· sinister wisdom 51

Sinister Wisdom 51
Winter 1993/94
Publisher: Sinister Wisdom, Inc.
Editor: Elana Dykewomon

Editorial readers and advisors: Caryatis Cardea, Cath Thompson, Jamie
Lee Evans, Laura Munter-Orabona, Susan Jill Kahn
Contributing editor: Gloria Anzaldua
Volunteer Coordinator: Susan Levinkind
Office Coordinator: Caryatis Cardea
Advertising Coordinator: Jamie Lee Evans
Fulfillment: Dolphin Waletzky
Typists, Proofreaders, Layout: Barbara Selfridge, Carol Ann Baker,
Caryatis Cardea, Jessica Bucciarelli, Susan Goldberg, Susan Levinkind
Office help, correspondence and accounting: Carol Ann Baker, Janet
Pettini, Laura Munter-Orabona, Linda Shear, Nina Wouk, Susan
Levinkind, Susanne Lapidus
Thanks to Bobby Rothschild and Rebecca Kutlin of Tamed Technology
Distribution and mailing crew: Aimee Waldman, Anna Livia, Carol Ann
Baker, Debbie Fier, Elizabeth Fides, Frayda Garfinkle, Frieda Feen, Hadas
Weiss, Jamie Lee Evans, Laura Munter-Orabona, Laura Stern, Lisa Horan,
Mady Shumofsky, Susan Goldberg, Susan Levinkind, Susan Jill Kahn
Reader for the Womyn's Braille Press: Judy Freespirit
Cover photograph: Terri Jewell, Consuela & fera, Pinkney, Michigan -1993

SINISTER WISDOM, founded 1976
Former editors and publishers: Harriet Ellenberger (aka Desmoines)
and Catherine Nicholson (1976-81)
Michelle Cliff and Adrienne Rich (1981-83)
Michaele Uccella (1983-84)
Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz (1983-87)
Copyright © 1993 Sinister Wisdom, Inc. All rights reserved to individual artists and authors.
ISSN: 0196-1853. Printed in the U.S. on recycled paper.

Sinister Wisdom, Inc. • PO Box 3252 • Berkeley CA 94703 • US

_________________ Contents
3 Elana Dykewomon. Notes for a Magazine
6 Upcoming Issues
8 Amy Concepcion and tatiana de la tierra • Weave-talk(prose poem)
15 Akiko Carver • Transcript of Speech at the March on
Washington Rally, April, 1993 (speech)
17 Victoria Lena Manyarrows • When This Land Was Ours (poem)
18 Teresa Ortega • Soul Secrets and Bean Lore (narrative)
21 Elliott. Lesbos Isn't On This Map (prose poem)
23 Janet Mason • Why I hate Earth Day (poem)
24 Janet Mason • In those days (poem)
26 Sima Rabinowitz • Between the Lines (poem)
28 Suzanne· Fire in the Woods, Flood in Town (poem)
30 Jeannie Witkin • The Endless Onslaught (prose poem)
34 Josi Mata • Someday (poem)
37 C.E. Atkins • Snake (poem)
38 Elliott· Bir's Song '(poem)
40 Anna Livia • from Bruised Fruit (novel excerpt)
62 Carellin Brooks • river (poem)
65 Reggie W. Brewster • Not About the Ocean (poem)
66 Pamela Gray • This Pantoum Was Not On My Schedule (poem)
68 Lois DeWitt • Hungry Hearts (poem)
69 Kathryn Eberly • Although You've Gone Dancing (poem)

Sinister Wisdom is a multi-cultural, multi-class, born-womon lesbian
space. We seek to open, consider and advance the exploration of community issues. Sinister Wisdom recognizes the power of language to reflect ,our diverse experiences and to enhance our ability to develop critical
judgment, as lesbians evaluating our communities and our world.
Jc

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t ~\gl~}2 sinister wisdom #51

70
74
75
76
81
82
83
85
89
90
97
98
99

114

Rustun Wood • Passion/Play (fiction)
Sandra Havener • Frackle (poem)
Jen Benka • Symbol of Sound (poem)
Susan Stinson • Cream (fiction)
Laura Bean • Letter Written From One Hen to Another as
Dictated to a Sympathetic Farm Girl (fiction)
C.E. Atkins • Confessions (poem)
Gail M. Koplow • November (poem)
Bettianne Shoney Sien • The Cold War (fiction)
Darmaye Marley • Experience (narrative)
Lenore Baeli Wang • Fullness of Harmony (fiction)
Donna Allegra • The Women Always Wave the Flags (poem)
Neta C. Crawford • Sound of My Voice (poem)
Abby Bogo'm olny • The Issue is Power - Essays on Women,
Jews, Violence and Resistance by Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz(review)
Call for solidarity with the lesbians of ex-Yugoslavia

§
ART
cover
7
14
22
36
64
67
69
74
80
88
96
123

Terri Jewell • Consuela & Jera, Pinkney, MI -1993 (photo)
Aspen. untitled (pen & ink)
Adriana Medina • Portrait of Emily Salazar (charcoal)
Elliott. Auntie Guru's Metaphysical Wilderness Store PreSeason Sale (cartoon)
Kath Rodgers • Tranquility with a message (pen & ink)
Adriana Medina • Standing female nude backview (litho
crayon)Peni Hall • untitled (pen & ink)
Reven Swanson • Figure Illustration, No.4 (mixed media)
Peni Hall • Feather (pen & ink)
Kath Rodgers • Change is not necessarily perpendicular(pen & ink)
Reven Swanson • Figure Illustration, No.1 (pen & ink)
Aspen. untitled (pen & ink)
Terri Jewell • Consuela & Jera, Pinkney, MI -1993 (photo)Winter 1993/94

3____________ Notes for a Magazine
There's a frame of mind in which I usually write these editor's
notes - serious, reflective, engaged with the theme of the issue,
encouraging - that I can't seem to find this time.
Partly it's that this is an open theme issue and the work in it
varies. Dykes explore identity, politics, violence, family, love,
betrayal, creativity, humor. What they have in common is thewillingness, the willfulness, to create their own spaces.
Dyke willfulness. We will ourselves into being and we create
whatever we have.
But partly it's that lately willfulness isn't quite enough. Sinister Wisdom doesn't have enough money, time, space, equipment
and energy - and these notes end with a plea for your support.
All our lesbian communities don't have enough. Especially we
don't have enough of what might give us history, continuity, asense of community. Since we don't have enough within our
individual communities (friendship and political circles), we
don't have enough to build the bridges between them. No matter
how good our intentions, we tend to come at our work with asense of scarcity. And why not? Although we know there areenough material resources in the world for everyone, we know
we'll never see that redistribution of wealth in our lifetimes.
Sometimes I feel we're (Sinister Wisdom in particular, but thismetaphor extends) stuck on a river, in a small boat without oars.
We're paddling with our hands while on one side of us manydykes in smaller boats have capsized and on the other a few
dykes are zipping around in flashy powerboats. But we're toobusy - with our hands in the water trying not to get carried awaywith the current - to either extend towards the dykes who can't
swim or flag down the cruisers. Or else we're arguing about how
many more dykes our boat can handle and whether or not it's ours
to hold the dykes in bigger boats responsible, and if so, howI'm tired of working so hard to stay in the same place. Of
listening to dykes in their 20's being startled if (not when, but if)
they find out that we've been developing lesbian analyses about

4 sinister wisdom #51

class and race since the late '60s. Of finding out by chance thatlesbians struggled over these same issues in the Women's Trade
Union League in 1905. I'm discouraged by what currently passes
as "lesbian culture": slickness, the embrace of beer ads and dragqueens, k.d. play-acting sex with a straight model. All this happening while violence against women escalates every day.
Violence, struggling to survive and media circuses keep us
distracted, shut down, guarded. Living constantly on guard destroys passion, spontaneity, generosity of spirit. Without passion, our commitments to radical change become obligatoryscut-work. In the bleakest moments, it's possible to imagine
we're caught in a Sisyphean nightmare, stuffing envelopes endlessly for a revolution that will not come.
But suppose those envelopes go out and touch womyn's
lives? Suppose you got a mysterious envelope and when you
opened it, hope and courage filled the room? Writing that reminded me of a letter we got a few weeks ago from Ada Joyce:"1 recently received two of your publications .. .It is
hard for me to describe the effect they had on me. Let me
explain something. I am a 41 year old Lesbian in theMississippi prison system. Also I am a Black Lesbian. As
you know different governing systems in Mississippi are
as if we're in Medieval Times. And life as a 'Resistor'
among other things makes life's struggles even harder.
1970, the year of the Jackson State massacre, my freshman year, was my first view of human injustice. Since
then I decided to devote myself to the struggle of humanrights. Scars from billie clubs, false charges etc. will neverlet me forget who I am. I've chosen not to let anything
deter my determination to make a difference. In here andcertainly not when I am released.
I must inform you that if you've touched anyone's life
it's mine. Massive loneliness that has been embedded inme for years seems to have eased. And just your mere
existence is a relief. The more I read, the more I felt alive."
When I started writing these notes I was discouraged and,with Ada's help, I seem to have written myself out of it. All I haveWinter 1993/94 5

to fight with, still, are words. Words I hope will reach you. I keep
working because I believe that the possibility of lesbian community is built on self-expression. We need to show ourselves toeach other, to keep showing who we are. We demand recognition,
respect, thoughtful interaction. Check out, for instance, the callfor solidarity with the lesbians of ex-Yugoslavia, on page 114.
But if words are going to have this community-building
effect - your words, the words of the dykes you're longing toread - they have to have a place to get published.
This place, Sinister Wisdom, is in danger of closing down. Oneof the things we must have in order to survive is a separate office.
We've been advertising for inexpensive ($150 a month) officespace for over a year and haven't found anything. That means wewill have to find a way to pay more. That means we need to know
if you, our readers, want us to continue - and if you do, we are,literally, desperate for your help.
We need dykes to take on promotion for Sinister Wisdom - totalk it up, to get new subscriptions. If every dyke who reads
Sinister Wisdom got two of her friends to subscribe, we'd almost
double our annual income. If a quarter of the lesbians who go tomusic festivals every year subscribed, we could pay for office
help. We have over 80 womyn in prison on our mailing list who
receive free subscriptions worth $1500 a year - if you can, senda couple dollars extra, or awhole subscription, to cover that cost.
We need dykes who can write grants and fundraise, and we needthose of you who can to make cash donations.' Without newenergy, space and money, it's unlikely we can survive longer
than another year. If you can distribute subscription fliers, orwant other ideas for local fundraisers or subscription drives,contact us at our post office box.
We need you to remember Sinister Wisdom as a resource inyour life. Work with us, think with us, create with us.
Thanks .

