with their lounge chairs in six
inches of sea water, the waves running through the aluminum legs, they might as well be reading the sunday
paper or quilting together, the way they sit so patiently in one spot with lunch and afternoon snack on
the trunk of their chevrolets.
they always wave, as iwalk past, down along the beach.
i have no patiencefor fishing -- to me it is like waiting an hour for apinball machine to warm up.
hoping i was not born todie here, i order another bourbon.
sometimes when ithink about what i would rather be doing i get more
confused, there seems a whole world out there and so i
sip my bourbon.
i wish my mother were sitting on theseat sam's coat is taking up, sipping her bourbon, telling me what she felt like when she was my age.
when igo to the city, rich women on buses, wearing fur-col lared coats smile at me and i hope they are n ot my mother.
my mother is somewhere though, watching over me,
making sure i am okay from a distance, unable to reveal
herself.
she is the witch down the street, castingspells on my father through me, like the asbestos con tamination of families brought home on miners' clothes .
the insides of my body feel coated with the syrupy
bourbon color .
i hear sam ask me what i am thinking
about.
-what am i thinking about? about someday being awayfrom here and you had the option sam a nd yo u didn't
take it.
-had the option . who do you think is dealing this 'game, it's not me or anyone remotely related to me.
-sorry sam, i know, a wife and kids, inheriting a fishing business.
those of us who were born with sweat forsaliva understand .
-when i was younger, a few years back, i left this bungalow island and traveled to the west as far as kansas.
i met people there who had never seen the ocean.
they
didn't know what waves looked like beating against thesides of a boat like a crazy man playing drums.
ididn't know what i wanted to do with myself, i thoughti might hav e wanted to be a farmer.
i met an old man
one night, looniest man i ever met, crazier than luke
and my wife combined . he walked into the bar i was
sitting in, drinking tomato juice and beer, i was missing the ocean worse than i had ever missed a woman.
he just walked up and said: you can starve a man's stomach but not his spirit -- feed that first.
that wasall he said and though i thought him crazy, i headed
east the next morning, thumbing my way back in three
days.
40

i got up suddenly and put on my coat.
-good night , sam, i pushed in my chair and didn't lookaround t h e room once more.
i headed toward the beach instead of walking home along
the ro~d.
there was h ardly a wind blowing now, but thesmell still rested everywhere.
i walked on the sand,watching the lighthouse illuminations bob on the water.
the beam skimmed the ocean like skipping rocks andthere was no one but myself and the tumbling ocean.
there is no human sound which can match the ocean; noother voice which asks and answers so many questions.
i watched the beach wall, checking the corner houses so
i could tell how close i was getting to her house.
mostof the houses along the wall wer e not bungalows, manyof them were made of brick, built to withstand theforce of the water as it came through the wall. manyof them h ad large glass windows facing the wat e r andporches with canvas awnings in summer .
th e two - story house with the attic window, which lookedon over the water appeared at the next corner, set backa few feet from the road, resting against the beachwall.
i walked faster, hoisted myself up onto the wall,
and watched her house, waiting like coral to be pickedup and carried.
t h ere on top of the beach wall, some feather ferns had
sprouted ; not many, just a few had made their way
through and i leaned to touch them in the night.
there
has been a time, i am told, when ferns were much moreprevalent - - but they are so delicate and now is not atime for delicate things -- there will be time again
for t~em lat er.
i stroked the fragile growths.
i ~tared at the house ~ bracing one hand against thewall . and there by the side window a curtain parted
and a woman reveal e d her face to me.
she smiled knowingly and drew the curtain closed again.
i rushed from the wall and down the street toward myhouse, inebriated with her face.
i rummaged throughthe closet in our hallway and pulled down a shoebox.
leafing through the photographs, i searched for thatjoung woman posed beside a small girl-child.
i stared ,creating wrinkles and lines and pushing the hair backoff her face .
i looked at my own face in the mirror,
by the bathroom sink and conjured up the smiling facenext to the c urtain , through the beach window.
i didn't knock at that woman's door.
helaina is myjourney, it is my door i opened.
when i am sad, i am
hunted like a runaway slave by the men who think i canlur e their power from them by just looking their way,and helaina seems just an isolated and ignored older
woman, cast off like ashes at sea . at better moments,
helaina and i burn nine million of them, one for every
woman sacrificed to the bomb gods .
41

debbie ollison

AN ELEGY : A VINDICATION

mo ther
I'l l write of you
one more time
but not this timeof your anguish
we both know enough of itmama
I have repaid yo ur labor pains
comp l eti n g my bir t ha s a woman
years after my head said it was time
the c hildhurts too being born
I kn owwondering di scoveringis mine again
now not a child
moth e r
if you had not di e d
if it had n ot killed you
I would b e mothe r now
to youand tell you
you were not wrong
to look for yourse l ffind yourself
in the l ovein the armsof anoth er woman .

42

photo by tee corinne

43judith mcdaniel

Circe's Cup
Ulysses' men
got 12 months
in the penswine who grunted
and ruttedfor just one sipfrom Circe's cup.
Himself sankinto a hazeof bestiality
forgetting wifeand sonand property
as h e gazedinto her green eyes
and then drankfrom her cup.
Her crime
they said laterto themselvesa br eachof hospitality
Civilization
can not survive.
He flees
toward home
his men drop
one by one
into the sea
arrive s alone
waits
for the fog
to lift.

44

Circe sitson her island
not alone
I linger gladly
her scentwater- heavy
and I drink
to intoxication
lick salt from herneck and nipples
and sipfrom her softcup
when I moveinto her lap
the sea breaks
over my head
and I diveinto a new memory.

Raspberries
Others ripen
slowlyinto darkness;Youhide beneatha leafand come in swift and fragrant redness.
-Judith McDaniel

photo by tee corinne
45

DIAMONDS FOR DANDY'S LADY
-by hadden luce(for the wildest card ever drawn)
Dandelion got the nickname Dandy because she was something of a wild thing, something of a sport, and something of a modified Don Juan-Quixote in quest of awoman poet with whom to make literary and cosmic whoopy .
She to~d me this the f~rst day she stopped by to lookat the diamonds . At first, these words hit somewhere
in between our Irish blue eyes .
Dandy also wore expensive clothes, a timeless crowdpleaser, and she got on well with strangers . The Baptist preacher in the small town where she grew up wanted
her to use the best of her bright social smile for theglory of God . He offered to pray for her , that her
wildness might be transfigured into sweetness and light.
Dandy said, "thank you anyway, but I'm a tomboy, a cultural anarchist.
I'd rather play tennis , ride horses ,and write poems about graceful jump shots that win mygym teacher's favor . "Permit me, here, to ask a question: What's a middleaged store-clerking mother of four daughters to do when
she learns that lesbians are actually walking thestreets in broad daylight? I mean it's either fall apart or try patiently to understand .
I was so shocked
I went to the branch library in my neighborhood andchecked out every book listed in the card catalog onhuman sexuality.o Dandy was so cute and so carried away with her beloved .
I thought , how can this be bad?
No valentine of mine ever gave me diamonds .
One November night when she was feeling good about
herself and strong about growing from girlhood into
brave maturity, Dandy wandered into the local lesbianbar , where she spotted a long-time acquaintance who re peatedly felt compelled to remark about the firm roundness of her sweater-girl breasts.
"We've got a table," said the friend.
"Come meet
Sophia Gordian.
I've wanted you to meet this lady for
years."
Yes, yes, thought Dandy, that woman I saw at thewriter's conference last spring!
She dropped a smile
over her shoulder that felled me in my tracks. As
Adrienne Rich spoke about connectedness among women, myolife became inexplicably connected to the back of herhead, and ultimately intertwined in her long, graying
46

hair.
Crossing my legs, I prayed I wouldn't falloff
my chair.
Dandelion was obviously gutsy, but in the matter ofSophia Gordian, she went out on a limb stretching across the universe and back. Her heart took off like afrenzied mare, with f rivolous thoughts leaping towardexquisite illuminations on the meaning of life a nd art .
Sophia Gordian wrecked Dandy's ability to concentrateon the bar-room games that buzzed like mosquitos aroundthe edges of her life.
"You're a bright child .. . and you know it?" Sophia
asked, bl ess ing the loud and frant ic bar with a smile
more calming than brandy on a winter night.
"Yes," Dandy replied a rrogantly , her sweaty hands
clutching the chair for a handle on this handsome woman's powe r.
" I'm looking for people to feed it . ""Come see me . ""When?""Soon . "Sooner than Sophia cou ld grade her impending set ofpapers, Dandy appeared on campus to carry her books
home from school.
In her leather folder, she had a partially worked poem , outlining their wonderfully brightand productive future together.
"I'm surprised," Sophia said, with hints of coy shyness.
"I did!l' t really think you'd come . "" I had to keep you guessing . ""I see," Sophia smirk-smiled .
"The .mystery behindmanners.""An a,ct of Faith," Dandy said irascibly.
"The stringthat ' holds together the' sack of chicken feed . ""Metaphor at its best.""As metaphors for living go.""Art copies life.
Angles , revisions, editions.
Youknow?"
Dandy told me the story of their second meeting thesecond time she stopped to check on the diamonds.
I
have to say I didn't understand that angle-revision
stuff , but it didn't matter.
Dandy 's excitement mad e
my day .- When a woman works six days a week in a department store, she gets pretty fed up with frantic men
stalking around like ding-bats to buy some thing tokeep some sucker in her place.
When she sees joy on
somebody's face, she starts to wonder what it's all about.
You know? There's got to be more to life thangetting t hrough it with a stiff upper lip.
"Do you t h ink she'll like these?" Dandy asked me.
"Why, I couldn't say.
I don't know her.""She's got a mind like a diamond.""Then I'm sure ... ""Do you think the gold part looks like a peacock's
tail?""I've never seen a real peacock, but I'd say it'll
pass . "47

"I better purchase these with much dispatch before
somebody else does.
Should I?""Diamond earrings are awfully precious to give someone you've only known two months.""But I've been looking for her all my life! Weird,
symbolic stuff keeps happening to me, like I met her on
my grandmother's birthday, and yesterday when I somehow
knew she was thinking about me, a baby owl landed on
the hood of my car.
It just sat there, peered at me,then flew off . Besides , she has gorgeous ears!""Dandy, you've got a big heart. What if she breaksit?"
The next morning at 10 a.m., Dandy was waiting forthe doors to open.
After a terrible morning trying to
get the kids to school , the dog to the vet, and thehusband out of my hair about the light bill, I felt at
low ebb. What in the name of Colonel Sanders am I supposed to do? Fry chicken in the pitch black? Lay gol den eggs? Dandy looked like she might sink into thelinoleum.
"Well," I punched her, "You made up your mind?""Yep.
I'm going to lay my money on the table.
I
betrayed her.
It was not only my parents' anniversary,
but an ashtray in my apartment somehow mysteriously
broke into two pieces that look like two broken hearts.""Dandy! You mean you went off with another woman?
Why? Why would you buy diamonds for one woman and thengo off with another one?""I guess I lost my mind.
I spend a lot of time try ing to figure out if she really loves me . She's so refined, and I'm so rowdy.
I feel like I have to provemyself to her over and over again.
She scares me.""You shouldn't ask why somebody loves you.
You'
should be glad. ""I am glad, but she hurt my feelings.
When I needed
her, she left me.
I apologized for needing her.""Dh Dandy, you shouldn't ever do that.
We all needeach other.""But I did.
And all week long, that phrase kept going around in my head.
She told me once that I was go ing to have to learn how to receive as well as give,and I apologized for needing her.
I felt worthless . "Taking out her wallet, Dandy counted out her money.
"Maybe I'll just give them to my grandmother," shesmiled wryly, "but that smacks of incest. N'est-ce
pas?"
Diamonds for Dandy's Lady, I thoug h t, I guess it's
the age-old story of fallin~ in love, whether a woman
with a woman, or a kitten with a little girl who serves
up its breakfast.
We try to please, we want to doright, and sometimes we don't understand ourselves why
we give people the power to hurt us.
When we give thatpower, we want to take it away . We want to blame theother person for making us love. Why is it that way?
48

I guess it's got something to do with that string that
holds the chicken feed inside the sack.
And even if
it's a supermarket edition, or a summer re - run that's
played a hundred times, it still hurts.
Love makes awoman want to give away her soul, and that's pretty
blasted scary.
Surely there's a blend somewhere between giving and receiving, between the woman and thelittle girl.
" I need a beer," Dandy growled, her ,full 1 ips narrowing into a pout.
"Can I borrow a dollar?""I'll buy you one," I said firmly .
"I'm sick ofselling diamonds six days a week to lovers and othersuckers.""You ever been to a lesbian bar?""Nope.
But open the door , Dandelion, let's step out
in the sunshine and find us some real peacocks. Then ,if you have to camp outside that woman's heart for the
rest of the week, I want you to follow your heart on
down the line.
The story's not over till you draw thelast straw - and who knows? - souls and diamonds are a
lot alike.
Even if you try to hide them in a henhouse,
they don't rust."