.. Sinister Wisdom is a 501 (c)(3) tax-exempt organization and your donations aretax-deductible, if you itemize.

6 sinister wisdom #51

Upcoming Issues#54 Allies: We say we're a community dedicated to changing
conditions and attitudes around race, class, age, ability, size,
appearance. As allies, how are we making that happen? Out in
April, 1994.
#53 Old LesbiansIDykes: The over-sixty-years-old guest editors
invite lesbians born before 1935 to contribute to a special issue
by and about old lesbians/dykes. We use the term "old" todemystify the stereotypical images bred by our youth oriented
society. We are not only society's mothers and grandmothers. We
are questioning, still developing women from 60 upward, creating new images. Old ain't what it used to be! And never was. We
want this issue to be a voice for old lesbians in all our variety.
What do old lesbians look like? We differ greatly because ofclass, race, ethnicity, dis/ ability and even date of.birth. How dothese factors influence our current lives? How do we deal withloss? What about anger, bitterness, resentment between us? Does
privilege separate us? Differences in life-long and late-life lesbian experience? Out or closeted? How do we create and live incommunity? Who are our allies? What are our passions, concerns, plans, ideas, joys?
We welcome personal histories going back in time and areparticularly interested in submissions reflecting our present lives
and future expectations. All kinds of writing and art work arecalled for, but no submissions from women born after 1935 will
be accepted for this issue. Whether or not you have something toshare, please pass this information on to every old lesbian you
know. If accepted, a piece of writing may be printed without theauthor's name by contacting the editors. For more information,
call 415-585-0666 (message). Deadline: February 1, 1994.
#54 Lesbians and Religion (or: fuck Xmas), to be edited by lesbians raised in other than christian cultures, all dykes invited tocontribute. In the americas, we live in primarily christian countries. But many of us grew up in muslim, buddhist, hindu, jewish,

Winter 1993/94 7

native, atheist or other belief systems. We want to explore what
happens when belief systems conflict and what those conflicts
mean to our sense(s) of community (that is, analysis of being
submerged/ oppressed by christian assumptions and how wecarry that submersion or rebellion against oppression into daily
dyke life). There are questions to ask, and be asked by, lesbians
who are reclaiming their cultural roots in santeria, yoruban traditions or the goddess/pagan religions of europe. And then there
are issues of cultural appropriation: if, for instance, raisedchristian dykes do sweat lodge rituals or raised-jewish dykes
take up buddhism, do we attribute that to a sense of imperialist
entitlement, self-hatred or evolutionary blending of core spiritual expressions? In a world dominated by god-politics, we don't
want to pose "goddesses" as an alternative, saving belief - wewant to know how dykes deal with religion: in the intimacy of
our friendship networks, in the global perspective of risingfundamentalism. This is the place to bring anger, alienation,
careful analysis of hierarchical archetypes, righteous indignation, creative re-visioning and dyke takes on the quest for life's
meaning. Deadline: June 1, 1994.

8 sinister wisdom #51

Amy Concepcion
tatiana de la tierra

Weave-talk
Summer evening in september: dosl~~bianas, amy concepcion ytatiana de la tierra weave-talk our cuban and colombian roots, ourarrival in miami, and the rest of our bi-cultural brouhaha. we wrote"weave-talk" by each of us independently and randomly writing
pieces of our journey into this country. to this each of us added apreviously written poem that wove with the new text. we cut bothof our pieces and poems into strips that made sense on their own
and then put the strips in order like a puzzle. we were amazed at
how it flowed. it seems like we planned it, but it's more like magic.
placing a pink feather headband in my hands, my abuelita kissedme goodbye, crying. i cried too. i didn't know why.
yo no me voy pa' la guerra
que la guerra es dentro de mi,yo ne me voy para el monteque montanas ya comi.
There was sadness to leave loved ones behind, but there washappiness about the whole idea of traveling, the whole idea of
the journey, in a boat ...
i came in a military airplane. there was something mysterious
about la llegada. for years i thought i was an illegal alien.
From the sea to the road, a road with signs in a foreign language.
From the road to a small apartment, crowded, with loved ones
who looked and behaved differently from how I rememberedthem.
I always felt that the ones who left
were cowards; but in the struggle here,
I have seen the face of courage.
Some call it ingenuity and determination,

Winter 1993/94 9Some call it ingenuity and determination,
I call it courage.
Some call it defiance and pretentiousness,
I call it courage.
we played over and over with the doors that open by themselves
and the stairs that move. in the morning i went to a 7-11 with mydad. he bought beans in a can and glazed donuts. the beans weresweet, to our amazement.
School ... wow! That foreign language again, day in and day out,
from class to class, to lunch, then back to .class, like a roller
coaster, no time to think, no time to remember .. . just feelingyourself changing .. . becoming a sponge or Bounty, the pickerupper.
at school they gave us thick wide-lined paper for free. i knew
how to say "pencil" and "ruler" in english, and i already knew
how to add and subtract. i was ashamed for being spanish. how
had i learned shame so well? once, i had to go to the bathroom
and i didn't know how to say it, so i touched myself there andshowed the teacher so she would understand. i vowed to learn
english perfectly and i taught my mom.
There were also showers without doors, for it was mandatory tobathe after physical education. Taking my clothes off and walking naked into the showers was the worst part. It was like a fearthat my body was different; just like every other part of me wasdifferent.
How do you learn to be courageous
if you have never been afraid?
Cowards don't run away from danger,
cowards run away from fear,
cowards are afraid to fear.
we lived in a house that belonged to a hippie who peed on mango
trees and slept in the weeds. me, my mom, dad, brother, and twosisters lived in one room, and another colombian family lived
across the hall. the father beat his wife and yelled at us. he scared10 sinister wisdom #51

me, but we were lucky to have a place to live. colombia came withme; i think of mountains, pueblitos, aguardiente. colombia wastaken from me; i took her from myself to be an accentlessamericana. colombia comes back to me; i visit and she moves in.
yo comi la arepa y frijol
con panela y mazamorra
y cuando me dicen gringa
yo digo fumo marimba.
I had never experienced silence the way I did back then. It was
the experience of being silent to strangers and silent to your own.
My conversation took place inside of me, in my head, in myheart, and in my bones. Especially in my bones, in every tissue
around them; they carry a conversation about who I was andwhat I was made of.
i wanted to be "american" and attained "resident alien" status.
i don't want to be "american" any more; the term "american"
denotes geographical ignorance, cultural arrogance and imperialism. as a south american living in north america, i've been anamerican my entire life. and i turned out to be all-american: a fatliberal-Iesbian-feminist-bearded bruja, an unsightly independent heterosexually-trained-lipstick combat femme. my mom isproud of me, and so am i.
y cuando me dicen gringa
yo digo soy cachaquita
una mezcla extranjerita
con mochila y navajita.
my mom used to clean houses and my dad worked in factories.
my mom brought home the wealthy white people's trash clothes, toys, furniture ... to be our attempt at "having." when iwas thirteen she bought me a sky blue blouse with a red balldesign. it cost ten dollars and i felt guilty that she spent so muchmoney on me. i wore it constantly.
There was no escape from the situation back then, nowhere to
run. I looked for escape in religion, but it didn't work. When I
was old enough, I ran to Peru and I fell in love with it. I learned

Winter 1993/94 11

to sing their songs and dance their music, and speak Spanish
with a Peruvian accent. And I had Peruvian children who now,
when asked, say that they are Cuban ... there was, there is andthere will be no escape.
when my dad graduated from college the only job he could get
was as a security guard. with the land of opportunity limited, mybrother found his in dealing drugs. with his money i went tocollege and traveled. drug money gave me what i couldn't haveotherwise. i drove bmw's, ate sushi, and became addicted to silk.
facing fifteen years to life without parole for a conspiracy charge
in a courtroom where being colombian is cause for conviction,
my brother split and became a federal fugitive. my mom's house,
put up as collateral, went to the bondsman. a relative bought it
and rented it to my mom so she could still live there. thenhurricane andrew came and blew my mom's home of 21 years
away. while my mom looks for another place to live she stays
with me. we dissect every rotted shred of our life, from theamerican dream to the colombian chaos that keeps us here.
en colombia busque mujeres
bus que ambiente de montana
pues a pie las encontraba
y a caballo me rodaba.
Now a new consciousness has developed, a consciousness thatsays: It's okay to think about Cuba when you make your choices,to think about Cuba when you make the decision to write, andwhen you make your choice at the polls. Yes, it's okay to have
Cuba next to me, next to my income taxes, health care costs, andwomen's rights.
Why would you make concessions here
when you refused to dress in olive green
in order to be a Cuban,
in order not to be an exile,
I called that patriotism.
When you refused to give up your identity,
I called that courage.

12 sinister wisdom #51

What has been, is and will be the impact of latin women in the
U.S.? The impact depends on how willing we are to participate
in the writing of our own history. The present is powerful if weare powerful- powerful as americans, as women, as hispanics,
and not necessarily in that order. In the past I was shocked bybathrooms with no doors; in the present I am shocked by hearts
with closed, bolted doors.
i came out as a lesbian ten years ago in a north american
community, far from latin culture. i came back to mayami tocoger la calle and feel myself cubaned and colombianed out.
living in mayami is like living in a latin country, except that thephone, electricity and water usually work.
y yo grito mis ideas
mujeres bastante bellas
aun son ricas y blanquitas
y asi de radicalitas,
misma sangre, misma lucha,
misma america jodida.
I dare to be a different American, an American with dark eyes
and a characteristic accent when I speak. Now I speak, no moresilent conversation. My bones have a new sheath covering them,
one that protects from indifference and one that defies assimilation.
But I, I was afraid of swollen rivers
and wild running horses,
and cemeteries with their dead ones.
Here, I stopped being afraid
and instead became a coward.
But now I want to be like you,
I want to create, and be afraid,some of those who left were not cowards
and I want to be like them.
living as a latina lesbian in mayami is a phenomenon still information. i am part of this process: i sculpt our profile daily, ismear myself all over the place, i take up space, i challenge them

Winter 1993/94 13

and us, i play with my power and patriarchal power and puta
power, all in the name of being an all-:american fat liberallesbian-feminist bearded bruja, an unsightly independent heterosexually-trained-Ii pstick-combat femme.

english translations to spanish words in weave-talk:dos lesbianas - two lesbians
abuelita - grandmotherla llegada - the arrival
pueblitos -little towns
aguardiente - fire water
coger la calle - take the street
puta - prostituteenglish poem stanzas are from "courage" by Amy. spanish poem
stanzas are from "regresar a la tierra de uno" (returning to one'sland) by tatiana - a choppy translation: "i won't go to war - thefight is within me. i won't go to the countryside - i've alreadyeaten mountains. i've eaten arepa and frijol, panela andmazamorra, and when they call me gringa, i say smoke marihuana,
and when they call me gringa, i say i am cachaquita (someone
from the interior of colombia), a foreign mixture with a knapsack
and a swiss army knife. in columbia i searched for women andfound them on foot, i searched for mountains and rode them onhorseback. and i scream my ideas, beautiful women, rich, whiteand radical, same blood, same struggle, same screwed america."14 sinister wisdom #51

Portrait of Emily Salazar
charcoal on paper

Adriana Medina

Winter 1993/94 15

Akiko Carver

Transcript of Speech at the
March on Washington Rally, April, 1993
Do you want the ban on lesbians and gays in the military lifted?
Is this your country, and isn't it your right to serve?
Well, if you believe that, then you're racist. _Because this is the country that has enslaved Africans for
hundreds of years, put my grandparents in Japanese American
concentration camps, put Native Americans on reservations, andforces many Latinos to live every day in poverty and fear ofdeportation.
This is the military that bombed 1/2 million people in
Hiroshima and Nagasaki; killed, raped, and tortured thousandsin Viet Nam, as well as Korea and Grenada; invaded Somalia;
and bombed and placed inhumane sanctions on Iraq that killedover 200,000 people.
So if this is your country, it's because you're white. The
United States and its military actively works for the genocide ofnon-white peoples. When you talk about lifting the ban, you're
telling me that non-white queers are expendable. Working toallow gays in the military is happening over our dead bodies.
Look at the fact that 60% of the military is composed of nonwhite people. Through lack of job opportunities and college
funds, we are forced to join in order to receive the meager
benefits the military offers. Because of racist economics, we
become the cannon fodder of America, while having to kill our
non-white sisters and brothers around the world.
You can't tell me that you're fighting to get these issues addressed. What you're fighting for is more career choices forwhite lesbians and gays. You're fighting for Margarethe Cammemeyer's pension. The NGLTF and Human Rights Campaign
Fund aren't fighting for human rights, they're fighting homopho-

16 sinister wisdom #51

bia as an obstacle to white power. And it makes me so sad to see
so many non-white queers working in that fight.
The focus on lifting the ban in the military further illustrates
how the politics of the queer movement have watered down tonothing. This movement started with a riot and it needs to end
with one. But all we can do is praise Clinton, walk down thestreet and sit in a park - a million suicidal fools in one city. We
won't fight for true liberation, because that would mean fighting
racism, sexism, heterosexism, imperialism, ableism andtransgender oppression. It would mean fighting capitalism andthe U.S. government. It means revolution. But we're content to
let a few rich white fags determine this movement's agenda, andto let them ask for a minor concession like lifting the ban in the
military.
So let me say it again: if you want gays in the military, it's
because you're racist. And if you believe that this is your country,
it's because you're white.
When you talk about America's "enemy across the line,"
you're talking about me and my family. In supporting themilitary, you've already named me your enemy - and you canmake damn sure I'll fight you like one.
FIGHT RACISM!
BAN THE MILITARY!

Winter 1993/94 17

Victoria Lena Manyarrows

When This Land Was Ours

'Woman you carry me from dream to dreambreath like fire in the ear.
i am whispering to you sweet secrets
humming gentle tunes so your body can remember
when this land was ours
and we grew from it
and with it
and we loved this land
this land once green and undamaged
a land not new, but loved
cared for so that beauty could blossom.

18 sinister wisdom #51

Teresa Ortega

Soul Secrets and Bean Lore
Do you know those days when everything in the world is too
hard? I'm not talking about every day, which is bad enough, but
the extra bad days: the sad, bad, lonely days. The nights of givingup.
A truly bad day will announce itself to me with a sacredoccurrence. On a bad day I can . hear my soul speak, making
demands on me with all the grace of a pent-up chihuahua.
It has a simple message, and it's this, "Go eat some beans."
If you have not seen your own soul before, you should knowthat it's no bigger than a nugget, a splinter. Usually, my soulhides deep in the middle of my chest, and for the most part, it
doesn't bother me one way orrthe other. By all accounts, I've had
good luck. Because despite its diminutive size, when a soul
decides it has a quarrel with you, you're better off taking its
instruction.
So on this bad night, following a long, bad day, having heard
the familiar but insistent request for beans, I obediently head formy yellow kitchen. I appreciate my soul's need for a snack.
I go to the large white built-in cabinet and reach for a can ofrefried beans. I open the can left-handed, which means withsome difficulty, and dump the beans into a little pan to warm
them. Then I get the ready-made burrito-size flour tortillas out of
the fridge, and place one in a cast-iron skillet slick with butter.
The tortilla's delicate surface raises ever so slightly as it heats.
Tiny puffs of air form pockets, browning in the sizzling butter;I see the moon's face, darkened with rings.
What is the exact color of beans? I do not carry any authority
on the subject, yet I have looked innumerable times past thecrooked wooden counter of a burrito stand into a steaming pot of
pinto beans, and I believe there is no single color that can describe the leguminous, molten body that gathers from boilingand then mashing beans with onion, spices and fat. The red, theWinter 1993/94 19

orange, the brown, the white are all mixed together, so that you
never know where white ends and brown begins, when the turnof a wooden spoon will bring a delicate pink from the bottom of
the vat, when streaks of red will form over the whole or when thebeans will suddenly mass into a brown clump resembling earth.
The mixing of colors is what makes it a Mexican dish, just as the
Mexican people range across many hues.
Have you been in the courtyard of an old Spanish mission?
In Southern California, where I was born, there were at one time
twenty Spanish missions running up and down the length of thestate. Years ago, standing in the lush central _c ourtyard of one of
the still-operating Catholic missions, surrounded by thick palms,
red hibiscus and gigantic stalks of birds-of-paradise, there, amidst
a tropical Eden, I witnessed a sinister conjunction of hues as the
shadow of a cross from atop the mission tower fell across the
adobe courtyard, a dark slash against the orange-pink Indianbrick. The heavy faith of the Spanish conquerors must once haveentered into this land as unexpectedly. Contemplation of thatstrange landscape might have afflicted me, had not the unanticipated mixture of color, rosy sienna cast against pale terracotta,
engaged my appetite irresistibly by reminding me of beans.
A craving takes you like that, fiercely, so we may approach
our own joy without hesitation. It's the least tangible regions of
the body that tend to edge out of our control. Sudden laughter,the spot where hunger growls insistent, a physical sense of ourlovers' pleasure, random swings of courage: places where thesoul comes through like a phantom to touch the world with us.
If this were breakfast I was making and not my soul's shortorder, there would be rice too, Spanish rice fried in bacon grease
and drizzled with fresh salsa served on a hot plate full of beans.
But the task before me demands attention. The tortilla is done,
and I turn to the metal kitchen table waiting behind me. I lift thetortilla carefully out of the pan that I'm carrying in my gloved
hand and place it on a heavy fired-clay plate. Then quickly
grabbing the beans off the stove, I half-pour, half-scoop thebeans into the steaming center of the tortilla. No cheese, no salsa,
no sour cream (god forbid), only beans. Next step is to fold the20 sinister wisdom #51

whole thing up into a thick bundle. My offering now waits
complete, a genuine bean burrito.
There's a secret to feeding the soul beans. As you might
guess, it can't be fed through the mouth, but requires a more
subtle means of intake. The eating, the ingestion, the incarnation, the bringing of another entity into oneself.
Pick up the bean burrito and hold it against your cheek.
Close your eyes.
Maybe not every soul remembers. If you're from the easternpart of the United States, where the closest tortilla factory is a full
five states away, perhaps the aroma of frijoles will not penetrate toyour soul. But if you're from the southwest - from Yuma, Blythe,
Flagstaff or Tucson; from San Antonio, El Paso, Demming, Taos;from San Diego, Barstow, Needles or Los Angeles - you know
about the restorative power of beans.
Clutched against your face, you feel the warm, heavy weightin your hand like all the comfort you've ever known: a soft
breast, a generous belly, your girlfriend's thigh cradling yourcheek. The poignant smell brings back your best memories.
I remember the Mexican jumping beans my parents boughtme for ninety-five cents at a highway stop in southern Arizona.
I took the beans out of the red plastic box they came in andwatched them jump up and down on my hand, tirelessly, for the
next two hundred and thirty-four miles. Finally they fell on thefloor and rolled under the seat, lost. A happier time then: myparents silent in the front seat of the car going towards Texas, mealone in the back with my beans and a lot of time, nothing but
staring and the long flat space of the desert. To be a child again,
wise days, just looking.
My soul eats beans, memories, loving the savor of time wellspent.