::;:
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..-II-LO0')1'<:..-I\.U
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cl :>
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en t)

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-

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CI.l'HI

49

sonya jones

FLANNEL MORNING
Alloy my fears, dear V,
I am oddly diffident
a~ I hasten toward
the frantic city;
my skin remembers more clearly
the skin beneath your flannel gown
than the work I must round out
this winter day.
Think of unintended irony;steel brilliance that defies finity :Not all lesbian lovers
merit police escorts
to freeways leading north;
Montgomery , 4 a.m.,
I wonder was this George's
cocky, curious humor.
As soft as disguised truth,
the armpit of Alabama,that artifical mulatto,
breeds with the big dome,that golden egg
laid by turn-of-the-century politicos.
And as the smog-ridden horizonpresents itself to morning,
I entrust my tired, smiling body-soulto the certainty of your hands.

-nAom a new book by Sonya Jone~, FLANNEL MORNING (LOVESONGS FOR VR. V), publi~hed by Vanity PAe~~. "Viamond~nOA Vandy'~ Lady" i~ publi~hed ~ n anotheA new book nAom
Vanity, AFTER THE PROM: SHORT STORIES by Hadden Luee.
Both volume~ aAe $3.00 eaeh nAom: The Vanity PAe~~,
PO Box 15064, Atlanta, Ga. 30333. (Add 30~ peA book,po~tage/handling. )50

de~i kothryn huntjean/our disappointments
in some after-dream, all mymemories of you are shatteredand you return.
in that other - life, we approacheach other night by night
but don't learn how to live together.
inthat awful under-laugh, we betray each other,we kiss each other goodbye .
there are possibilities, but wedon't reach them together .
in an idiot-thought, i come close to you.
in a dream-mess, we dance eachother into brief sunsets andincinerate our doubts.
ourinclinations sew us together, ourremorse casts us into a drowning state~nd we don't surface
together.
in my sea- death, i bob up and down,
i sink and i swim, i have wild-memories.
fish flash their slippery whispers at me,
illuminating and humiliating me .
i amin a circus-web and you aren't
up the river waiting.
in thatwaterlight, you sit
and think of .someone else.
we area sudden experiment, and, as an experiment ,we succeed . but like an after-thought,
i approach you night by . night, andwe never learn to live together .

51

jacqueline lapidus

ELEMENTS

I 6ay I have been t~ying to
06 dange~: a woman
6aiiing, 6ta~iike , intoanothe~ wo man ' 6 ii6e
making a hoie in the ~006

w~ite-Jan Claus en , "A Sense of Reality"
but we Virgos
be i ng an eart h sign, anticipate
an d make provision :I was living on the top floor
with a skylight open to the stars
when she rained on me, moistening
every hollow in my bodytill green plants pushed thro u gh
my skin , t u r n i n g a hundred faces
towar d the ligh t
the danger, t h en
was not the hole but the roof

52

ANITA BRYANT:A LESBIAN VIEWATLANTA "GAY" PRIDE MARCHJUNE 25, 1977
In 1Le..J.> po nJ.> e.. to the.. June.. 7th lLe..pe..al 06 "g ay" lLig htJ.> inVade.. County, thouJ.>andJ.> 06 Le..J.>bianJ.> le.. d OIL palLti~ipate..din de..monJ.>tlLationJ.> 06 Le..J.> bian and "gay" plLide... Many
blLought a J.>tlLong 6e..miniJ.>t plLe..J.>e..n~e.. and analYJ.>iJ.> to the..
malL~he..J.>.
On the.. 6ollowing page..J.> aILe.. e..X~e..lLptJ.> 6ILom
J.>pe..e..~he..J.> give..n by two 06 the..J.>e.. wome..n.
AdlLie..nne.. Ri~hJ.>pOQe.. to a Le..J.>bian lLally while.. Elizabe..th Knowlton J.>pOQe..
to a mixe..d audie..n~e.., but--in the..J.>e.. two ve..lLy di66e..ILe..nt~onte..xtJ.>--both J.>aid J.>tlLiQingly J.>i milalL thingJ.> about the..
"Save.. OUIL ChildlLe..n" 6olL~e..J.> and the..ilL J.>poQe..J.>woman ...

ATLANTA... Before I end, I want to say something about Anita
Bryant, unpopular as this may be . Anita Bryant is awoman and, as such, is a nonentity in our society. She
is a very ugly person, but she is not the powerful witchthat some homosexuals make her out to be. When we were
all small, our mothers seemed to be the largest beingsin the universe, the kindest or the meanest, but thebiggest forces in our lives . As we grew up we found outthat no woman is really powerful in our society no matter what the little boy or girl in us feels.
And so it
is with Anita Bryant . She has money, yes.
(And only
as entertainers have women ever commanded large sums ofmoney.) But she is a figurehead . Behind her loom thepowerful institutions of marriage, the church, and theadvertising industry , all of them patriarchal and heterosexist. Without their decisions of how Anita Bryant
will represent them, she goes nowhere . Within the institution of marriage, or on any public street, Anita
Bryant has no more control over her body than I or any
other woman here. Within the institution of the church,
she has no more freedom of expression than what the
male Christian heirarchy allows.
And within the entertainment industry she may lose or hold her job on thedecision of male presidents, boards of directors, andadvertisers . I am not trying to white-wash Ms. Bryant.
Obviously she is a real sickie.
But she is also not a
Hitler with the power to make real decisions.
She is afield nigger who has made it into the big house . Let
us not forget those less colorful figures in their discreet business suits who run her world--and the thousands of voters who turned out to defeat the Miami referendum.
Let us instead unite in fighting all forces whichseek to divide ~s from the outside, whether the tales
be of faggot child molesters, lazy welfare blacks, or
castrating mothers.
If we decide to divide ourselves
within our movement, let the divisions be of our own
making, based on what makes us strong. We are comingfrom many different places.
Let the "Gay" Rights Movement remember and ~e~peet them all .

-elizabeth knowlton-Excerpted from speech given ~t rally following Gay
Pride March, June 25, 1977, Atlanta, Georgia . Full text
published in Atalanta, monthly newsletter of the Atlanta Lesbian Feminist Alliance, Vol. 5, No.7 (July,
1977). $3 . 50/year from Box 5502, Atlanta, Ga. 30307.
54

NEWYORK. . . A concerted attack is now being waged against
homosexuality, by the church, by the media, by all theforces in this country that need a scapegoat to divert
attention from racism, poverty, unemployment, and utter,obscene corruption in public life.
It is not a bit
surprising that this attack has created a new popularand infamous image of feminine evil: Anita Bryant .
Itshould be obvious to us all that no woman in male-dominated society can wield the public influence ascribedto Anita Bryant, unless men say she shall do so, andunless male power networks give her, as they have given
Phyllis Schlafly, of the anti-ERA campaign, access tothe media, free publicity, and financial support .
Last weekend in Los Angeles, these forces joined toattempt a take-over of the International Women's Year
Conference in the state of California.
Only a mass
turn - out of feminists prevented the passing of resolutions for the essential overturn of every gain made by
the feminist movement over the past eight years.
Itshould be clear that Anita Bryant and Phyllis Schlafly
are the masks behind which the system of male dominanceis attacking, not just lesbians, or "gay" men, but
women, and the feminist movement even in its most moderate form; that the attack is being fuelled and fosteredby the only people in America with the resources to doso: men.

-adrienne rich

-Excerpted from a speech, "The Meaning of Our Love for
Women is What We Have Constantly to Expand," to LesbianPride Rally, New York City, June 26, 1977. Full text
issued in pamphlet form by Out and Out Books, 44 Seventh
Avenue, Brooklyn, N.Y . 11217. $1.00 plus 30~ postage.
55

WHAT IS A LESBIAN?

56

photos by barbara adams

WHAT IS A LESBIAN?
Peggy Kornegger"Th e~e a~e thing~ about
That d~aw me t o women.
T he~e a~e tlting~ about

women

women
That dJtaw me to my-6ei6 ."-F ~an

Win ant

I am a l es b ian b ecause I lo ve women - and b ecause I
love myself as a woman . Wh e n I became a femi nist , I
was already moving toward r ecog nition of mysel f as al esbian (the "self - chose n woman" -A drienne Ri c h).
Th ewoman who c h ooses h erself, who c hoos es other women, isdenying th e n ecessity to c hoose opposites, is, in fact,d e nying the necessity 06 opposites.
We li ve in a hetero, mono -i stic society which g i ves u s narr ow, either/or optio ns.
By r e fusing polarities and o n e - at-theexpe ns e - of - another dynamics (se l f - ab negat i o n , subject/o bject relationships) - in short, by choosing to l ove
o n ese lf and other wome n (subject - to -subj ect) - we trans fo rm the present in r evolutionary ways .
Wh e n I b ecame a lesbian, all the man y parts of myself came toget h e r ; I made a "leap of co ns c iousn ess"
(Mary Dal y) that op e n ed me up to woman visio n - a visionof the future that is expansi ve, connective, a nd eve rchangi n g.
Th e choice of l esb i anism (and the opening towomanvision) is a wholis,tic, integrat e d c h oice: theblending of a politics, poeti c s, sexua lity, spirituality, philosophy , psychology , etc. that transcends oppo sites, h ea ls schisms, and affirms a mUlti-dimensional
reality. To mov e in the dir ection of this multi-dimensionality is to choose revolution in the d eepest, mosttrans~orming sense of the wor d - (for me) lesbian-feminist - anarchist revolution .

Judy AntonelliA l esbian is a woman whose primary physical, sexual,e motio nal , political and social interests are direct e dtowards other women (wh ethe r sh e has eve r acted uponthat by sleeping with a woman or not).
In short , she
is a woman-identified woman.
Lesbianism is not just a
personal choice of who to sleep with ; it is a politicalstand. The lesbian is a woman in total revolt against
patriarcby; she does not give primary e n e rg y to me n on
any level. Lesbianism is a primary strategy in r estor ing female bonding as the basic social uni t of a ma triarchal society (as oppos e d to the patriarchal unit of57

the heterosexual couple).
I don't identify with theterm "homosexual" at all; to me that implies male . A
separatist is a lesbian who gives as little energy to
men as is realistically possible.
Separatist politics
come from placing a high value on our energy and power,
realizing that without our nurturance men cannot survive.
Separatism does NOT (as Adrienne Rich says)"proceed first out of hatred and rejection of others"lS~n~~te~ W~~dom, Issue 3, Spring '727.
Our motive islove of women.
Nor does separatism imply hatred ofstraight women; it is withdrawal from MEN. Emotional
withdrawal from men does not deny the necessity of political confrontation of men, either. While our p~~ma~ymotive is not hatred of men, I do feel it is healthy tofeel hostility towards those who are daily killing andmutilating us . There is a lesbian (strong, woman-iden tified woman) in eve~y woman, which has been suppressedby the patriarchy.
Feminism is NOT humanism . I cannot emphasize thispoint enough! Humanism is a "love everybody" liberalphilosophy which does not identify an enemy; i . e.,everyone is oppressed by "society." Feminism says thatwomen are oppressed by men (who built the structures ofsociety to reinforce their dominance); it therefore
identifies an enemy. Humanism is responsible for the"men are oppressed by sexism, too" garbage.
Lesbians are an "emerging species" in the sense that
we are Amazons and witches; women with a new strengthand sense of power. We are building a new society, reclaiming what i6 rightfully ours.
It is Lesbians whowill save Life on this planet, not just for ourselves,
but for animals and vegetation also.
As I see Lesbians
growing stronger, becoming more psychic, taking more
power - - women who are on TV, models, Playboy bunnies,
etc., look more and more like plastiC dolls, man - madecaricatures . We look and act ~o differently that it
amazes me at times . Lesbians have gotten rid of the"drag" by which patriarchy defines women. We are dis covering the true meaning and potential of womanhood.
~Go Tell Aunt Rhody" lS~n~f.,te~ W~~ dom, Issue 1, July
'76/ is a superb analysis . Thank the Goddess that you
have the insight to see socialism as another form of
patriarchy!!
(I am sick of socialist analysis being
passed off as "feminist." It's a major co-optation offeminism, as bad as liberalism/humanism.) The only
thing I would add is this: Patriarchy is based on man's
fear of t h e female -- as nature, woman, emotions, feelings, insti n cts, intuition, no n- rational modes of consciousness. Patriarchy suppresses the female principle(Eros), and gives the male principle primacy, which iscontrary to Nature.
The female principle must predomi nate (just like Nature ensures that women are 5 2% of
the population!) . The predominance of the male-principle is Thanatos, i.e . , death and destruction . Male58

culture is based on physical coercion and force . The
male imperative towards dominance and power over womenstems from his insecurity as an incomplete female, hisn eed to compensate ( what Karen Horney · so perceptively
labeled "womb envy " ).
Classism, racism, and imperialism are all extensions of phallic mentality -- conquest,
competition , heirarchy ; the boys fighting each other tobe on top and "prove" themselves: Racism ·also has psyc hological roots in patriarchy's fear of blackness/darkness.