Winter 1993/94 21

Elliott

Lesbos Isn't On This Map

I sit on the stool and watch her through our map of the world
shower curtain. First her thighs, framing the Atlantic, and thenthe Arabian Sea centered in her round and ample ass. And I fightthe urge to switch into the metaphorical, like watching her
yiddishe clit directly through Israel. Or studying, over her breast,
the imposition of Poland, source of her blonde Jewish hair andblue Jewish eyes. Or, when I join her, matching my body to anyof my homelands, from Scotland to Portugal. Wanting to understand us as international, tied to these places and peoples.
Wanting not to have to consider the privileges of geography.
We live in the United States; we have a rented house, plenty offood, a little more money than we need. And a hot shower and its
curtain that would chart our world.
Lesbos isn't on this map.
But we lesbians are here, in borders of our own making.
And also in a map of clear dangers. Tonight, a cross could beburned in her name. Tomorrow we might be blown away by aneighbor screaming "perverts perverts perverts." Or maybe
some other lesbian, somewhere else, defying easy bright colors
and black outlines on plastic.
So much to be done, and us in the shower.
At first, I did really believe that loving wimmin as a class - or
one or two or three at a time - would by itself topple the powersthat have been and are, would be The Revolution. At first, it was.
But now there is so much left to do. Even with the power of mywanting her I have this feeling of ... of lack, somehow. Or maybe
inadequacy.
Or maybe the feeling is desperation, maps colliding, time running out.
So much to be done, as we slowly finish our shower.

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23

Janet Mason

Why I hate Earth Day
because Coca Cola cans leave acid rainin the landscape of my mind;the "all-beef" hot dogs they sell
took grain from mouths of hundreds
and fed it to one now-dead cow;
plastic recyclables, coffee cups,
vinyl earths inflated like blow-up dolls,
sit around forever;a "pro-life" governor gets up to speak
and audience politely applauds;
and the straight, white, male,"folk" singer splits my ear drums
screaming into microphone.

24 sinister wisdom #51

Janet Mason

In those days
We licked salt from the rim,
Margaritas, sweet,
sticky in our throats.
Two young college women,
commuters, career bent;
The first pitcher
drew a bright taste,
freshly minted futureson our tongues.
The second pitcher eroded
pinstripe dreams
until we autographed tampons,
throwing them around the bar;
telling blurred faces:
hold onto them, someday
they'll be worth something.
We stopped before the third,
knowing she would
fall off her stool
and my morning would taste
like fuzzy met,al.
Instead we window shopped,
closed storeson a street empty
except for male prostitutes,
an occasional cop.
At the punk store
a mannequin was bound and gagged,
safety pins
penetrating her plastic flesh.

Winter 1993/94 25

We stared.
Our gazeinterrupted only
by our own reflections.
My hands were quick,pulling lipstick from myjunior briefcase.
She kept watch,while in sunset orange
I wrote large:
THIS OFFENDS WOMEN
Turning, she took the lipstick,drew a giant female signunderneath.
We admired our work
Then fled,
cement slapping
the soles of our feet.
Our laughter,my casual arm
around her shoulder innocent of a future
where she would graduate
to stocks and bonds
and meto spray paint.

26 sinister wisdom #51

Sima Rabinowitz

Between the Lines
The New York Times, March 11, 1992 ... dateline Georgia orNorth Dakota, Oregon or Tennessee.
The court refuses to dismiss the claim. The reporter refuses toread between the lines.
All are poised for victory:
A novice attorney can try her case. The New York Times
can try my patience.
She has told her new colleagues in the State Department of Law,
where she was promised a job (and a desk and a phone
and a future),
she intends to marry.
In the summer. By a lake. Under a blossoming juniper plum.
Her bride will wear white .

.The novice attorney never sits behind the mahogany desk,never answers themulti-line phone. She is her own best witness. The future isan edict she must draft alone.
The court will hear her case. The public can hear the echo.
(Section B, page seventeen,bottom left-hand corner, before the obits and after the ad for a
fur sale at Saks.)
The state says its employees must uphold (hold up, erect)
the law. The novice attorney's
attorney says a contract was fractured. The reporter for
The New York Times says this is achallenge to anti-sodomy laws. The ACLU says sodomy is a
first amendment right. The
Lambda Legal Fund says the practice of sodomy does
not interfere with the practice of law. The
American Heritage Dictionary says sodomy is abnormal sex,Winter 1993/94 27

specifically anal intercourse.between two men. The state says its employees must uphold the law.
The court will hear the case. The public can hear the echo.
The novice attorney's attorney is (judiciously) jubilant.
The reporter for The New York Timesis (objectively) jubilant. The ACLU is (right-eously) jubilant.
The Lambda Legal Fund is(gaily) jubilant.
The court will hear the case. The public can ~ear the echo.
Nobody hears the novice attorney (or her blushing bride) say
she wants to practice sodomy, onlythat she wants to practice law.
Nobody hears her say she loves the arc of her lover's breast
against her own.
Nobody hears her say she loves the billows and folds thatgather at her lover's waist.
Nobody hears her say she finds her tongue between her
lover's velvet thighs abnormal.
The court can try the case. The New York Times can try my patience.
The court will hear the case. The public can hear the echo.
The novice attorney can hear her lover's breath swell and flower.
Nobody remembers to say that it is not legal in Georgia orNorth Dakota, Oregon or Tennessee
for two women to marry. Nobody remembers to ask
how the law can dictate what a body can know.

28 sinister wisdom #51

SuzanneFire in the Woods, Flood in Town
News quote: Studies have found that one in three teenage
suicide attempts is tied to sexual confusion.
for Andrea, 1963-1982

We could see the smoke for miles.
From my balcony I saw it clotting the sky.
I heard later how the flames leapt high an aroused, murderous beast
stretching to full height.
It was all shock effect,
staged to wake a staid New England town.
She had waited for hikers
to see her light the matchand touch it to her clothes; imprinting a horroron their dreams eternally: her facea ghostly white speck, framed in a halo of blazing hair,
her mouth opening and closing, shaping sounds
the hikers even now cannot forget.
From a blackened gas can found nearby
we were supposed to decipher the mystery of our crime.
The punishment had been the last clue.
Our message came in an envelope of fire:
We became her survivors and we would pay
for our inattention, our privilegedyankee neglect.
Chastened, wiser - we were sadly aware
it was now too late to do the right thingwhatever that would have been.
But with no words, no direction, no other clues

Winter 1993/94 29

we spun in angry circles of blame
thinking, "if only .. .," and in the end
secretly wishing she had lived and died somewhere else.
When we spoke her name, guilt poured from our mouths
flooding the sidewalks in town
until we became a sodden, brooding people,
each of us alone paying for our special crime;
marked by her pain.
To this day, I cannot help but feelshe must have planned it that way.

Courtesy of Oregon Countree Dykes clip a rt

30 sinister wisdom #51

Jeannie Witkin

The Endless Onslaught
I Hate It

I hate it when they murder students on campus especially when
the student they murder is female
and young and brutally
stabbed many times while alone in a building and no one rescues
her as I think of her fear yelling alone with no one magicallyappearing to save her unable to save herself yelling help me help
me someone help me afraid alone with her murderer but no one
helps her so then she is dead and somewhere in a dorm room inBerkeley or an apartment in Oakland or San Francisco someone istelling himself it's been five days now and no one has caught me
I'm home free it's ok they'll never find out she deserved it anyway
and I won't do it again I don't think since I know they can't catchme I would be safe but I really don't plan to do it again and I didn't
plan to kill her until I saw the scissors but I was so angry at her andshe deserved it and how scared she was when she knew I would
kill her sitting in his room knowing that he has killed her andgotten away with it while at the same time her family sits in theirrooms knowing that he has killed her and gotten away with it with
the image of Grace being stabbed repeatedly in their minds as sheyells help me help me someone help me and no one helps her
no one answers and then she is dead her body hunched ingloriously over the desk for four hours before the security guard finds
her there not responding to his question blood all over the desk andshe is dead she does not answer anyone's question or respond orsmile or draw breath or think or feel as she is quite dead for fourhours now before she is found and her family pictures her hunchedthere while her murderer goes home and washes all the bloodaway because surely he must be frightened but five days have goneby and he is calmer now that he knows he can get away with it andI shudder with rage when they murder students on campus andWinter 1993/94 31

shudder with rage when they murder students on campus andshe is female and he gets away with it.
All the TimeI only think about it all the time how men murder students on
campus and off campus and non-students and old women andyoung women and girl children and lesbians walking down thestreet in the woods at the mall "safe" at home in bed at night withthe door locked breaking in through the window raping Nancy
in her bed killing Bibi in the park and so many nameless others
if I wanted I could make a list a litany a ritual of all the names
never to be forgotten but no need I only think about it all the timeas I walk up the stairs turning my head to see who belongs to thefootsteps I hear coming up behind me whose shadow that is to
my right who is coughing moving several steps to my left so I am
hopefully out of harm's way or if he follows me then I am in
harm's way but at least I know where I am which is better than
not knowing so I try to be aware at all times of the dangers I face
the risks I run as I walk around the campus the town the world
and if I were to forget for a second some man will drive by
flashing his dick at me some man will call me cunt or dyke or
demand spare change and spit on me when I give him nothing so
I will not soon forget having relearned my lesson and then thereis the occasional final exam when Bibi or Grace or Ruth or Susan
or Lisa or Esther or Beth is murdered then I remember for a longtime as I walk through the streets I only think about it all thetime.
Murdered: The Fantasy
The man who came up behind me on my right to be exact gave
himself away by coughing which was his undoing as he hadplanned to surprise me stabbing me repeatedly for having thenerve to work late and alone in an empty building on campus
when I am only five feet two inches tall one hundred and ten