Marianne' Rubenstein·
A Lesbian is utmost a n individual - especially underpatriarchy.
I define a Lesbian as a woman motivated byo ur love for other women. We are not reactionary beings.
This love extends throughout all levels - bet hey known or unknown.
I use the word "motivated" int e ntionally.
Lesbians know, for survival in all senses ,we must move.
To fall into stagnation, the deathbed oft he patriarchy, is to fall into oblivion. To name ourselves Lesbian is to assert our most primary desire : toli v e.
We are explorers, creators , indeed spacemakers.
For to wield the name Lesbian is to pullout of time aspace.
Womanspace.
We are very special. Artists, all of us , so capableof perceiving our own beau·ty , we seek .communion with
it.
The spirit of the wild burns through our soul likea n uncontrollable brush fir e . Yes . We are in rev olt.
Like Phoenixes we rise from our mothers' ashes.
Andwith the integration of ancient and newly discovered
wisdom we will spread what has been misconstrued as themost deadly disease: ~ompassion.

59

The Question She Put to Herself
by maureen brady
The question she ~ut to herself every morning thosedays was -- Are you or are . you not a dyke? She'd gotten to the point where the question didn't titillate
her any mor e, it badgered her. There wasn't any place
she could go, any thing she could do without it comi ng
up , demanding immediate resolution and yet just h a nging
there.
She felt as if her whole life were suspended ona question mark.
Le na, the shrink, told her this was
not so, it was just one aspect of self-definition andeven though Ging er found Lena a relief to talk to, sheknew she was wrong . She knew Lena was denying thetruth of her every waking mome nt and she minded but not
much, partly because Lena was such a relief to talk toand partly because she knew by then that most shrinks
work that way, whether they know it or not. They supply
you with a denial of your existence but a mor e straightforward one than you'll f ind most places.
Thus you cansee more clearly what you have to fig ht against.
Lena
was good that way.
Most Saturdays and Sundays Ginger didn't lift her
head from the pillow before noon.
She knew it meant
climbing out of bed and up o nto the tightrope again andanother day of gradual inching along.
She was at thatmid- point of maximum sag so that eit her way she went
had to be uphill . Sometimes when she left herself suspended on the mattress those mornings , she had the
dream fragments to fondle .
In the dream she lay fulllength beside the other woman who didn't know any more
about this business than she.
Th ey both had warm skin,smooth, no perspiration.
They gave each other long,light caresses, touched hair, cupped faces, sighed,knew precisely the location and sensation of t h e ot h er's
clitoris, didn't know -- should we, will we touch there,
softly moaned.
I t would have made a good commercial if
this was the sort of thing Madison Avenue had wanted tosell . With any perspective at all, Ginger would've at tributed the imagery to Violette Leduc, but then, she
had none.
She could only fondle the fragments and try
to hold off her coming for awhile because that would
mean bladder urgency and time to rise and face reallife -- smack -- in the mirror.
Are You or Are You Not
A Dyke?
It certainly wasn't the newness of the question thatmade it so difficult; it was the proximity . All her
life it had been there but usually across the road,over there on the other side of a barbed wire fence
where you didn't go because if you did the bull would
60

charge you, Santa Claus wouldn't come, mine fields wereplanted to blow you up, the boogie man was up a tree
and the shadow lurked and knew.
It was by learning the
primary lessons of feminism that she had come to understand that her life was already heavily engaged withall those spooks.
She had been charged and rammed byplenty of bulls and who gave a damn if Santa Claus never came again -- that was his problem.
She had a k in d of rollcall list that flipped up before her mind's eye every time she tried to solve thisproblem by going back to her beginnings.
LESBIANS IHAVE KNOWN.
First t h ere were Bernie and Marilyn, who as far as
she knew had always been lesbians and had always beenpart of her town . Bernie and Marilyn, that's how the
town folks ref e rred to them, just like they called herparents Dan and Mildred, n ever Mildred and Dan.
Berniewore the pants.
Actually Marilyn wore pants too, men's
pants with pleats and knee creases and owned the town
store a n d was very strict about not letting kids charge
candy on the family tab.
It was Bernie who had shor~,straight hair and combed it back behind her ears.
Ginger figured that was the factor th~t made them put her
name first.
She was sure it wasn't the inclination toalphabetize.
She had done a good deal of historical research -not the library kind but in her mind, some of it with
Lena, the shrink . For instance when Lena had asked her
about these women, she had said, "Oh, they were justwonderful.""Did you know them well?" Lena asked .
Ginger had a picture in her mind of Bernie pushing
the lawn mower, gracefui and intense.
She could remember Marilyn holding the door open for her when she hadgroceries to carry home, then staying in the doorway
u ntil she was s u re you had a good hold on the bag .
"They lived in my. town," she said to Lena.
She decided not to bother to explain what that meant to acity shrink .
It seemed ludicrous in that office where
if yo u spoke too softly you couldn't be heard above thetraffic noise outside .
Whe n s h e was t welve Ginger's family had moved to
Florida, b u ilt a h ouse, moved in, an d guess who wasthere, across the street. Elly, the writer, who Gin ger's Dad said collected rejection s l ips and Harriet,
the nurse, who d idn ' t work except in e mergencies. Thatis, if t h ere was a hurricane in Louisiana or a flood in
Mississippi, she went on special duty for the Red Cross .
Elly was a n insult to the concept of neig hboring; sherarely came o u t of the house.
Ginger's Dad attributed
her fail u re as a writer to this . Ginger's Mom was hurtb y t h e fact t hat she cou ld never get her to come in forcoffee so s h e cou ld get a better look at her.
Harrietd i d come in for coffee and talked about where she h adb een in t h e Army or sometimes a recent disaster.
Gin 61

ger's Dad had once said to her, . "Harriet, why don't you
get yourself a man?" Of course he thought he was complimenting her.
He thought he was telling her she
could be likable to a man.
"Dan," she had said, "there's not a thing in thisworld that I want or need from a man." Harriet withthe steady eyes, unequivocal.
Years later he was still
impressed.
"She looked me straight in the eye ... " hewould say.
This was probably the only instance Ginger knew ofwhen her Dad's big mouth had been left hanging flaccidwith no words, no grunts; no hisses, nothing coming out
of it.
"Harriet was fantastic," Ginger told Lena.
"I can understand why you'd feel that way , " Lenasaid.
It was one thing to be a dyke - watcher child when thewatched ones were old enough to know what they were doing.
It was another thing to be in college with thetwo Linda's three rooms down the ~all of the dorm and
Joey .and Daniella up at the other end, Sparks upstairs
and a friend sitting on your bed asking you to scratch
her back.
Ginger traveled with her b~st friend and in
the motel room just before they went to sleep, theirfeet touched.
She read in her psychology book, ten to
fifteen per cent.
That meant one in every corner.
Scary.
She often listened to the b edsprings squeaking
in the Linda's room.
She had to pass it to get to thebathroom.
Ginger could see from her hist orical research that
it was at this point in time that she had commanded herfeet to leap into the trench of het erosexuality, though
she had remained a virgin for several years to come.
She hooked herself up to a gay man and dragged the relationship out for as long as possible.
He, having
just barely escaped a Trappist monastery via a blessed
nervous breakdown, was still wandering around in a fogof purity.
She, relieved to find orgasm possible fully
clothed, the main stimulus being his leg , dreamed ofliving happily ever after though they both flinched inbiology class at such words as homo ~apien~.
Eventually, they got around to taking off their clothes andthen of course the penis became more conspicuously an
extra member that got in the way and they knew what
they were supposed to do with it (and his shrink said
it would mean progress) so finally they did, quietly
and without much hoopla and for short periods of time,
keeping in mind pregnancy and the possibility of defective rubbers.
Neither of them ever managed to tell theother that even though that was the part that had to bedone in the most private, that was the part they were
doing for the public.
In the end he was the one who
had recognized the contours of a closet while she haddenied it and thrown herself into the ring with thebulls and collected a series of miserable experiences.

62

Her LESBIANS I HAVE KNOWN list showed the gap which
extended until consciousness raising and the word spoken, purred, sometimes shouted -- lesbian, lover .. . especially lover made her dizzy.
It was a word frombooks, not from her experience.
She lived with a man
she could hardly stan d. Her defenses were flabby fromdisuse and she fell in love with every other woman in
the group.
Sh e condoned bisexuality, the bridge, but
no one tried to seduce her.
Lena, the shrink, would
have loved her at this time.
She would've said, "Whyis it necessary to choose a camp? Why does it have tobe such an issue? "Lena would have said, "It doesn't. Don't make it be.
Just do what you want and keep yourself open."
The reason Ginger knew that's what Lena would've
said was because she was saying it now, four years after Ginger's consciousness raising group had disbanded,mission supposedly accomplished.
But let's not get
down on Lena becaus e she was really okay for Ginger.
She was just dealing from an abstract seat. Her words
were less important than her eye s which had held fearless to Ginger's that first day when Ginger had announced just after her name and occupation, her sexual
identity crisis.
Ginger told Lena about the softball game . She'dfound it advertised in MAJORITY REPORT.
After she'd
finally dragged herself out of bed that Sunday morningand stared at herself in the mirror for awhile, thequestion punctuating her expression, she'd trudged to
the local newspaper store and tried quietly to sneak a
MAJORITY REPORT out of the big clip they were hanging
in but the whole batch had slipped out and there they
were swimming allover the fucking floor.
Ginger, redface d , had felt the store lady's eyes on her back while
she stooped, gathering them up, the word LESBIAN glaring from the front page headline.
Such incidents must either build courage or contribute to the demise of the external world view (if yo u'reout to your newspaper lady, that's one less to worry
about) because Ginger went to the softball game andshe. never would have done t hat the Sunday before.
"TheY were all a bunch of dykes," she told Lena.
"How could you tell?""Most of them were real tough and when they were
waiting to bat they sat around on each other's laps
kissing and hugging.""I see," Lena said, convinced .
"And I was freaked out and trying to fake having agood time the whole afternoon," Ginger said.
"I thought
I was going to have a cardiac arrest every time I had
to run the bases . I was so hyped up with adrenalin I
hit a home run . "Lena looked impressed and Ginger couldn't tell whether it was her proximity to so many dykes or the home
run that was turning her on.
63

"So what freaked you out the most?" Lena asked .
"They were so tough.""Playing tough," Lena contended.
It was an ideathat had not occurred to Ginger .
Between the fifth and sixth innings a woman from theother team had stopped Ginger as she was going out tothe field and asked her what she was doing after thegame.
Ginger had felt about ten years old and said she
wasn't doing anything because that was the truth and at
ten she'd been an honest Catholic who thoug ht that tel ling a lie would bring on some dread disease like homosexuality.
So the woman had asked her to come to Chinatown for dinner with her and it wasn't until she wasout in right field that she realized fully she'd justmade a date with a dyke.
"The rest of the game wasagony," she told Lena.
She'd kept her eye on the woman
and after each inning thou ght she'd sneak away but the
woman was keeping an eye on her too. Definitely, shedecided, the woman wasn't her type.
"So what happened?" Lena said.
"Oh, nothing much.
As soon as we got to the restau rant I told her about my confusion . She turned o u t to
be pretty fuzzy about herself.""Altogether a courageous adventure," Lena said as
Ginger got up to leave at the end of her time.
Walkinghome Ginger wondered about the possibility that she wasleading some part of Lena's life for her .
Her tight rope grew more and more taut.
She foundsome lesbians to hang out with but she told them shethought she was straight.
She told some of her straightfriends from the past that she thought she was a lesbian.
Then she hated everyone for being in a club -she hated labels, she commiserated with Lena and herclubless ideals . She stayed in bed even later on weekends mulling over her LESBIANS I HAVE KNOWN list, adding the new ones. The list was becoming staggering.
It produced butterflies in her stomach and a tingling
sensation in her thighs.
In between lying down witheach woman OR the list, she sat with someone she had
cared for in the past and said, "I'm a lesbian. Whatdo you think of that?" Then she imagined answers forevery possible question.
Finally, her own answers woven round and round her, she felt snugly wrapped, anembryonic creature.
The next day, if you leave off measuring days bydawn and dusk, she was camping with three dykes.
She
was in love with her tent-mate.
She'd slept threenights beside this small, soft breathing woman who whis pered sweet good-nights . Her body floated light on theleaf bed beneath the sleeping bag . She touched her own
cheek.
She touched the cheek of the woman lying next
to her.
No questions came . She was a lesbian.

64

sue silvermarie

IMAGE
you are the vision i climb into
you are my self projected ahead.
i model you with all my whispers.
in the endless procession
always i am stepping into the next.
i am creator and disciple of my image;i follow with devotion
drawn on by new desires .
this is the discipline without whip,
this is the self-loving called change.
before my birthday, glancing back,
30 years of selves i watch at once.
each self-vision overlaps.
~ am a tribal procession,
not evenly spaced, or symmetric in stance,
but brilliant in the fashion of a psychic dance.
this birthday, as my goddessmother gifts,
i pledge transparency and motion:
not to stop or lock or crystallize .
i remember how each version of myself
has dared deserve more joy.
this is discipline by desire,
this the self-loving called change.