32 sinister wisdom #51

pounds and I needed to be taught a lesson about the place of
women which is not alone in a building unless we are playing
the part of a murder victim so he planned to help me fulfill thisrole using the scissors conveniently located on my desk as his
prop the murder weapon entering stage right through the partly
open door coming up behind me but as I said luckily he coughedalerted me set me on guard so I was able to spin pivot turn to meethim bringing us face to face at which point his intentions became
all too clear one glance at his cold eyes hard mouth clenched fists
being all I needed to understand my fears were true this time so
I threw my shoulders back chin up eye to eye which angered him
as a challenge for I was not following the stage directions eyes
demurely cast down absorbed in work unaware of danger not I
as I would no longer play this role for anyone's satisfaction nolonger bolster his ego at the expense of my own life no I was
brazen strong ready and I rose to meet him grabbing those scissors claiming them for my own feeling their weight in my strong
hands and he unwilling to take seriously the threat I was to him
came right at me ridiculously insultingly laughably presenting
the soft skin at his neck by lifting his head to sneer at me so it wasa simple matter to slice across his throat with them then dismember slash stab him repeatedly blood all over the desk and leave
him hunched there where he would never do violence again andI went home and washed the blood away and no one caught me
for murdering the man who came up behind me.
Murdered: The Reality
But I was murdered on campus the man coming up behind me on
my right to be exact and though I have only thought about this
all the time I cannot quite believe this is happening surely it isjust one more nightmare as I shudder and run for my brick house
but it dissolves before me a mirage a hoax a trap there are no brickhelp me help
houses for women only straw and though I yellme someone help me
no one helps me no one answers I am
alone shuddering against the onslaught all my fantasies of revenge retribution dismemberment drowned buried in the col-

Winter 1993/94

33

lapse of my straw house where I have run trying desperately tochange the script he will enter stage right his face clearly revealed to me and I am frightened teeth chattering at each invective he hurls at me accusing me of lesbianism pride resistanceand I am guilty of each so how do I shut him out defend myself
refute him refusing to live out this drama where he grabs thescissors and brutally stabs me many times blood all over the desk
and no one will catch him I know though I have only thought
about this all the time I am not ready surely we can put this scene
off till next week next year next life as it has played itself throughin my mind often enough surely we don't need. an actual performance and I lower my chin my eyes bring my shoulders forward
hoping that perhaps he will be disgusted and search out a more
worthwhile opponent one more brazen strong ready than I whowill not be caught unawares by the coughing man coming up
from behind which was my undoing as I was caught grabbed
stabbed repeatedly blood all over the desk not to respond any
more to the endless onslaught and he goes home and washes all
the blood away until he does it again and I am left here murderedon campus.

34 sinister wisdom #51

Josi Mata

Someday
So many years we spent
trying to be your skinsurround you and ourselveswith barricades Against the storm and fury
We swallowed the water regardlessdrowned in his tides regardless
28 years later I can't erase you
From the laundromat
women and their children
against the dead drum of machines and soap
laundry and cries from babies.
From the sight of bus size shopping carts
filled with cheap foodkids hanging around candy shelves
tugging at skirt hems
reaching up to show handfuls of hope
I can't erase you mama
I would really like to
It gets tiresome swallowing walls

Trying hard to not cry openly
pretending I'm just tired
Or yawning
I try to not stare at echoes
childrenbrown and roundsometimes happy, sad eventually angry

Winter 1993/94

I would really to talk about my past
without
saying to myself over and over''Don't cry ... don't cry"I would really like to mama
"Maybe it's just full moon," I say
P.M.S.
not enough rest
But even as I write thisin the middle of my favorite Mexican restaurant
between nervous bites on my lips
I can't keep water swollen
behind the lids of my eyes
Mama, I wonder when
I will be able to matter-of-factly say
My mother was abused, beaten and tortured almost
every day of her life
with my father
As clinical as possible
without emotion tightat my neck
Mama will I ever?
And think to say ... to feel such things ...
who would ever want3S36 sinister wisdom #51(/. - ... ...- - - - - - - : . . . . - --.. ---J...--.

""

Tranquility with a message
pen and ink

Kath Rodgers//

Winter 1993/94 37

C.E. Atkins

Snake

I am at work in my garden,
pillows of lettuce to rest my head,snails for pets,
the cold secret of dirt beneath me.
People say I have a stone for a heart,
the eyes of a snake,the stiff body of cut wood.
What kind of fool do they take me for?
Before I grew these claws
men entered my small openings,
cut the warmth out of my flesh
with their weapons and their gin.
Poured iron in my mouth and crushed my back against walls.
The dawn pushes its way inwhere night pauses, balanced on its toes.
My doors are all closed, my eyes struggle to open.
I am sealed like the holy contents of a letter,
I guard my room with a knife to the throat.
In the morning, I undo what's been done to me,part the dirt with brush of cupped hands,
tend to small things with an artist's care,
the way a cloud guards its mountain.
I am sure of my vigil,
my last spare hope gropes and haunts me.
All of my plants grow violently on hot sun
and the river my weeping has made.

38 sinister wisdom #51

Elliott

Bir's SongShe talked to me of healing
anger, blame,
breathing,
herbs
and the probabilityof loving myself
She told me how
to make the cuts look accidental
It was all the same message
It's a pretty thingclean and neatand the scars don't show
Self-destruction is a pretty thing
on this side of crazyAnd all the goddamned feminists
with wispy songsof goddesses transforming
they will not touch
what frightens themEvery snake alive
has split her skin to grow
Every snake alive
has split her skinto grow
It's a pretty thing
you either knowor don't know to ask
Self-destruction is a pretty thing
on this side of crazyWinter 1993/94 39

You say that I am
out of control
I say

out of whose control?
Some architect designed this house while I was asleep
built it while I wasn't homelocked the doors and kept the keys
Now I will do to it
whatever I wantIt's a pretty thing
to no longer seek justification
If I didn't build thisthen it isn't self-destruction, it's a powerful thing
on this side of crazy40 sinister wisdom #51

Anna Livia

from Bruised FruitThe Lighthouse
Amanda was in good spirits. She had discovered a nouvellecuisine restaurant up north of Hyde Park which was suitably
expensive. Renate from Rape Crisis and her new lover, Julie, had
met them for dinner. Amanda and Renate were discussing theChild Abuse Line and the unexpected fact that few children
could get through due to the number of adults calling who had
been abused in childhood.
Caroline turned to Julie. "So, are you from London?" sheasked softly.
"Born and bred."''Where'bouts?""Finsbury Park.""Oh wow, the Rainbow!""Hung out there every weekend.""Peter Tosh, Bob Marley... ""Bob Marley!""Remember those hot summer afternoons on the pavement
waiting for the doors to open?"''The queue getting longer and longer... "" ... passing whole watermelons up and down the crowd ... "" ... and joints ... "" ... and cans of Watney's Pale Ale."
There was a lull in Amanda and Renate's conversation.
"I thought you didn't drink?" said Renate.
"Or take drugs," said Amanda.
"Oh hell," said Julie, "only marijuana. Marijuana's not a
drug."
Caroline laughed. "And Watney's Pale is hardly beer.""I like cider," said Renate. "Cornish cider. 5crumpy. Most
lethal thing I ever drank."

Winter 1993/94 41"Really hits, doesn't it?" said Caroline. "Cos you think it's
just goin' to be apple juice."''We went to Cornwall last summer," said Amanda. "Rented
a little cottage on the cliffs. But Caroline got frightened, didn't
you, Caroline?"''What?'' said Caroline.
"It was funny. Caroline suddenly wakes up in the middle ofthe night and I hear this little voice beside me going, 'Amanda,
there's someone shining a torch at us through the window.' She
wouldn't rest 'til I got up and looked outside. Big butch me. And
there was this vicious evil lighthouse glaring at us from an
island, strafing our faces with its wicked beam. Caroline can be
terribly silly sometimes."
Caroline stared at the exquisitely bleak landscape of herplate. Six green peas and one mint leaf in a raspberry coulis.
''Don't cry," she told herself. "It'll only get worse if you cry.
She'll see she's hit a weak spot and keep on 'til she breaks
through the skin."
As long as Caroline laughed with the others, the moment
would pass and perhaps she could chat some more with Julie
about the old days when she listened to reggae with joy in herheart, with bare feet on sunny pavement, the days when you
could share a watermelon with anyone who was thirsty. But she
felt the terrible rise of tears and before she could leave for thebathroom, she was sobbing. In front of Julie and Renate. Amanda
would be merciless.
''Well, er," said Renate. ''We seem to have hit a sensitive spot.""Oh don't mind Caroline," said Amanda, "She's so squeamish she had to be carried out of Aliens II . Thought I'd have abasket case on my hands for the rest of my life."''Why did you burst into tears like that?" Amanda asked on
the way home.
"Because I was scared," said Caroline.
"Scared?" repeated Amanda, "In the middle of a restaurant?""No," said Caroline, "On the cliffs in Cornwall.""But it was a lighthouse.""I didn't know that. I thought it was a man with a torch."42 sinister wisdom #51'Well it made Renate and Julie feel very awkward. I do think
you might spare a thought for other people's feelings sometimes.
They'll assume it was some quarrel we were having and blame
me, and that is simply not fair. Well, is it?"
'What?""Do you think it's fair that I'll get the blame for somethingthat was all your own foolishness?"'Will you?""You know I will. People always blame the lover.""Oh."'What do you mean, 'oh'?""I mean, I see."'Well what do you propose to do about it?"
"I don't know," Caroline sighed.
"It's no good sighing, Caroline. You can't just go on hiding
behind me. One of these days you are going to have to takeresponsibility for your actions and how they affect people."
Caroline shut her mind to the angry protests which were
forming there. Resistance was useless. Worse than useless; it justmade Amanda worse. And then she would go on for hours 'tilthere was no part of Caroline's person that remained whole andunbruised.
"You could apologize," said Amanda.
"Apologize?"''Ring them up and say you're sorry you spoiled their dinner."
Amanda went to have a bath.
"Renate?" said Caroline.
"This is Julie. Renate's in the kitchen.""Oh, that's okay. It's Caroline.""Hi. Are you alright?""Yes. Fine. I'm fine. I rang to say I'm sorry for bursting intotears like that."'Well you were upset.""I, it's okay, really. You see ..." Caroline invented, "Amanda
and I have already talked it over in the car coming home. So
we've resolved our difficulties with each other, but you andRenate weren't there. So it's like Amanda and I can be friends