65

VISIONjoy justice
I remember the last time I had a vision.
It was the
sp r ing o f 1974.
I was living at the Ch arlotte Women'sCent e r , a nd on t he last leg of b e ing straight.
Harrietwould come over fro m the hous e where she lived with h er
husb a nd and thr ee step-sons, and we would sit in the up stairs k it c hen a nd talk abo ut o ur v ision of women's
culture.
I d on't r e member what we said, but I knowwhat we meant .
We meant that we wanted to b e lovers and lesbians.
Our v i s i on was of ou r emerging lesbian selves.
It wasthe n eed to r ealize o ur selves in this way with eac hother that gave e moti o nal oomph to our words.
Our "wo me n's c ultur e" was seduction talk .
I t s ort of worked.
We did b ecome l overs and lesbians.
But in a way it d id
not work.
It did not work because the things that made me andHa rri et able to c h ange , to become lovers and l esbian s,things like commo n politics, commi tment to the wome n' s
moveme nt , a nd stro n g feeli ngs for phrases like "leap ofco ns cious n ess , " "living on the boundary, " "being o n theroad, " and "vision," were not specifically Harriet andme . Th ey were paradoxically ourselves and "other" bot h.
Vision is by definition "away," up ahead somewher e.
Atthe same time it is with in the visionary.
I t did notwork because we were not able to know what we gave eachother beyond th e sharing of the vision.
Our relationship was not one-to-one; it was more "two - to - unknown
mass es . "(Conf u sion arou n d pe r sonal relationships was part of
my enti r e life as a "pol i tical person . " In a way I did
not h ave friends.
I went to meetings with people.
Par tly I went ' to meeting s because I d id not know a ny
ot her way to make frien d s.
Partly I was frie nds withthose who. went to the same meeti ngs because my "poli tica l i d e ntit y" was the only part of me important e nou g h
to b ase frie nd s hip o n .)Th e s e ns e of visio n that Harri e t and I shared was
the b eg inning of the e nd for me of livi n g by visio n.
It was my l ast vis i on.
Th ere were many before.
Looking back , I think I began my life as a revolutionary expecting to b ecome the political e qui va l e nt ofa saint.
Fo r example, I carried out the fir st overt
political action that I ca n reme mber in the early si x ties when I was about ten . My family was dri vi ng
through souther n Georgia when my father got caught in a
speed trap.
Th e sheriff escorted us to the Court houseo n the square of a classically southern town to pay t h e66

fine.
While my father was arguing that he had not been
going any faster than anyone else on th~ road, I noticed
two water fountains side by side, one marked "white"and the other "colored." I asked my mother why, andshe told me.
Filled with anger and righteousness I
marched to the "colored" fountain, and took a liberal
sip.
Mother pulled me away in horror (lest we all besummarily lynched, I suppose), and I felt GOOD.
By the time I was sixteen I felt that I was part of
the Civil Rights Movement.
The vision was of a world
without racial oppression and bigotry.
For me the visions I have lived by have been connected with the movements I have been part of.
A movement is a group ofpeople moving towards a common vision.
So I moved in
the anti-war movement with the vision of peace; in the
New Left with the vision of a world where no one had
power over others, and each had power over themselves;to finally the women's movement and the vision that grew
and grew of women free from male domination.
Over that period of about seven years I made two major decisions. Decisions that have been the basis foreverything else in my life.
The first decision was that what was wrong in Ameri ca was not caused by mistakes or a few bad people, butby the interests of those with power, and that totalohange was called for .
I remember the exact moment
when I was aware of my new perspective, and of my commitment to be part of changing things .
It was while
singing ""I'm gonna lay down my sword and shield, downby the riverside" at a Quaker conference on South-East
Asia .
I was seventeen .
About 'four years later I made my second major political decision.
I was a New Left radical feminist,
living at the Charlotte Women's Center, and part of acollective doing a radical bookstore.
I decided that I
was going to base my choices about whether or not to dosomething on whether ~r not I felt like I wanted to doit.
I was not going to do anything because of guilt,
or because of the protestant work ethic idea that you've
got to do something, or because Marx said to.
(Obviously, by this time I had given up any pretensions tosainthoo.d.) It was really a decision of the times,
having its immediate roots in the exemplary action of
the Black Panther Party, the "revolution for the hellof it" of the yippies, and the "personal is political"of the women's movement.
I figured that doing what I wanted to do would raise
my consciousness which would in turn enable me to better know what I wanted to do. And that that dynamic
would carry me.
It did carry me . To Harriet, and the
upstairs kitchen at the Women's Center, and lesbianism,and the next step which was the end of vision.
Lesbianseparatjsm.
67

· To me lesbian s e paratism h as always meant radicalfe minism without the "buts." I see two basic p e rspectiv e s on th e roots of sexism . Th e r e i s t h e p e rspecti vethat me n oppress women.
And there is t h e perspectivethat people are people, and we are a ll hu rt b y ri gid
sex rol es .
Th e most un compr o mi si ng l y thoroug h d evelo pm e nt oft h e f ir st perspective is separ at i s m. Separatism e l a borates the idea t hat men oppress women a nd adds t h a t:
Th e institutions of soc i ety are create d a nd d ef in ed
by me n so that relati ng to t h e m is t h e same as rel ati ng to me n .
--Th e ins t ituti o n s of society are created and de fi n e d b y me n so that relating to t h e m is t h e same asre l ating to me n.
--H e t e r osex u al women identify with me n , a nd t h e r e fo r e act as th e ir representatives when r elat ing too th er women.
--Lesb ian-id e ntifi e d-l es bi a ns are mor e free of mal esociety than a nyo n e else.
--Th e va lu es of society (aptly n ame d in CLIT Stat e me nt Two, "pricks in the h ea d"),su c h as comp e titi ve n ess,
"obj ect i vity," self - sacrifice a nd h ei rar c hy, h ave af feo t e d us al l , a nd we n eed to und e rstand a nd t r y toc hing e t h ese va lu es in o ur selves .
--Mal e - created di visio n s alo ng c l ass a nd race linesa r e present in r elatio nship s b etwee n lesbians, a nd we
n ee d to wo rk on e ndin g the oppr essive relationships
among ourselves as well as i n society.
Th e s eco nd perspective is h arder to be specificabout b ecause its main c h aracteristic is mushiness.
It h i nk it co uld be called hum a ni sm.
I ts proponents relyh eavily o n th e word "'love" a nd a sort of amorphou s - warmglow attitude towards li fe i n general.
They do notwant anyone to be angry about a n yt h i n g . They say t hin g s
lik e, "me n are people too." Thi s perspective i s thegene r ator of the " bu ts . " "Men oppress wome n , but I know
this one goo d ma n. "After Harriet a nd I failed to find a n y securit y inwhat we gave e~c h ot her besides the shar in g of the vi sion, we b ecame lovers with Catherine an d Cl aire res pectively.
Th e four of u s alo n g with three ot h er l es bians, Penny, Anne, and Mandy, started meeting to ta lk
about CLIT St ateme n t Two, whic h we had a ll read andliked.
In t h e process of talking we became separatists
Our name grew to be Dr astic Dykes.
We did not become separatists because we wanted toseparate o ur selves from t h e world .
In fact for the
first five or six months that Drastic Dykes met, we met
at the Women' s Center, and w~re individually still verymuch involved with the straig h t women at the Center.
We b ecame separatists because we needed to express what
we thought a nd how we felt strongly.
We n eeded to freeo urs elves of to nin g down everyt hin g we sai d so as not
to t h reaten anybody.
We needed to clear t h e mush from68

our minds, to get the "buts" out of our lives, and tostop shrouding our words in cotton . We gave each otherpermission to do this, and support to take the consequences.
The consequences were immense.
Two words seem to come up most often when non-separ~­tists are talking about separatism: "anger" and "isolation. " "You can't be so angry. You will only isolate yourselves." Well, it is not true that you can't
be so angry.
You most definitely can. But it is truethat if you are so angry you will be isolated.
(The fear that oppressed people have of their own
anger is phenomenal; it puts me in mind of early Christians under the rule of Rome.
You won't catch thepresident of the Board of Directors of General Motors
sitting around worrying about being angry. He doesn't
have to be angry . He has power. Now I admit that getting stuck in anger can be demoralizing. But it ispossible to get th40ugh it to the other side, and theworld looks much clearer, and makes much more sensefrom there . Besides, if you are angry, then you are
angry, and you're much better off facing it.)As I said, we did not become separatists with thegoal of separating.
But isolation was the ultimate res ult . The process went something like this at t h e
Women's Center. We began to express what we thought
and felt.
Part of what we expressed was anger. Whenstraight women and ot her lesbians were frig ht ened andangry wit h us because of what we thought and how we
expresse d what we thought, we became m04e angry, until
fi nall y there were no straight women coming to the center.
We were left with the choice of continuing to run
a women's ce nt e r for women who would not come to meetings b ehause we were there, or leaving. We left.
At
the time Drastic Dykes left the Women's Center I still
did not expect to become isolated.
I hoped in my heartof hearts that the other women would come running after
us , yelling, "Wait! Come back! You were right!" That
did not ha.ppen.
Th ere were other losses too.
Catherine
quit her university teaching job. Anne and Penny
dropped out of school.
Claire and Mandy changed relations with friends and lovers. We made our choices,
anq paid our prices.
It was o . k. because the choices
we made were truly what we n ee ded to do.
For me , being a separatist felt like leaping beyond"the boundary," and li ving outside of patriarchal society . I know that technically it is not possible to dothat.
I mean, yes, I did still work for male boss es
and stuff like that . But emotionally it is possible tolive outside of patriarchal society now. Possible , butvery hard. The physical sensation I associate withthat period of isolation is that of being in a void anda pressure cooker at the same time.
Once I felt that I was living beyond the boundary,
the vision began to fade . It began to fade because as69

much as I could e n v isi o n I was livin g in my daily li fe;
the visio n was no long e r "away . " And it b ega n to fadeb ecaus e I h ad no mo veme n t a n ymore . The women I k new
who had composed it were telling me ve r y emp hati cal l ythat th ey did not wa nt a n y part of my moveme n t.
They
told me to my face at the Women's Ce nter and at co nf e re n ces, a nd t hey told me in print in worue n' s and lesbian
pap e rs.
Foll ow in g the visio n as b est I co uld l ed tot he e nd of t h e vis i o n.
I t hink it is very impo rt a nt that no n- se parati sts
writing about separatism mak e a n effor t to do so withmuch mo r e t ho ught f uln ess a nd resp ec t t h an t h ey h ave i nthe past couple of years.
For t h e most part no n- se p ara tist comm e n ts o n separat i sm h ave amou nt e d to not hin g
mo r e t han n ame - calli ng . Becaus e s e paratism h as b ee n soimportant to me I. n ee d to h ear mor e t h an, "s e par at i sts
are so a ngry, me an, a nd isolat e d."
I n ee d to know wh at
lesbians think abo ut the theory a nd a n alysis of se par a tism, which still seem to me accu r ate as a way to und e rstand the world.
I suspect that b e hind most of the anger towards separatists are specific situations in whi c h the a ng r y
writer did not want to do something that specific separatists wanted h e r to d o . If that is the case, I wa nt
to h ear a bout the specific situation as well as theco nclusi o ns the writer ha s mad e f rom the situatio n .
To get the ball r olli n g I will tell yo u this.
I
stopped b eing a separatist over a nightmarish p e riod of
mo nths last fall a nd winter be cause to co ntinu e mea nt I
would h ave to do things t h at I did not wa nt to do.
(Re me mb er, 1 am still operating o n t h e unsaintly pr e miseof doing what I want to do .)I would have h ad to stop b eing frie nd s with a man
who had b ee n my f ri e nd for ov e r s eve n year s .
I would have h a d to fee l g uilty about being close to
my sister, who was straight at the time.
I would h ave h a d to r e lat e to eve r yo n e in the worldon the basis of whi c h box th ey belonged in - straight;
straight l esbian; says some goo d t hing s so she may b e apotential separatist; etc .
I would hav e had to b e vuln e rabl e to a lesbian who
hat e d me because I am midd le - c las s and she is working
class.
I would hav e had to b e willing to sit around andseriously dis c uss wh e th er or not I would kill my father
if it were nec essary fo r the overthrow of the patriar chy.
I was not willing to do any of t h ese things, andother separatists wanted me to.
(You may wonder how I
managed to b e a separatist qo r two years with such unseparatist elements in my life.
But I thought I was,so as far as I ' m co n ce rned, I was.) By t e lling what
happ e n e d I want to l eave eac h reader free to draw her
own conclusions.