Winter 1993/94 43

again but you must still feel that tension ... "''We did gather there was something going on between thetwo of you.""Just a misunderstanding. Cross purposes, you know. So
thanks for such a nice evening.""Yeah, we must do it again sometime."
The Vibrator''My feet are cold," Amanda announced.
''Borrow some of my socks," said Caroline sleepily, waving
a languid arm toward the top drawer of the dresser. And before
she was fully awake, Amanda was searching the drawer. Caroline
frowned into her pillow. Something was wrong, but she was too
tired to move.
Amanda's hand came across something hard in a thick ball ofwool walking sock.
''What's this?" she asked.
''My vibrator," said Caroline as the floor sank away from her
and she felt herself falling, falling.
"Your what?" said Amanda.
"Vibrator," said Caroline, redundantly since Amanda had
already pulled the hard plastic out of its woolly sheath. Amanda
stared at her lover with horror and rage.
"How could you?" she said. "How could you do this to me?
Where did you get it from? Why didn't you tell me you had oneof these ... things?"
The questions poured out like the high pitched barking ofsome frenzied dog. Amanda's eyes were full of shock and pain
as though Caroline had just told her that her father was a Nazi.
''What else do you have? Dildos, a harness, whips, handcuffs?"''No,'' said Caroline. "Just a vibrator.""Just this?" said Amanda, "And do you use it?""Yes," said Caroline. She wanted very much to lie. To say afriend had sent it to her as a joke and she had not known how todispose of it. But Amanda would have gone on all night: who
sent it to her? What friend? What kind of friend would make ajoke like that? Why had she sent it? Did she want Caroline to use

44 sinister wisdom #51

it on her? Did Caroline use it on her? And who else? Who else did
Caroline use it with? Anyway, they both knew Caroline didn't
have any friends. Amanda had seen to that.
'Why?" Amanda demanded. 'Why do you use it? Do you
want a inan? Is that it? Am I not good enough for you? You wanta man's dick between your legs?""I use it to give myself an orgasm," said Caroline.
"Don't you have orgasms with me?" asked Amanda, hervoice shrill. "Have you been faking it for six years?""Yes," said Caroline, "Yes, I do have orgasms with you."
It was true. She did. She had organised her fantasy life insuch a way that when Amanda made love to her, neither she nor
Caroline were there any more but two huge elephants she hadseen once at the zoo. Caroline was always the male elephantmounting the female, brutally and implacably, fucking her withan enormous penis running the entire length of its body.
''Then why, Caroline?" Amanda's voice was enraged still but
there was a new note, an edge of pleading.
"I bought it ages ago, Amanda. I read an article about sex toys
in Cosmopolitan and I went out and bought one.""From a sex shop?""Yes. A shop in Tottenham Court Road, just off Oxford Street.
I was the first girl at school to get one. No one else had even seen
one before.""No," said Amanda, "I don't suppose they had."
Encouraged, Caroline went on. "I stood it on the table during
school dinner, turned the battery on and everyone giggled andgasped while it shuddered away on the formica in a sea of gravy
plates and green peas.
Amanda shook her head. Then her face clouded over. "Butnow, Caroline? You don't use it any more, do you? Now you're alesbian, and a feminist, and everything?""Everything?"'Well ... just the shape for one thing." They both looked
toward the beige plastic object now upright on Caroline's dresser.
"It looks like a penis," Amanda announced. "The whole idea
is totally repulsive. As though women were not complete on ourWinter 1'993/94 45

own but had to simulate male paraphernalia.""I see what you mean," said Caroline. She did see. The vibrator was eight inches long and four and a half inches in circumference. It had a cobweb pattern until just over half way along, tomake it easier to hold. The tip was bald and shiny like the tip ofa rocket standing at Cape Canaveral. She had long since given up
wondering whether she agreed with Amanda; understanding
how her lover saw the world was quite enough.
"So you'll throw it away?" Amanda insisted.
The Kiss"Kiss me," said Amanda urgently, the same urgency whichaccompanied all her actions. An urgency Caroline had foundirresistible six years before. Everything mattered so much to. Amanda. Whatever it was, she had to have it, they had to prevent
it, women must not read it, men must stop it.
And now Amanda must be kissed.
Caroline looked at the sore on Amanda's upper lip. Pus hadcollected, but if you broke the the skin to let the pus out, more
would surface from underneath. Caroline tried to swallow her
revulsion, feel Amanda's fear of rejection, the fear that she wasno longer beautiful. She had to make Amanda's fear bigger in
her mind than her own feeling of disgust.
"Kiss me," Amanda ordered.
By now Amanda had both hands on Caroline's forearms, hermouth was inches from Caroline's and her breath rose in the air. in warm gusts. Caroline turned her head away, but Amanda
caught her cheek and forced her lover to return her gaze.
''No,'' said Caroline.
Amanda's eyes sparked fury.
"You can't say no to me."And she pushed her mouth down on Caroline's so that the skinover the sore burst and her lover's mouth filled with the taste ofher pus. Caroline tried not to feel it, not to taste it. She felt herself
leave her body, leave the mouth which now belonged to Amanda,
occupied by that alien tongue which flicked about searching forwarmth and reassurance.

46 sinister wisdom #51

Caroline knew better than to say anything, but in her headthe voices were going wild. "I hate myself. I want to kill myself."
Soon it was over. Amanda's tongue returned to its own mouth.
Caroline did not look at the sore but went instead to the bathroom where she spat and spat until her mouth was dry. But thesaliva kept coming back and she could not vomit.
Fresh Fruit
Caroline set off for work at the usual time and walked down
to the tube station. Amanda waved to her from the car as she
passed. But instead of showing her ticket to the guard and climbing up to the platform, Caroline turned back toward the house.
She wanted the day off. She wanted to sit in a quiet room with novoices.
As she wandered back through the early morning streets, thestall holders had already started setting up their fruit stands.
There was little warmth yet in the sun's rays, but their brightness
lit up the cheeks of the nectarines and peaches, the cherries andgrapes, the pun nets of fat red strawberries. There was an enormous watermelon split open, lying pink and blatant on an upturned crate. It smelt of watermelon, it was ripe and juicy likewatermelon, it had the hard white pips of a watermelon. It was
not an eraser, a shower curtain, a beach towel, a color swatch ina mail order catalog or any of the hundred mass-produced objects which seek to emulate some aspect of watermelonhood.
''Deelishuss,'' said the man on the stall smacking his lips.
"Juicy, fruity, sweet and wet." He raised the big thick-bladed
knife which he used to cut the melons in half for his customers.
"You have to try it." He brought the blade down on the hard rind
and in a second had cut a slice for Caroline. "Ere y' are, dar lin. You
get outside of that. You'll be back for more."
Caroline laughed and bit into the fruit. Seeds spurted down
her throat and fresh juice filled her mouth. Idly she looked at the
knife and realised that her mind had been so full of watermelon
it had not shown her Amanda's grim image of a hand moving
between a woman's legs, a blade cutting into her flesh. Out here
in the busy cheerfulness of the streets, the shadows were notfearsome but a pretty gray dappling of the light.

Winter 1993/94 47

In a sudden fit of acquisitiveness, Caroline picked out as
many different kinds of fruit as she could see, vegetables too, fortheir colour, their shiny leaves, their soft skins and strong smells.
She carried home two heavy bagsful, then dropped exhausted
onto the sofa.
It was warm in the apartment. For a while she lay stretchedout, the sun playing a lazy hide and seek over her body. She gazed
up at the calm white ceiling and wriggled out of her sweater andshoes. Her grey work blouse would crease, so she unbuttoned it
and laid it carefully on the back of a chair. Soon she was wearing
only underpants and a bra, the light and shad-ow of the window
blinds striping her flesh like a zebra. In the round mirror whichhung above the chimney she caught sight of herself. There wasa half-naked woman lying on her sofa. She smiled.
Between her legs was the beginning of a warm tension andlittle curls of pubic hair were creeping out from under her panties. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, dropping it onto the carpet. She trailed a tentative finger under the
panty elastic. She was wet, her lips felt swollen. With Amanda
they got through a tube of KY a month; Caroline had assumed
she was drying up due to early menopause. She began to feel theunfamiliar, long-buried sensation of wanting something. Not of
having something forced upon her and having to make accommodation, or of sublimating wrath to tenderer emotion, but thesimple, delicate pulsing of her own blood, a roaring of her veins.
When she drew her finger up to her face, there was a strong smell
all over her hand. A smell she knew, or had remembered. Perhaps
it was there when she and Amanda went to bed, she put so much
effort into forgetting those occasions. She lay still, feeling themarvel of her own desire, waited till the want became hard andspecific.
She wanted a woman. A woman with a huge red mouth anda strong heavy tongue. And the woman would lie, miraculous,
between her spread thighs. And the tongue would be warm andwet and firm; the mouth would cover the whole enormous marsh
between her legs, the lips would suck her clitoris into that mouth
as it swelled and grew. And Caroline, instead of tidily removing

48 sinister wisdom #51

herself from the scene, would remain entirely, joyously present,
feeling that mouth on her, that gently pressing tongue. And as
the sensations built inside her and pleasure sparked up frombetween her legs all over her body, she could feel that woman
loving her.
What woman? No one she knew. Caroline jerked up andstared around the room. Her eyes were full of fear. But all wascalm and still. One of the grocery bags had fallen over and three
red and yellow nectarines lay on the pale blue carpet. She reached
out and pulled one toward her. Its flesh was warm and firm as awoman's lips. She raised it to her face, smelled its rich ripe smell
and bit into its sweet juice. She licked the orange flesh beneath.
That was not so warm as the the skin of the fruit.
Filled with clear purpose, Caroline went down to the kitchen
for a pan of hot water, and a lid that fitted. She placed the bitten
nectarine in the water and covered it over, waiting for the cool
flesh to become warm. But there was more. She wanted a mouth
on her softly lapping, lapping but she was greedy, and she took
new joy in her hunger. She wanted a woman's fingers slipped
inside her, firm and filling, opening her up, wider than she'dever been.
She ran back up the stairs and tore apart the second grocerybag. A mass of thick leaves and vegetation cascaded upon thefloor. Radishes, spinach, zucchini, eggplant, carrots, cucumbers,
bell peppers, tomatoes. They were red and orange, deep bulging
purple and six shades of green. With thoughts only of fulfilling
her own desire, Caroline picked out a carrot, a zucchini and a
cucumber. The carrot was too hard and rough-edged and it tapered away to nothing. The cucumber was just too thick. She
seized the zucchini, placed it on a chopping board, carved its
stalk down to a rounded tip and put it in the saucepan of hot
water alongside the nectarine. Carefully fitting the lid on top,
she carried the pan up to the living room and put it down besidethe sofa.
Ten minutes should do to warm them up. While she waited,
Caroline ran her fingers over her own skin, feeling the silk of her
inner thighs, the round swell of her belly, the smooth glide of her