70

I am li vi n g now as an "individual." I go to meetings of the Lesbian Center Group because I need to bearound lesbians.
I still need to always remember thethings I learned from separatism about society, because
otherwise the world would be an incomprehensible ballof goo . And I need to talk with other lesbians who
h elp me remember.
I also need to keep trying to understand the effects of classism, racism, ageism, and ofcourse sexism on me and my life because I need to keepchanging.
But I have no movement and absolutely nov ision.
I hope that other lesbians will try to think more
seriously a nd respectfully about separatism. The t h eory it represents is too important, and the women who
are trying to live it are too much a part of what weare all doing, for any lesbian or feminist or lesbianfeminist to be willing to disown separatism comp l etely,or to scape- goat it out of fear and insecurity.
I haveno movement now, but I do still feel that there is a"we , " and I hope that we are moving.

- - - - - --- - - - - - - - - -"V e..alt , de..alt! How que..e..1t e..ve..ltything ;[;6 today ! And ye..l.>te..lt day thing I.> we..nt jUl.>t al.>ul.> ual. I wo nd e..1t i 6 I' v e..j .;,:.,. ...
be..e..n c.hange..d in the..
- -night?" _____ ._ ~_responses"CONFESSIONAL" WRITING:
Julia Stanley 's article ["Fear of FfY-<-Ylg?" S-<-YlL6te./t W-<-.6dam, Issu e 2/ has finally pushed me into saying it. I
have no us e-for confessional writing . It bores me.
Ther e is a differen ce b etween life and lit erat ur e, an d
I don't want to give up eit h er, but I also don't wantto confuse them.
I know that I get up in the morningand work, sometimes quite unwillingly a nd in eptly; that
I play games and make love; that I have a ll ergies anddays when everyt hing goes wrong, or right; that I fall
into bed too exhaust ed to care; that somewhere in the
middle of it all I eat . And I exp ect all this to go on
happening - in my life, in my frien ds ' li ves, in total
strangers' lives.
I am perfectly convinced that thisis daily life and don't read for confirmation of it . I
read to find out what other people think these daily
processes mean in the context of something larg er thanthe day - the directi o n of my life , the worth of it insome historical sense , the current social and political
implications, other people's lives .
Life is a jumble of experiences of widely vary ing
magnitudes happening all at once so that it is diffi cult to perceive the trends, the chains of events .
Lit erature is t he presentation of some aspect of life
in such a way that the connections, consequences andmeanings become clear . Life is the data; all of us getenough of that first hand.
Literature is the interpretation, and since I'm not yet willing to say I've foundthe truth, I want to read other interpretations.
I
don't feel kindly towards a book that doesn't satisfy
that desire.
I feel that the writer has not done herjob.
If it is the function of literature to present somemeaning, how does the writer go about doing this? Ob viously first she must discover some meaning in, makesense out of, some aspect of her life.
In this she's
no di ffere nt from anyone else; we all do this by talking with friends, teaching our children, building a career , etc . But the writer is trying to communicate
this meaning to others who have not had a part in her
experience, or, through a shared reference perceived
exactly this meaning in it.
If she simply reproduces
the entire experience, then the reader is left to dig
the meaning out for herself just as she must do in her
own life, but if she reproduces it all and then tells
what it means there will probably be much that is superfluous.
What she must do is identify the significant
details of the experience, the ones that actually de 72

velop the meaning she has perceived, and present only
them . They will present the meaning .
What are these significant details? That is reallythe crucial question in a discussion of confessional
writing, and I can't give a one true answer.
It depends
on the experience and the meaning . It is of course
tempting to think that everything one has ever done issignificant; that the most seemingly minor details are
crucial to the whole; that it could not possibly be understood if one were missing . Occasionally this may betrue; mostly I suspect it's not.
Even when being
struck by a brilliant thought, one does have to be some where, doing something, with someone or other. But un less the meaning is that the brilliant and the mundane
exist side by side and have some effect on each other,
the mundane is just going to obliterate the issue.
Of course, what seems irrelevant clutter to me may
seem quite necessary and clear to someone else , or viceversa.
I naturally think that I have superlative opinions and excellent taste in literature.
But they areexactly that - opinions and taste - which surely rankright after love in subjectivity. When I read a book I
expect to encounter characters, situations and resolutions that seem real.
I have thought a good deal abouthuman experiences and feelings, and a book (whatever
combination of autobiography and imagination) will notseem real to me unless the author has done at least as
much such thinking as I have.
It is the fact that char acters think and feel that makes them real to me.
With out that there is no quantity of detail that could con vince me that a character could possibly have dis c overeda meaning in life.
Once characters become real I willas~ume that they do ~ll the physical things associatedwith being human, and will require the presentation only of those that are necessary to make the meaning ofthese characters' experience clear.
But it just does
not work the other way around . The description of dozens of toothbrushings will convince me only that thecharacter has teeth.
In this attempt to present meaning, a writer may
fictionalize her life.
I see great potential in this.
It is a way of asking and answering the questions: If
this had happened like that, how would my life be different? How different could my life be before I would
become different? Therefore it is a way of discov e ringwhich are the essential experiences of one unique life,
and which pertain to our common life.
Obviously if awriter fictionalizes, a reader will not know exactly
what has happened in her life; the reader will know ,however, exactly what she has felt and thought about.
And for me, knowing this will make her much more real
than would knowing everything she had done in the courseof a month.
It works the same way with the author as
it does with her characters.
73

After reading Julia Stanley's article I did readparts of Flying.
I couldn't read it all; it was boring,and I couldn't get involved in it.
I could see that
Kate Mill e tt was involved , and she kept telling me how
she felt.
But I couldn't feel it .
Flying was not accessible to me precisely because she had not thought
enough about her experience.
She had not picked out
the details that would develop the meaning and feelingof it for someone who had not lived it.
That's how I
define confessional writing, and I've already stat e d mybias about it.
It's not subject matter per se thatputs a work into this classification ; it's what thewriter does with it.
Jane Austen should be a ll the
proof anyone needs of that.

Cl audia Sc.ottPhilad el phia, Penn~ylvania

LEAVING THE UNIVERSITV:
Dear Catherine,
I read your proposal that women must leave the academy ["How Rage Mothered My Third Birth ... " Sini~telL
Wi~dom , Issue 1 , July '767 and reproached myself formurmuring "hysteria" and-fell asleep hoping that whenI reread the article I would be able to respond.
(I
did not think for a moment that my response would be as
concrete as a letter, I hoped only for my clouded understanding to grasp your "thesis.") It is clear thatyour experience touches deeply upon my own predic~ment,
for though I believed I had been too tired to read thepiece thoroughly , my response was direct and unmistakable.
I awoke in the night crying: "Get out, get out,
get out ... "This was the dream:
I have discovered that the plumbing in my houseleaks - the water supply has been contaminated by gases
which fizz and hiss where the pipes join.
I must takewrenches to the joints to tighten them. Before I havemanaged to stop the leaks, the head of my department (apatron) and my mother (who has been dead now twenty
years) come in the front door . They make their way
through the clutter of boxes of books which fill the
space of my living room - they have to move and rearrange things to clear a path. Then I find I must go
outside to attend to the outdoor spigot and I push myway through the boxes and go outside. My father issaying something which distracts me, but finally I move
my attention to the water faucet and adjust the joints

74

to tighten the seal.
I complete my job just in time todiscover that the pent up power of the gases is alreadybeyond containment.
As I back away from the pipes thehissing joints explode sending fountains of water into
the air.
As the power lines are drenched a flash ofelectricity runs up to the roof and fire breaks out.
The house is rapidly consumed in flames and I stand in
the garden shouting to those on the second floor of thehouse, "Get out, get out, get out ... " ' The words chokeme, I am awake.
In the morning I did reread your words, and because
perhaps I now know how I feel about your proposal I am
able to see that hysteria is a proud metaphor for thiswoman-rage.
I have long been aware of the elemental
confusion in the university, but not until now have I
envisioned its transmutation by thunderbolt.
Rereading what I thought I had only skimmed I foundthe dream images - Mary Daly's poisonous gases - reallywere a direct response to your piece.
The rest is a kind of orientation.
Why, I wonder, do you want to redeem Athena's reputation? I will meditate again on this.
It is quite
frankly a revelation to me that there are others, likeyou who can envision woman's scholarship. The truth isI have left the university before, but I have had tocome back because I cannot do without certain resources
whicn are collected only in universities.
Not that I'm
not amb~valent.
For years I have seemed to myself apeculiar kind of double-agent.
Without any ambition
for an academic career I am nonetheless dedicated tolea~ning: this is tolerated in the university but I
have not found the woman's community supportive of suchenterprise.
For the past four years I have been at the
University of California because here I could learn anumber of things, like languages, which I simply could
not learn anywhere else.
I have been quite reluctant
to having degrees grafted on, but someone must apprentice herself in certain fields if those skills are everto become available to woman's scholarship.
I do notintend to leave a single woman behind when I leave.
Most of those I've found have already moved to my compost heap where they turn all the garbage into lovely
fertile soil.
It's been a long time since they've hada real garden to live in.
As for me, I'm ecstatic at
the discovery that there may be other gardeners.
Once I studied classics for six years in the university before I was given texts of Psappha.
The teacher
rambled endlessly on Pin dar and at the last class meeting doled out shreds of verse in Lesbian dialect, anentirely new kind of Greek to me.
As I strained mymind to convert the classical paradigms to the forms inthese few xeroxed pages, he made some remarks on theobvious relative merits of homage to a universal emblem
such as Zeus contrasted with trivial invocation of the75

goddess, Aphrodite.
He noted that Psappha's poems wereshorter than Pindar's and not so complete. With thesupreme effort to keep my voice from shaking I raised atentative question whether the appearance of brevity
and incompleteness might not be the result of the fragmentary state of their preservation.
It was the only
time I spoke up in that class and whether from astonishment at hearing my voice or perhaps he really did
assume Psappha had been an aphasic maenad incapable ofcompleting two consecutive verses, he shook his head
uncertainly and without answering.
On the final exam I
took the liberty of suggesting no possible comparison
could be made of Pindar and Psappha since her work did
not survive, and when the exam was over I withdrew fromthe Classics Dept.
It meant relinquishing my key tothe departmental library where at that time the only
copies on campus of some of Jane Harrison's books could
be found, but it was high time I discOvered the natureof Southwest European Ethnic Studies which I had beentaught to call "the Humanities."
My rages like yours have been multiple, but not all
rebirths entail rage.
I thank you for a glimpse of thepossibility of a community of woman-centered scholarship .
I hope we shall be reborn into such a circle
someday.
Maybe it is happening already .
I need not say how much I appreciate your existence
insofar as you are incarnate in S~n~~~e~ W~~dom.
Iwant to subscribe to the second volume although I will
be in the Far East for a year and won't be able to readthe issues until I return.
Still the first issue,
which was already a year old before I found it, hasaged very well.
Blessings, love, and even more sinister insight!

Sue Ann Glove~Be~~eley,Cal~6o~n~a

AN INVITATION:
We welcome you~ ~e~pon~e~ ~o any~h~ng/eve~y~h~ng
p~~n~ed ~n SINISTER WISVOM.
When you w~~~e, plea~e~nd~ca~e whe~he~ O~ no~ we may publ~~h you~ le~~e~.

76

sue silvermarie

Now I will find the words ,now I will own my magik.
I decipher and bring to lightthe sound a nd color vibrations
that spring like a fountain in the place I call Beloved.
I go to that home for grounding,
I go to claim my beauty.
I go to drink in awe.
More than I have ever taken in,further than it has ever traveled in me.
I see lightgolden or.ange as it enters me,
as it streams.
And if everything I do is perfect
it is simply
that now I see it.
And the first of the perfect is loving.
So I lie down to myself,and I chant ·my mantra name.
Inner and outer attention merge .
Vision blurs to wider focus.
And the first of the perfect is taking and giving,
coneurrent .
I look behind my eyes
and watch with such desire
as I open as I enter as I find as I take it .
And I ask,
Do I wantenough to be able to take it?
As I learn,
Have to want it enough to be able to take it .
And she says, and I say,
Hold yourself open to take it.
And I say, and she says,
Hold open the duor to float into space.
And i t feels
like chanting my mantra name,like sinking into trance,
like blowing, barrierless .
And i t feels
like owning my magik, my magik, my magik .

77

Notes for a magazineby harriet and catherine
MESSAGES RECE I VEDMay, 1976. Gina Covina & Laurel Galana, quoted in Piexu~,
on the much - mourned demise of Amazon Qua~~e~iy:" . . . everything that needed to be said about lesbians
had already been said ... "" . . . there's a lot of good writing from women; it justwasn't being sent to a lesbian- feminist magazine ... ""Labels have a way of stayi n g static .. . "Spring , 1977. "Save our Children" press kit contains"Why Certain Sexual Deviations are Punishable by Death . "Bumperstickers appear in Miami: KI LL A QUEER FO R CHR I ST.
June 7 , 1977. Miami voters repeal the Dade County "gay"rights ordinance by two to one.
1973. Mary Daly, Beyond God ~he Fa~he~:" I t requires a kick in the imaginatio n , a wrenchingof tired words, to realize that feminism is the final
and therefore the first cause, and that ~h~~ movement~~ movement."
1976 - 77. United States Supreme Court rulings:
Vecembe~ : private employers need not include pregnancy in their disability benefit programs .
May: Title VII relaxe d to permit race and sex discrimination in employer seniority systems.
June 20: states no longer need spend Medicaid mon ey
on elective abortions; public hospitals no longer
required to permit elective abortions .
1950's. Margaret Sanger to a reporter:"Birth control is the first step.
When woman has
gained control over her own body, she will not stopwith patching up a world, she will remake it."Spring , 1977. With the defeat of the ERA in North Carolina and Florida, newspapers announce that the amendment is doomed.
1972. Robin Morgan , Mon~~e~ :"I want a women's revolution like a lover,I lust for it, I want so much this freedom,
this end to struggle and fear and lies
we all exhale, that I could die justwith the passionate uttering of that desire."
August 8, 1977. Cha~io~~e Ob~e~ve~ quotes John F. McManus (spokesman for John Birch Society in Belmont,
Mass. ) :"Opponents of libbers, lesbians, loonies andleftwingers are doing well."78

June 14, 1977. Letter from Eileen Pagan:"SW issues 2 & 3 arrived in my rural delivery box a
few weeks backand I do not need a doctor
I am reeling, reelingreelingdizzy
and I do not need a doctor
one line reaction: oh goddess, I have a home!"
June, 1977. Midnight phonecall from closet Lesbianfriend of Catherine:"Everybody knows that Lesbians and abortionists are
killing the movement . Why don't you and your magazine just ~hu~ up or go underground until we get the
ERA passed.
Then you can do whatever it is you seem
to want."
June 21, 1977. Letter from SW subscriber:"I certainly find it hard to keep coming up with newand novel ways of telling you how WONDERFUL, FANTASTIC, GYNEFEROUS I think S-i.J1-i.~~e.1t W-i.~dom is!"August, 1977. An estimated 1/4 of elected state delegates to International Women's Year convention in Houston are "white- collar Klan." Phyllis Schlafley quoted
in papers:"Houston will be the death of the women's movement."
August, 1977. Note from SW subscriber:"DON'T STOP.
If for no other reason than that ithelps to keep me (relatively) sane in the belly oft ·he patriarchal beast . "June 26, 1977. Adrienne Rich to NYC Lesbian Pride Rally:"We are now for the first time at the point of fusing lesbianism and feminism.
And this is precisely
the thing that patriarchy has most to dread, andwill do all in its power to keep us from grasping."
July 7, 1977. Letter from SW subscriber:"Be as wise as serpents and as sinister as dykes."***
Reeking and reeling from MOUNTING ATTACKS OF ·THE WHITECOLLAR KLAN and the SLOW SQUEEZE OF THE MULTINATIONALCORPORATE-GOVERNMENT-MEDIA "LIBERALS" (familiarly known
as "those who walk softly and carry a big prick"),
Connie Sirius Dogstar and Daisy Eyebright Bellatric~
fled one hot summer afternoon to the bargain matinee of"Star Wars." The critics said it was "pure escape.""It's THEM!" cried Connie Sirius, dropping her popcorn.
"Who do yo u mean--~he.m," muttered Daisy Eyebrightfrom under the seats where she was scrabbling after vagrant kernels.
79

"THEM THEM! Th e space opera ! Th e good guys against
the bad g u ys ! A little witchcraft -- the F o~ee -- thrownin, and a princess who can shoot, but still THEM! "Daisy groaned, raised h e r chin to Connie's knee,
picked o n e salted, bu ttered popcorn o u t of her left ear ,a nd d eliberat ely misquoted Carlos Caste n a d a:
"There is no way to escape the doing of our world ,so what the warrior does is to turn her world into her
huntin g ground. "***VOICES (CRYPTIC, I N RIDDLES, AT NIGHT)(wail): Why are we fai lin g, fall in g, fa llin g asleep?
(whisper): The F a~he~~ongue i~ a lullabye , lulling ...
(wail): Where h as all the passion gone?
(whisper): The pa~~ion ' ~ gone ~o p~e~~ . . .
(pompously, i n a lecturing tone) : The historical n eces sity of independent publishing of Lesbian literature isa PROVEN ...
(whisper): You~ li~e~a~u~e alone .. . a my~h dangling
helple~~ ,~eve~ed6~om

he~ ~i~ual.

(militant d etermin ation) : We MUST slowly, steadily,
carefully ...
(whisp e r) : Sh e who doe~ no~ di~~upt he~ ~outine~ beeome~ . . . the hunted.
(uninterrupted, in full swing): ... BUILD stro n g womyn's
institutions whi ch will survive this wave ...
(whisp er): Th e e~e~t 06 a wave 6all~ with the wave .
(in f uriate d) : But what is a Lesbian magazine supposed
to BE?
(whisp e r): ... a gue~~illa 6i eld manual--updated by

the 6ull moon.
(disgusted): You talk as though Lesbians were an army.
Army, hah! ' An army at each other's throats.
(whisp e r): Vivi~i on~ give ~t~ength; only keep moving.
(in a mocking, exasperated, superior tone): Keep o nmoving! Keep on mo v in g ! Nobody's mov ing, an d just why,
Ms. Two-Bit , Plast er -Paris , Backyard Sibyl, you think
YOU know ...
(fierce wh isper): HUSH!
Cowa~d~, eynie~ .. . you ~topmoving when you t~y to hold on to what you al~eadyknow . You ~top moving when you think you know itaU .
(helplessly): But how do we SURVIVE?
(whisper): ... ~ee with double vi~ion . ..
(in a very small voice): .. . a key?
(fading whisper): . .. d e~i~e . .. d e~i~e ... d e~i~e . ..

80

claudia scott

THE WAVES
in a dark night, moments
as their darker night dreams rising
memories strung on my name ,with their persistent questions,like the window, loose and rattling,
passing , masquerade
where do they turn, becoming visible
a life, whole, ice clear and coherent, real?
wh ere do I and this life stand face
to face? how will I know it- as some poem unobtrusively
collecting images, times, energies
comes, as a wave breaks,
suddenly, to be this poem - mine?
along a rock beachhard waves shatter in a spray of glass
odd phrases scattered' in our eve nings , midnights,
early mornings along several beaches
over half a year
come back collaged
a conversatio n in ellipses
saying all there is to saya groping after wholenessfor the hollow in the saying of the word.
what has this woman of three summers past
an . image in a memory
to do with me?

81flatness of distant water
how a wave swells lucid thin gree nslides the surface , rus h es onto shore
a long wave breaks like dominoes
surf running alo ng sandsmall waves fold, . toss and fold betwe e ngreen water, white watera wave over and overat odd intervals for years
a blueness at thelengthening ends of days
a thin tune whistled in the wind,
the air light as if snow
were falling, glass wool
and the whitest blue white light;
a keen excruciating bluenesssharp silk
at t h e ends of some days
softly draws out one slow breatho n e moment almost, in thisstrange light, clearing
and t h e moment of my lifethat is my life keeps passing
passi ng as t h e waves passon the sand a grain of sandback and forthback and forth- Claudia Scott

82

QUEST: Q 6em~n~¢t qUQ4te4iy. $9.00/year from Que¢t, P.O.
Box 8843, Washington, D. C. 20003.

It takes a certain amount of nerve to "review" whatsomeone else has written, especially an entire issue ofa magazine.
Nerve or not, this is what this article is,a review, not from a regular critic or a journal expert,
but from a reader pressed into service, from a woman
unattached to any recognized political wing of the feminist struggle.
The current issue of Que¢t (Vol. III, No.4), a journal of feminist political analysis, is a collection of
essays on race, class and culture.
The articles onclass I found thoughtful and enlightening, but the oneson race are generally timid and apologetic -- a rehashof every cliche I have ever heard as to why there"aren't more black women in the women's movement."
That very same question was asked by the "peace movement" in the '60's.
A black hippie I met on the stepsof the Pentagon parking lot in October 1967 lit up a
joint, looked out over the crowd of bleeding heads, andasked me, "where are all the Knee Grows." Why don't
black people trust white people in general? Why don't
those black women who are pro-feminist rush out andjoin ranks with whit~ feminists to bring down the patriarchy? These are serious questions for which there
are many answers. For one thing, black people generally
stay away from white-led political and cultural movements because of what has happened to us in the pastwhen we have joined.
Remember what happened to black
women in the 1920's when white women won the right tovote? Did this right extend to black women? No.
Remembe~ what happened to black women in the labor unions
when white women won their "gains" in the factories.
Did the rank and file strike down segregation? No.
They became its rabid supporters.
And what happened in
the civil rights movement of 10 years ago when idealistic black women in SNCC and CORE looked up and saw socalled radical white women slavishly stroking the egos
and the bodies of the "oppressed black MAN" at the expense of the "domineering black woman"? This is recent
experience which would be hard to forget.
These arejust some of the historical reasons black women aren't
running pell mell into the barricades of another whiterun political movement.
83

P e rh aps t he qu est i o n Q u e~~ o u g ht to as k is t hi s o ne:d oes t he wome n 's moveme n t r ea ll y wan t f ul l participati o n a nd l ead e r s h ip from black wome n , poor wome n , na t i ve America n s, Ch ica n as, f r om t he o u tcasts of society?
On e o b v i o u s r easo n fo r t h e l ack of t hi s par tic i patio n
i s r ac i s m a nd e l it i sm, t he remova l of whi c h see ms to beb eyo nd t he wome n now in t h e va ng u ar d of femi n ism, re ga rdl ess of t h ei r positio n s o n a bo r tio n , ster il ization,e qu a l p ay, o r lesb ia n sep a r a ti s m, etc. etc . P art oft h e ev id e n ce fo r t hi s stateme nt comes f r om Que~~ itself,
f r om th e un se r io u s way it t r eate d t h is qu estio n of racei n th e f i rst b eg innin g.
Th e ma in effo r t o n t he r ace qu est i o n came fro m t hreepi eces, a ll of wh ic h left me fee lin g t h at t h e e d itorsr ea ll y b e lie ve t h at b lack wome n d o n' t have time for po li tica l s t r u gg l e o r t hat th e myt h ical b l ack matriarc hi s i nd ee d a li ve a nd l iv in g every day to s u pport her ma n
in th e n a me of bl ac k powe r , t h e Afro t wis t , a nd keepi ng
a n o b v i o u s l y d iv id e d black commun ity "toget h e r " no mat t e r wh at pri ce i ts wome n a r e as k e d to pay . Th e r e ares o ma n y stateme n ts ma d e b y th e bl ac k wo me n rep r esented
h e re abo u t how h a rd it i s for u s to tak e a n y time o u t
f r om "sur v i v al" t hat I a lmost fo r got abo u t all t he
bl a ck wome n I know who spe nd mor n i ng a n d afte rn oon
watchin g soap op e ras a nd pl ayi ng pi t ty pat .
I almost
forgot about th e Nati o n a l Welfar e Ri g hts Or ga ni zat i o nthat was at the gr a s s r oots le d a nd r un b y poo r wome n-the p o or e st of th e p oo r--by bl ack wome n who came out innumb e rs and in fo r ce to tak e actio n against t he blas phemy o f our s o cial sy s tem.
Th ev d isrupted offices,th ey sat in and th ey fo u g ht t he police.
Th ey fo un dtim e b ecaus e t h e i s s u e mean t somet h i ng to them .
I t wasimpor ta n t a nd t h e stru ggle was t h eir ow n .
And wh y do most lesb ia n s r eco il f r om "comi n g o u t."
Th e r e a r e fe w ·wo me n , espec i a ll y bl ack wo me n , wit h i nd e p e nde nt sour ces of i n come . Th e hes i tan cy of more to"come o u t" is und e r standa bl e.
Wh e r e can we wor k once
we "come o ut " t o th e pub l ic? Who i s goi ng to s u pport
u s wh e n we a r e a ttac k e d by a ngry me n a n d wo me n wh o see
us as a t hr e at t o th eir frag i le social in stit u tio n s?
Th ese a r e t h e kinds of q u e s tio ns Que~~ s ho u l d h ave bee n
explorin g, it seems to me . Th ere are ple n ty of ot he r
ma gaz in e s o nl y too happ y t o pr i n t stateme n ts f r o m wome na b o ut ho w t h e y wi s h t hey co uld stay home a nd b e ta k e n
car e of b y t h e ir husb a nd s a nd how t h ey d o n' t wa n t to b e"t r eat e d lik e a ma n" o r ho w t h ey do n 't wa nt to b e i de nt i fie d a s man-h ate r s a nd " wei rdo s ."Th e e ssay o n " Cl ass Attit ud es a nd Pr ofess i o n a li s m"
b y Mary Mc Ke nn y was do ne Wit h mu c h more t ho u g ht .
It
c h al l e nged t h e n ot i o n t h a t most peop le i n Am e r ica aremi ddl e c l as s .
I t a l so exp ose d t he pro bl e ms of wome n
f r om wo rk i ng, und e r e mp lo y e d ba c k g r o und s wh o h a v e go ne
to co l lege a nd ac qui red semi - profess i o n al j o b s a nd are
i n t he d ilemm a of b ei n g ask e d to u p hol d t ·h e b o urgeois
valu es of " pr ofessionalism" wh ile b e in g d e n ied its f ull84