Winter 1993/94

49

little finger in her asshole. She did not tell herself what she wasdoing, used no words to socialise her actions, held no discussionof their greater implication.
And when everything in that small pan was warm, Caroline
took each object out, dripping as they were. And the nectarine
nudging and rubbing and sliding up and down on top of her, andthe zucchini moving in and out of her with greater and greater
force felt every bit as good as she had known they would.
Caroline came laughing. She had a secret. She would tell it to
no one, but cherish it quietly, gleefully to herself. During thecourse of that hazy day she tried out many of the fruit andvegetables there assembled. The cucumbers were not, after all,too big, but allowed a gradation of sensation once she had been
opened by the zucchini. Nectarines were perfect. Well-washedpeaches were delightful too in their own way, as long as one did
not bite too deeply since their pits could be sharp. Kiwi fruit andtomatoes were not good; she had had to wash them off again
hastily, they were so acid on the skin. Bananas were fun, but they
were messy and they disappeared, melting in their own excitement before they had seen to hers. Opening lychees was a silken
treat in itself as her tongue ran along those sweet fleshy folds.
"I could write a book," she laughed gaily to herself, sobering
immediately to the cold, tormenting certainty that she could nevereven speak of the things she used to give pleasure to her body.
But then she heard the downstairs noise of Amanda's key inthe lock. Had she been there so long? Had she spent the whole
day lying flat on her back, finding new ways to enjoy herself?
What was this laziness? She must move, run, hide, throwaway
those many-scented fruit which had given her such delight. She
had time only to throw on a bathrobe, gather all the vegetable
matter into a towel and dump it on the kitchen counter. Her underwear lay on the living room floor where she had scattered it.
"Oh really, Caroline," said Amanda. "Don't you think you
could put your clothes away after you take a shower."
Caroline followed Amanda's gaze up the stairs to the livingroom. "Rest your weary feet," she said, pulling out one of the old
kitchen armchairs. ''While I tidy up."

50 sinister wisdom #51'What are you cooking?" asked Amanda, pointing toward
the stove. "Ratatouille or something?""Oh I was just throwing this away," said Caroline.
'Whatever for?" asked Amanda, "Looks okay to me. Shameto waste good food."
And so Caroline made a big stir fry with all those lovely
vegetables, many of which had already been scraped and cleaned
during the course of the afternoon, various juices enhancing
their natural flavor. For dessert, of course, there was fresh fruit
salad.
A Jar of Jalapenos
One night Amanda had a collective meeting which was set to
go on into the early hours. Were they going to accept local government funding so they could provide a twenty four hour service
for the people who called, and decent wages for themselves, or
retain their independence and refuse to be co-opted? The collective was split. Half of them had been preparing business plans
and spreadsheets for months hoping for a top-up grant, and thiswindfall made them ecstatic. The others, including, most vociferously Amanda, would not be seen dead signing any agreementwith the powers that be. Caroline had remained impassive but
sympathetic.
"I hope it all works out for the best," she said, as Amanda leftthat evening for the meeting.
"Then you must hope we convince the others to send theoffer back where it came from," retorted Amanda, who was
feeling prickly about the long night ahead.
Caroline smiled, "Drive safely," she said.
'Who can resist you," said Amanda, 'When you're so sweetand so simple? Like stone ground bread." She nodded to herself,
pleased with the analogy.
As soon as Amanda's car drove off, Caroline went down to
the kitchen to see what was in the vegetable rack. They had eaten
the last of the zucchini and the carrots were limp and covered inother life forms. The fruit box was empty. Caroline shrugged ona sweater and went out into the street. She'd have to go all theway up to the Gate to get anything at this time of night.

Winter 1993/94 51

Caroline wandered round the White Lotus all-night supermarket, wondering what else she should buy. She couldn't justput one zucchini in her trolley, someone was bound to guess
what it was for. Or make some suggestive joke. She stood overthe vegetable rack, choosing a thick green firm one which would
be the right length and easy to hold. At the same time, her eye wascaught by a jar of "jalapeno peppers," whatever that might be.
She put both the zucchini and the jalapenos in her trolley andmarched toward the checkout.
She was crossing the main road, taking herself swiftly backhome again with her booty, when someone called out, "Hey,
Caroline. You going to The Sea Change?""Oh, hi Julie, no, I was just buying groceries."''It's only 'round the next corner.""I couldn't," Caroline shook her head.
"Amanda won't let you out on your own?" Julie teased.
"No, no, it's not that," Caroline laughed, and, emboldenedby her recent vegetable-buying expedition, she added, "Okay,
just for an hour. To see what it's like."
They bought drinks and watched women dance and danced
a little themselves. Caroline kept looking around.
"I can't believe you've never been here before," said Julie.
'Well, Amanda doesn't like drinking," said Caroline.
"You could come on your own," said Julie.
"No," said Caroline.
"Course you could. Don't let her boss you around.""How are you getting on with Renate?""Oh, I love her. Never been with a feminist before, takes alittle getting used to, but she's all heart, Renate. I just wish she
wasn't spread so thin. I want her all to myself.""Oh," said Caroline.
"You look shocked. How's it going between you andAmanda?"'We, well, you know, we've been together six years."'What's that 'spose to mean? Don't have sex any more?""Oh, we do," said Caroline.

52 sinister wisdom #51"Every Saturday after shopping, whether you're randy or not."Caroline laughed. "That's wicked," she said.
"You know you don't have to stay with her."'What? What? What do you mean? What are you trying tosay?""Keep your hair on. It was just something to say."''No it wasn't. You meant something." Caroline was shaking
with anger.
"Look, I'm sorry if I offended you. I've probly had a bit too
much to drink. Should have kept my big mouth shut."
Julie grinned, bent over and with a popping of bones in theirsockets, succeeded in putting her foot in her mouth, shoe and all.
Caroline laughed despite herself.
'Where on earth have you been?" demanded Amanda assoon as Caroline had climbed the stairs. "I got home half an hourago expecting you to be tucked up watching television. You
didn't even have the decency to leave a note.""I went out to get some things," said Caroline.
'What things? It's nearly eleven o'clock at night. Nowhere's
even open."''The all-night supermarket up at the Gate.""You went there? Caroline, this is like pulling teeth. Can't
you see I was worried about you?""How did your meeting go?"''There were three people missing so we couldn't take a vote.
It was very frustrating."
Caroline went past the kitchen on her way to the bathroom.
Amanda spotted the supermarket carrier as she passed.
"So, what did you get that you had to rush out for so urgently?"
As Caroline bent down toward the bag, Amanda sniffed the air.
"Caroline?" she said, "Have you been drinking?""Yes," said Caroline.
'What the hell has been going on?"
"I went to The Sea Change. I dropped in there on my way
back from the supermarket."Winter 1993/94 53"Had a couple of pints and came on home? Do you expect me
to believe that?"
Caroline nodded. It was the truth.
'Who else was there? You must have been with someone. Or
did you meet someone there?""I met Julie on the way.""So you've been having an affair with Julie. How long has
this been going on? Does Renate know? Or hasn't Julie told her
yet? I've a good mind to ring her up right now. I've heard a few
things about that Julie Grant."''Don't,'' said Caroline. "Amanda, please don't. I just had acouple of drinks with Julie, that's all. I was coming back from thegrocery and I met her on the pavement."
Amanda studied her lover's face. ''But you like her, don'tyou. You'd like to go to bed with her."''No, no, of course I wouldn't."''Don't lie to me. Of course you fancy her. She was flirtingwith you like mad at dinner the other night. Women flirt witheach other all the time, you know. You don't have to be so coy
about it. Why do you think we go to bed with one another if we
don't fancy each other?"'Well, I guess, I mean, I do like her. It was nice sitting in thebar, drinking beer with her and all.""And you thought to yourself, 'Gee, she's cute.'""Sort of. Yeah. I guess I did. But I mean, I'm with you andshe's with Renate."'Well I'm sure you could do something about that. Couldn't
you? Did she come on to you? In the bar, while you were drinking
all those beers? I bet she did."''No, she was just nice to me.""And she told you to leave me. Didn't she? I can see it in youreyes, Caroline. You know you never could lie to me. Well I'mgoing to call Renate and see what she has to say about all this."''Don't do that, Amanda. Please. I couldn't bear it."
But Amanda was already up the stairs. Caroline watched as
her fingers moved on the dial. Julie had been nice to her, she
couldn't bear to have Amanda turn it into some crotch-groping•54 sinister wisdom #51

session with a stranger.
"I'm warning you, Amanda," she said.
Amanda looked down at her, raising her eyebrow at the word
"warn" .
"If you dial that number I'll, I'll do something terrible."
The phone was on a little table by the bannisters and in front
was the flight of stairs leading to the kitchen where Caroline wasstanding.
"You'll do what?" sneered Amanda. The contempt in her eyes
was like acid. There was nothing Caroline could do. Except not
be there any more.
"I'm leaving," she said quietly, and she turned to walk backout into the night.
''No you're not," said Amanda. "You're going to stay rightthere and face the consequences." There was a note beyond furyin Amanda's voice. It sounded like fear. Caroline looked up ather, looked in her face, looked in her eyes.
"I'm leaving," she said again.
"Oh yeah? And where are you going to go this time of night?
Who's going to take you in? You're going to Julie'S, aren't you? I
knew it. You are sleeping with that woman."Amanda dropped the receiver, darted round the bannisters
and seemed about to charge down the stairs. Her eyes were fixedon Caroline.
''You can't ... " she began, but her foot slipped on the top stairand suddenly the full weight of her body was falling through the
air toward Caroline. At least that must be what had happened. It
could not be that Amanda had thrown herself at Caroline insheer rage. Instinctively, Caroline moved aside. She did not open
her arms to break her lover's fall. Amanda's body hit the wallwith a crack, crumpling up into a little broken heap. Caroline
stared at her. There was a little trickle of blood coming from herleft nostril and her arm was buckled.
"Hallo? Hallo?" called Julie's voice over the phone, as the receiver swung from the bannisters where Amanda had dropped it.
Caroline gazed blankly from Amanda's folded body to thereceiver swinging in mid-air.