material and social rewards.
McKenny also challenges
the ideas of "downward mobility" and the joys of poverty.
This essay ought to help women in positions ofprivilege understand how elitism is the enemy of equality among women and how it drives away the most oppressed from a "movement" which is supposed to be an
assault on oppression .
Judith Withrow's "Natlve American Mother" and Ahshe's"Class Vignettes" both stand as living statements,
speaking for themselves . Withrow takes apart the wholevalue system of motherhood-- the mother of the year as
described by newspapers, magazines, the church. The
self - sacrificing pillar of the community . Withrow also
forcefully asserts the values held by her culture as
opposed to the values of modern "scientific" material ism . "Class Vignettes" talks about working hard andsaving your money -- the epitome of middle America andthe most absurd thing you could say to a woman sweating
it out from midnight to eight in the morning for $3.00
an hour in a textile mill or a soap factory or for lessyet and worse yet on the American owned plantations
around the world.
To me, the most powerful essay was "An Open Letterto the Academy" by Michele Russell.
Russell says she's
teaching outside the walls of academia, outside thecolleges and universities where very little true learning is going on anyway.
Hers is a challenge to those
women still functioning in these institutions to breakout of the bind of textbooks and the same old tired
curriculum and teach from the actual experience of to day's people.
This was the most serious look at class,culiure and race in th~ entire issue and should havebeen at the beginning and not at the end.
I must admit that this is the only issue of Que~~that I have read from cover to cover.
I found otherissues interesting but too tedious to read.
Political
analysis does not have to be tedious . Nothing has tobe tedious.
Perhaps it would help all of us aspiring
to serve ourselves and others through feminist publications to ask the question Michele Russell asks in her"Open Letter to the Academy.""Beyond the search for heroines and transcendent moments of victory, what will you do with everyday life?
And , once you decide all these things, will you put
your findings in a form to be of use to a woman withfive children who works the night shift in a bakery . "This is a question we have all failed to answer; no
specific offense meant to Que~~.

adtienne manns

85

A WORSHIP OF WRITERS

6pidehwomon '6 le6bian ,aihY ~ale6 by marion. calligraphy
by mary lee lemke. New Moon Communications, Box 3488
Ridgeway Station, Stamford CT 06905 . $2.50 + 50~ postage.
~he immaeula~eeoncep~ion

0'

~he

ble66ed vihgin dyke byEllen Marie Bissert. 13th Moon, PO Box 3, Inwood Station, NY NY 10034. $3.00.
]ouhney by Martha Courtot. $2.00.

Thibe by Martha Courtot . $2.50. Both from Tribe, 1828
E. 7th St., Tucson, Arizona 85719 .
Th e Fouh~een~h Wi~ch by Shelley Blue (poet) and Deborah
Snow (photographer). Persephone Press, PO Box 7222,
Wat ertown, Mass. 02172 . $5.50.
Because I feel uncomfortable in the rol e of solitarycritic, I want to get my biases out in the open before
I start talking about these books.
I hav e a long-standing love affair with the English language, partly the
result of a childhood filled wi~h the sonorous cadencesof the King James Bible, the luminous prose of Cranmer's
prayerbook, and what Willie Morris calls "the verbal
jam-session" of Southern conversation .
I want language
to be beautiful (as in beauty=truth, not as in beauty=
prettiness) and I think that poetry should be the ultimate refinement of language.

6pidehwomon ' 6 le6bian ,aihY ~ale6 is not a book of"poems" but it is wonderful language.

Marion begins,one ~ime i a6ked 'Oh my mind ~o be opened ~o 'emaleplan~6 and animal6
needing in ~he 'emini6~ evolving 0' my le6bian con6cioU6ne66 a 6ymbolic phe6ence ~ha~ would be a 6pihi~ guide .
6pideh ghandmo~heh, one 06 ~he Chea~Oh dei~ie6 06 ~hehopi indian6, came ~o live in me .
~he6e 6~ohie6 ahe ~elling ~he evolving 6hom a 6pideh
Womon le6bian chea~ion my~hThey are stories of cinderella, of anima alice, of alassin and her lamp, all rescued from the morass of masculist tradition.
This book has lots of humor and lots ofheras.
The richness of the language is a delight.
Hereis the ending of my favorite, "big red riding hood."(Red has just awakened fro m a dream, having found grand mother 's house):
wa~eh elu6ive-wa~eh, we~ne66 6lowing, 6~heam6
6lowing ~o a place ~ha~ i6 a 6~a~e 06 mind

86

06 knowing

til!! Il' at!!~ wa~ Il' id!! II ('Il', ~II(' cam e t o (( pa .tll on .~ ('c.I:~ tll at
c0 uCd ta~e h('~ t o the oth!!~ ~ide .
drcide.
the ~iv('~
ge t~ 111 ('~!! alld m ('~e (('ide,
i~ g~alldm(ltlle/('~ 11 ('u~ e a ll .th ('.
(' tlle~ ~ide.?
decide.
~111' tot ed a ~oc.l: t o He if.. ~11 c?
(('(' II Cd ~Clde, alld (f., Co ll'e/( (In a gi~e) a b e!! .tumb Ce d illto
II e ~ ea~ alld Ht lip a (('ave..that calt/(i.ed he~ a v e/( tl' tilel' th e ~~ id e.
~ . t v e. ~ ll'a ~ II (J tV ~ (I (l'i d (' t II a t -i..t had a t t de, all d (('a t (' /(~pl~ .t .t 'l1l~IIillg VI)!!II I1I l'lItl'I'd ('ceall, (lCeall, beg ill to llilveti, e.

a 1I (, ti('1I ('ng/(al1dmotll!!~'~

11('II~e

wh eltC? b!!illg b egall m(,ttuII.

On L' la s t thing--these word s are not se t in type;are in Im·ely It a li c c all i.graphy by Mary Lee Le mk e,
the co nt e nts page says, " th e r e are no typos in thi sbook."

they
As

***
I had a hard t im l' wi th th e popms in th e .i.mmacufateC(lllce.pt.i..ol1 o f., th e b fe~H d vi~gil1 dyl:C? and am probably
not the b est lw rs o n to hI' rl' vi l'w ing them.
Most o f th e m
are built ar o und p ith!'!" pain or d pp r es sion, which I finde ith er te dious o r irksoml' .
I don't think pain' is th ece nt e r of ('x i stp n('!~ , and I ha\'e no pati e nc e with th e
" wound e d artist" th l'o ry o f aC'sthct,ics .
Th e most frustratinf..!: thinf..!: about your book, Ell e n
Mari e Biss e rt, is th!' SL'nse> I han.' that you could dosuch powe rful writinf..!: if you would just stop 10okinf..!: at
the ground all th!' tim e .
I think some of your pain isthat of a pot e ntially larf..!: e vision confined to a c ramp!!dc rabb e d littl e s pa cl'.
Anyone who c an writ!' about "the obf .tQue ..!lUll .~htlltl1g
bo.t d.f.y ·.i..n .i..t6 .~maec de.",) yl:y" or thatthel(e .i..6 a windowo pen.i..11g
to a 6eCl(et wtl1d ow

w.i..nd61(om I(a.i..n bl oW6 thl(utendel(& c.f.eal(a peal(6.i..t6on the .i..nnel(mo6t ledgel(.i..peM
has no business settling for the bathos of "I(omance .i..6

a 6I(aud/.i.. 6to.f.e 61(om a bakel(Y to make me nOl(ma.f., 6.i..ck &6at/.i..t ha6 nothing to do with pUl(itani6m/but va.f.entine'6
a 6hitty night when a6tel( a.f..f. my poem6/you'R.f. be 6.f.eeping with 6omeone new . "The last poem in the book ends.. . i don't give a 6hit i6 6pel(m 61(eeZe6 ovel(i'.f..f. die a.f.one and dig it~oving a woman in a b.f.ack .f.eathel( ja~ket87

& walking in~o The Vuehe~~ w~~h my po~~a-do~ ~~e G~hi~laee ~hiJt~
i~ my li6e & i now a~k eveJtyone ~o danee .

which I hope is an indication of future dir ectio n . Whatmost of these poems have is too much ang~~ and not enoughdance .

*** modest productions than]ouJtney and TJtibe are moreeither of the preceeding books, but they are marvelous.
]ouJtney is a set of poems about travels, internaland externa l.
Martha writes, "Some~ime~ I begin ~o eompo~e le~~eJt~ ~o my mo~heJt in my head.
bu~ ~o le~ heJt know wha~ diJtee~ion~ my

Ca~ual no~e~,ha~ ~aken . "li6eThese are some of those notes.
I want to say, Martha Courtot, I love your writing.
Poem #2, for instance- ~Jtaveling ~he Nigh~ Road
~he long jouJtney
i bJting you moon-eake~my 6Jtiend~and me~~age~ 6Jtom ~he dead:~hi~ i~ wha~ ~hey ~ay ~oopen-mou~hed :meSing now!
Vanee!
do wha~ need~ ~o be done
6eel ~he ~un on youJt ~kinwhen you ~wim, ~wim deep
when you aJte ~~ill,
6eel ~he bloodbea~~ Jti~e up ~he ~pine~ee wi~h youJt eye~
~ee wi~h moJte ~han youJt eye~~he dead cay ~hi~:wha~ ~he dead have i~ goodand eanno~ be deniedbu~ 60Jt ~he living
li6e ic be~~. live.
"Bloodbeats"! What a perfect word!
The n ex t poem be gins "~unce~/on ~he undeJtbelly/06 a gull/paMing oveJthead/i~enough extJtavaganee/06

ee~~a~y/60Jt

nine li6e~ime~ ."

"Enough extravagance of ecstasy," indeed.
Not
many people can string together such a luxury of vowels.
Then there is TJtibe, which is about the des ert andabout making love, abo ut "women i love" who "have buJtn~
6aee~/a~ i6 a 6iJte/wa~ buJtning /6ieJteely/a~ ~he~heiJt ckull~" and about tribes of women moving

ba~ e

06

past

eac h other.
,
There is the story of stone, who "~i~~ in a eompa~­~ion 06 ~unligh~ and wa~eJt."
Who "wai~~ a long ~imej~~onewill wai~ a long ~imej many moJtningc 06 ~unligh~ jmany nigh~~ 6ull 06 ~ky 6iJte~j ~ea~on~ ehange. No~hingean ~~op ~hi~. Slowly ~~one will 6izzuJtej open . The~~oJtie~ ~he know~ whi~peJted ~hJtough hidden vein~ will88

teak o u~,~e a~ .

~ un down ~ h ei~ own ~i v e~~ making ~ hei~ own
No~ hing ean ~~op ~hi~ .
She witt beeome ~he wa~e~whieh 6tow~

ove~ he~;~he g ~ a~~e~ whi~pe~ .
Hu~h .
S~one know~. "~omeday i~
Wh a~ i~witt 6tow ~h~ough .. .
a woman? W ha~ woman?

And of Mar t ha 's mot h e r , dea d of emphysema at 63 :. .. when i 6ee a wo man ~ m oking
i ~hi n k 06 my m o ~he ~hotding h e~ ei ga~e~~ e~ a~ o u nd he~ ha ndt ik e a t i6 e M n,thanging on~o any pieee 06 t i6 e ~he eout d 6i ndeven w~apped in t obaeeo and da~ kening he~ tu n g~
who watked ~h~ough ~he wo ~t d a~ i6 ~ he owned i~even when i~ pounded i~~et 6 in~o he~ tung~
yea~

a6~e~

yea~

~obbing he~ 06 eve ~ y~hingbu~ ~he 6i~e in he~ e y e~

And of the "women o f th e dream":... ~ ome a 6 u~
witt n o ~ make i~eaeh Sp~ing ~henwe witt ~e~u~n~ o ~hi~ eti66 - edg e~o ~ ~ing ~hei~ b o n e~ 6~e~h 6 to w e~~
and o u~ daugh~e~~ and daugh~e~~witt ~e~u~nwait ing ·o u~ aneien~ g~ie6
eaeh Sp~ing ~henwe wit t te~ ~hem know
~he d~eam wa~ wo~~h i~
a~ ~hei~ bone~ whi~ e n~h e pu~e~~ attetutia~ 06

hope

There is nothing els e to say about these poems; they
speak for the mselves .
.Tee Corinne did cover a nd book d e sign for both volumes, and both are truly e l e gant.

***

The Fou~~een~h Wi~eh is th e most elaborate and expensive of all these books.
It is a beautiful volume , withpoetry by Shelley Blue and photographs by De borah Snow.
One thing about it drives me crazy, though: THERE IS NOTABLE OF CONTENTS. Up o n c areful insp e ction I discover e dthat it contains 7 sections--Trinity (in five parts) ,The Next Screaming Woman .. . , Freudian Slips, Four Women ,Virgo Leaving, Virgo Loving, and Daughters of the Amazon
Return. These (as the Preface says) capture " th e evolvement of women in revolution. "89

I like the ambitiousness of this book, both words andpictures. The sheer variety is amazing, and the juxtaposition of poetry and photographs often powerful .
The erotic poetry (Virgo Loving) is really wonderful.
"Plum Song," for instance, which faces a close-up of
someone's lovely nipple-06 blood 06 me ~o you 06 plum ove~~ipe d~ipping
juicy cold my ~ o ngue ma~e6 i~ ho~ 6i~e 06 6hoo~ing 6~a~~ound ~oll ~oll a~ound and ~ound ~ongue on 6~in 6al~
6wee~ ~ed i ~~ace you~ 60~m wi~h my ~ongue no~ ~igh~~ied ~i~ed ~~ied ~~ied ~o ~ouch ~o ~ouch ~o ~ouch me in
you I 6all ~h~ough you in~o me my body ~a~e6 60~m again
i6 ~eal and a6 I w~i~e ~he~e i6 no ~igh~ o~ ~i~e6 andhappine66 i6 inevi~able~edShel l ey Blue, some of the things you try, especiallywith structure, are overly mannered and ineffective .
But it is so ni ce to see someone exploring the power ofstructure in this way that I am not inclined to complain
too much .
One thing, however, I will gripe about: the currently
fashionable device of runningallthewordstogetherlikethis,which is supposed to sweep the reader along in a headyrush of meaning, like running downhill.
It doesn't
work.
What happ ens is this: first the eye hits a blobof print; then "wordlets" jump out at one, syllables
which may have nothing to do with the poem; then one has
to sit down and pick apart the words one at a time .
Since poets sometimes submerge important c h a ng es in thisswamp, one has to go through every last syllable, eventhough a pattern seems clear at the beginning.
Finally
bits and pieces are strewn about like shards of pottery
and the poetry has vanished.
In "Justine,'" for instance(one of the Four Women) the words are first laid out
comprehensibly: ' "yellow a 6 hai~ a 6 ~~an6lucen~ 6 ~in~u~ning in~o b~own 06 eyeb~ow6 ... " then compressed into"y ellow06hai~06~~an6lucen~6~in~u~ningin~ob~own06eye­b~OW6 . .. "When my ey~ strikes that, I get:~an6

lucen~6~in ~u~nin gin ~o"yellow 06h ai~

b~owYL .. . "That wascertainly true of my kin, but I doubt that it is what
the poem was meant to say .
All gripes aside, this is a beautiful, beautiful
book.
In the blurb on the back cover Shelley says,"Poetry is not a privilege.
It is a necessity . " Thisis a necessary volume .

***Having read through all these poetries, however, I
have one small plaint:90

I longfor feminist poets
who would sometimes writein something beside sfree verse.

janis kelly[NOTE: Two reviewers didn't say the one thing I wanted
said about Bissert's the imm~Quf~te QonQeption 06 thebfe~~ed vi~gin dYRe, so I'll say it myself in a foot note.
This poetry is an enraged, dir ty, ragged fightthrough despair to an ironic triumph.
It is not nice,but not-nice is validation and remembrance for those of
us who came out of very dirty, very ragged, very heterosexual pasts.
It is also a complex, tightly controlled
poetry -- for instance, the thirteen "lesbian sonnets"(each with thirteen or twenty-six lines) of "Outgoings."~y favorite lines r~main these from the title poem:
my qu~fi6iQ~tion~ ~~e ~u~peQt
i ~m neithe~ bfe~~ed no~ vi~gin
i ' ve ~fept with men
given th~t up
i ' ve ~fept with women
not quite dittoi ~m beQoming ~n ~ntique vi~gin~ vi~gin ~~ in ~ntiquity
fihe A~temi~fiRe S~ppho ~eti~ed
i ~m in Qon.t~of
06 mYHf6
my~ ef6
i ~m in ~evofu.tion~pinning fiRe ~ p~opeffe~ .th~ough the Qfoud~ 06
i ~m in ~evofu.tion
I AM AT WORK

p~~~fy~i~91

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AND Re nee Vi vie n's THE MUSE OF THE VIOLETS. He r lyric
Les bi a n poetry available 60h the 6ih6t time in Englis h.
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To o rd er, send t h e total plus 10% postage/ h andlingto Th e Naiad Pr ess, In c . , 20 Ru e J aco b Acres, Bates
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IF YOU ' RE CONTEMPLATING WIT CHCRAFT . . .
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& J ea n Mo untaingr ove work wi t h a differe n t collective,
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263, Wolf Cr eek, Or ego n, 97497 .
LADY-UNIQUE-INCLINATION-OF - THE -N I GH T. A n ew femi nist
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J u ng , Ovid, Th e Baeehae, Emily Di cki n son -- a nd Mar t ha
Courtot ' s memories of her Catholic gi rlhood. Cycl e 1(88 pp . , p e r fect - b o und) $2 . 25 ; Cycl e II , $2.75 from PO
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FOR THOSE WHO WRITE . . .
An anthology of wri t in gs b y a nd a b o u t bl ac k lesbians
is now b e in g compil e d.
Articles , poems, fictio n , art
wo rk and ph otog raph s ubmi ssio n s s ho uld b e fo rwar d e d to
A.A. Shockley, 1809 Morena St . , # G- 4, Nas h vi ll e, TN37208.
Enclose S.A.S . E.

diheetohY 06 wo men whiting, e d. a ndrea c hesma n & polly
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92

W~ite on,maga~ines

Woman! pamphlet guide to feminist & Lesbianthat welcome unsolicited ms. $3.50 ppd. fromLynne D. Shapiro, 92 Horatio St. 4S, NYC 10014.

The lehbian He~hto~y A~ehiveh needs copies of your unpublished writings, personal journals, group documents ,photographs, tapes, etc. lHA, Box 1258 , NYC 10001 .
AN INVITATION TO JOIN THE FEMINIST WRITERS' GUIlV:"As one of our first: political actions as a Guild,
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This ad, signed by members of the Guild , will point out
the review bias against feminism.
We will also publicly protest the small number of grants and prizes given
to women each year.
We will pressure publications withnational distribution to review books by feminist presses, and we will work against the suppression of writingby lesbians.
In addition, we will use whatever leverage
we gain as a national organization to open up more places
for feminist writing to be published.
We will also encourage the creation of grants for the special needs ofwomen (such as childcare), and we hope to be able tofound a retreat for women writers.
As a service organization the Guild will assemble alist of minimal rights and percentages, draw up standard
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Eventually we hope to prov ide medical
insuran ce and even a retir e me nt plan for members . Finally , the Guild, working t hrough its lo cal chapters, willencourage the growth of communit y amo ng feminist writers."--6~o m an ope n tette~ higned by Alta, Jean Vie~inhon,

Ma,y Maekey, SU 6an G~i66in, Ha llie Ingleha~t, Aniea Vehel
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LITERARY JOURNALS:
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Brunt Station , Brooklyn , NY 11215.
QUEST will begin its fourth year by expanding to a 96
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Projected issues include "Kaleidoscope II," "International," " The Body Politic," and "Women in Their Communities." See · review, page 83, for ordering information.

FEMINIST NEWSPAPERS--THREE OLVIES:
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94

CONTRIBUTORSBARBA RA AVA MS teaehe~ w4iting at Ithaea College anddoe~ photog4aphie p04t4ait~ 06 women w4ite4~ .
VEBB IE ALLIS ON 4un~ a baby dYRe 6a4m in N04th Ca401ina .
JUVY ANTONELLI live~ in Camb4idge , Ma~~aehu~ett~.
MA UREEN BRAVY w4ite~ 6ietion and W04R~ a~ a phy~ieal
the4api~t in up~tate New Y04R .
HOLLY LU CONA NT i~ a poet who live~ in G4een~b040, N. C.
TEE CORINNE i~ a g4aphie a4ti~t in San F 4anei~eo anddoe~ Pea41ehild P40duetion~ .
AN IT A COR NWE LL i~ a w4ite4 living in Philadelphia .
VEVI KA TH RYN HUNT, Eugene, 04egon . "(My ~i~te4) T4ina
told me i wa~ he4 6av04ite poet a6te4 40d meRuen, thoughthat wa~ two yea4~ ago & i thinR i've aeed him out by
now. "SONYA JO NE S doe~ The Vanity P4e~~ in Atlanta, W04R~ ona new~pape4 and danee~ with wimmin--inbetween w4iting .
JOY JUSTI CE live~ in Chu410tte, N.C. and i~ lea4ning
what to do when one ' ~ love4 6all~ in love with ~omeone
el~e.

JAN I S KELL Y i~ pa4t 06 the OFF OUR BACKS new~pape4 eolleetive in Wa~hing t on , V.C.
ELIZABETH KNO WLTON W04R~ with the Atlanta L e~bian-Fe m i­ni~t Allianee , w4ite~, and pe4604m~ with A tlanta ' ~Woman~ong theat4e .
PEGGY KO RNEGG ER 604me41y w04Red with S ECONV WA VE in
Bo~ton and i~ moving to San F 4anei~eo .
JACQUELI NE LAP IVUS i~ aetive in the Pa4i~ wo m en ' ~ movement . He4 late~t poet4Y booR i~ STA Rr IN G OVE R, 64 0m
Out and Out B ooR~ .
MAR IA WN E LIEBE RM AN i~ an ~4ti~t living in Cha410tte ,N04th Ca401in a.
MI RIA M LIEBER MAN ~ tud ie~ and W04R~ in Pa4i~ .
AUV RE LORVE' ~ m o~t 4e e ent volume 06 poet 4Y i~ BET ~ EEN
OU R SELVES, Ei delo n Ed ition~ , di~t4ibute d by BOOR People .
HAVVEN LUCE . "N ot04io u ~ 604 my~te4iou~ di~appea4anee~
640 m he4 Savan nah home . . . ~he wa~ la~t ~een headed 604
New Y04R Cit y to pie R a 6ight with E4iea Jong ."AV RIENNE MANNS , who ha~ been home~teading in N04th
Ca40lina , ~~ 4etu4ning to g4aduate ~tudy in A64iean
H i~tMY ·JUVITH MC VANIEL live~ in an old hou~e in up~tate New
Y04R, te a ehe~ , and w4ite~.
MONI CA RAY MO NV i~ a poet living in Camb4idge, Ma~~ .
AV RIENNE RICH ha~ w4itten OF WOMAN BORN and eight volum e~ 0 6 po et 4 y.
MA RIANNE RUBENSTEIN W04R~ wit h P e4~ephone P4e~~ in
Wate4tow n, Ma ~~ aehu ~ett~ .
JOANNA RUSS i~ t he auth04 06 THE FE MALE MAN and live~
in S eattle , W a~ h i n gton .
CLAUVIA SC OTT live~ in Philadelphia . PORT RA IT , a booR
06 he4 ea41ie4 poet4Y , wa~ p ub li~he d by Lavende4 P4e~6 .
95

(CONTRIBUTORS co ntinue d)

SUE SILVERMARIE. "I'm a w4ite4, ma66eu6e, le6bianmothe4. etc. .. YJ40ud to be a Wi6c.on6in womon."WENVY STEVENS i6 pa4t 06 the OFF OUR BACKS c.ollec.tive ,ha6 w4itten 1 AM NOT A CAREFUL POET and a bOOQ 06
6 h04t 6t04ie6 .
MANVY WALLACE wa6 b04n in TU6c.alo06a , Ala bama in 1951.

SINISTER WISDOM POSTER

by Tee Corinne
In the spring of 1977 , this Tee Corinne photographapp e ar e d on the cover of Sini6te4 Wi6dom 3 , followed
by a deluge of requests fo r a poster.
And now th eposter is ready : a duplicate of that cover, black ongray, 17" x 22". You can have your own for a contri bution of $3.00 toward the survival of Sini6t24 Wi6dom,
plus 50~ to cover mailing costs .
(They make nicegifts for f riends , too ; so write for bulk rates.)
Send $3.50 per post er to: 3116 Country Club Drive ,Charlotte , North Carolina , 28205.
Also available in fe min ist bookstores.

SUBMISSIONS
Sini6t!~ Wi6dom welcomes unsolicited manuscripts.
We need: fiction, drama , essays , biographicalmaterial on Lesbians, research , interv iews, reviews, line drawings and other graphics, photographs, letters, poetry, journal entries andresponses to anything in previous issues . Allow
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Submission deadlines: #5 -- December 15, 1977
#6 -- April 15, 1977
Address all correspondence to:Catherine & Harriet
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Charlotte, N.C. 28205

flnlfT~R WlfDOm

number
4 .

2.25