Winter 1993/94 55"Hallo?" she called, "Julie? Is that Julie? You have to come.
It's Amanda. She fell down the stairs and I think she's broken herarm.""She tried to kill me," said Amanda, as soon as she wasconscious. She was very pale and rather shaky, struggling tomaintain her air of self-possession and authority. "Caroline tried
to kill me. She got this idea into her head that Julie wanted tosleep with her and when I pointed out that Julie was in love withyou, she just went crazy."
Amanda's face clouded over. One moment she had been on
the telephone calling Renate, the next she was falling throughempty space, hitting the steps and landing on the floor below.
She remembered Caroline's face, closed off to her; her own rage;
then the pain in her arm, her ribs, her jaw. Her arm had been set
and no longer bothered her, save the awkward weight of theplaster and the necessity of doing everything with her left hand.
The hospital would not even have kept her overnight, had it notbeen for the dizzy incoherence which might have indicatedconcussion.
"That's awful," said Renate. "I can't believe she did that.
You're lucky she only broke your arm. Julie told me she'd met
Caroline that night and they'd had a few drinks together, so I
suppose she must have been drunk. But Julie certainly didn't
come on to her or anything."
Amanda waved her left hand in the air, as though dismissing
the very idea. "The whole thing would be quite ridiculous, if it
wasn't so painful," she said courageously, wincing into her plaster of Paris.
'Was she ever violent toward you before? Have you been
trying to keep it quiet? Even lesbians can be battered, you know.
Physical and psychological abuse in lesbian relationships has
been such a taboo subject, I think you ought to speak out about
it. I really do, Amanda."'Well," said Amanda, "It does make me wonder whether I' llever be able to trust a woman again.""Of course it does," said Renate. ''The emotional wounds
will take much longer to heal than your broken arm. It is good

56 sinister wisdom #51

that you're able to talk about it already. A lot of people just freeze
over, or deny the pain." Renate was surprised that Amanda was
willing to discuss the subject at all. It often took years for awoman even to admit she had been battered. Perhaps working at
Rape Crisis made it easier to recognize the pattern.
"I cared for Caroline very deeply," said Amanda, "I let her
into a place that few people even get to see.""And she betrayed you.""Yes," said Amanda, simply, "I think she did."''You can't let her get away with it, you know."''But I can't take her to court. I really couldn't bear to have ourrelationship laid bare before the eyes of the world and the tabloid press.""I know what you should do," said Renate. "Confront her
with what she's done to you. Make her recognize the pain she's
caused. Sometimes the women we work with want to confront
their abusers, in a safe environment, of course.""You're right," Amanda sighed nobly.
"I think we all know why we're here. Caroline, Amanda says
you deliberately punched her in the face, causing her to fall
down the stairs and break her arm. Is that true?" The questioner
was Helga Jansson, a woman who'd never met Caroline before
and so, the theory went, most likely to be able to remain
uninvolved. But the confrontation was being held in the Rape
Crisis building, and everyone but Caroline and Julie was on thecollective with Amanda.
''No,'' said Caroline. "It's not true. Amanda fell."
The women from Rape Crisis looked at each other. They had
been warned that Caroline was still in denial.
'Would you like to explain to us how Amanda came to fall
down the stairs of her own house while she was in the middle ofmaking a phone call?" Helga pursued.
"She was angry," said Caroline. ''Her foot slipped on the step."'Why was she angry?""She thought I was having an affair with Julie."''But you weren't having an affair with Julie, were you? You
hardly knew her."Winter 1993/94 57

Caroline said nothing. If she had opened her arms to Amanda
as she fell, they would neither of them be here now. Amanda's
arm would not be broken, Renate would not have come roundthat night, everything would be going on as usual. On and on. As
usual. Did it matter what really happened as long as it was overnow?
"You can hardly expect us to believe that Amanda turnedround in the middle of a phone call and slipped down the stairs.""I told her I was leaving her."''You said just now she was angry because you were having
an affair. Now you are telling us she was angry because you wereleaving. Where were you going to go?"Caroline fell silent. Significant glances went round the room.
"Well, we've heard what you have to say. Now you must
listen to how your action affected Amanda."
Amanda went on for over an hour. Caroline was no longer
listening. She was tired. She wanted it to be over. She had a coldsore on her upper lip which was painful. Occasionally she pushed
at it with her tongue. Shouldn't they be calling the police now?
"So, if you can truly say that you are sorry for what you did,and promise in front of all of us sitting here today that you will
never lay hands on Amanda, or any other woman, again in arough or violent fashion, then Amanda is prepared not to press
criminal charges against you. In reparation she asks that you
devote a hundred and fifty hours of your time to redecorating theRape Crisis building, or such tasks as you can usefully do. Do
you agree to that?"
If she helped out at Rape Crisis, Caroline would have to see
Amanda every day, since she worked there and was a key collective member.
'1 will never lay hands on Amanda again," Caroline promised.
"Or any other woman?" Helga prompted.
''With violence," someone added.
"I will never touch any woman violently," said Caroline.
"And do you regret what you did? Are you sorry for the pain
and suffering you have caused to the woman who was yourlover?"

58 sinister wisdom #51"I did not hit her," said Caroline. "I have nothing to be sorryfor.""Caroline, don't you realize that unless you can admit what
you did and apologize you'll never be able to move on fromhere?" Renate asked in the specially re-convened meeting theyheld an hour later. "No one will be able to trust you.""I trust myself," said Caroline, "That's all anyone really has."
Renate sighed and shook her head. 'Well, Amanda just doesn't
feel safe with you around any more. You must understand that.
She wants never to see you or hear from you or have any kind ofcontact with you again. She'll be staying with me till tomorrow
afternoon, by that time you must have packed your bags and left
her flat, and you must not attempt to see her again. Do you agree
to do that?""Yes," said Caroline.
Once she had decided to leave behind all the things Amanda
had given her over the years, there was very little for Caroline to
pack. A sleeping bag, some reggae cassettes, a couple of pairs ofjeans and a bunch of t-shirts. She looked like a young American,
packing for her first trek 'round Europe.
The doorbell sounded. Caroline jumped. Could it be Renate
with Amanda, brought home early? Since it had been decreedthat she was never to see Amanda again, Caroline was alreadybreathing more easily. Though the sense of shock had never left
her since that night when she saw Amanda's body hurtling
toward her. The doorbell rang again. More imperious this time.
"Hallo, Julie," said Caroline, standing awkwardly on thelanding. ''Was there something they sent you to tell me?"Julie just pushed past her and went up the stairs to the livingroom. Caroline followed . They stood for a moment by the sofa,
looking at each other. Julie'S face was frowning, Caroline's waryand closed.
'What really happened, Caroline?" Julie asked, rather more
brusquely than she had intended.
Caroline shrugged. "1 can't," she said, simply, sitting down.
"I just can't talk about it. I have to leave now. I have to be able

Winter 1993/94 59

to walk out of here.""But. .."
"I don't really mind," said Caroline. "I never have to see her
again, I never have to hear another thing she says to me, I never
have to make love to her, I don't even have to look at her. It's over.
It's finally over."''Was it so terrible?"
Caroline darted her eyes to Julie'S face and Julie stepped
back, shocked at the sudden pit of terror and hatred which opened
up before her.
''They'll be here in a couple of hours," said Caroline, "I'mpacked. I better go."''Where are you going?"''To the airport," said Caroline.
"I'll drive you," said Julie.
"You have to go to work.""I'll calt.in sick," said Julie, "And anyway, I'm the boss."''What will you say?"''That a woman I like is leaving town," said Julie, "And I
don't feel good about it.""You'll make me cry," said Caroline. "I can't afford to cry."
There was a plastic supermarket carrier next to the bannisters. On the way out, Caroline bent over and checked the contents. The zucchini was beginning to soften at the edges andgrow white fur down its back, but the jalapeno peppers sat
greenly in their jar. There was a notice on the lid saying, in red
letters, ''Very Hot," with a thermometer drawn on the side of thejar in which the mercury was nearly bursting out of the top. She
threw the zucchini in the dustbin, but the jalapenos she wrapped
carefully and stowed away in the inside compartment of her bag.
''What time is your flight?" asked Julie, once they were safely
on the motorway to Heathrow.
"Four-thirty," said Caroline.
''We've got loads of time."''There was so little to pack."
JUlie glanced at her from the driver's seat and held her hand fora moment.

60 sinister wisdom #51'Where are you going? Or don't you want anyone to know?""I don't want Amanda to know where I am, what I'm doing,
who I'm with or what my name is.""You're planning to change your name?""And my birth sign," said Caroline.
"You can't change your birth sign," Julie protested. "You
can't change when you were born."
Caroline laughed, "It's funny how sacred horoscopes are.
How much we believe in the stars."'What would you change it to?""Libra," said Caroline. "I'm going to be a Libra.""And what were you?""I won't tell you that."
Julie laughed. "Then you must have been a Scorpio. Only a
Scorpio would think of changing her sign." Caroline smiled.
'Where was it you said you were going?""San Francisco," said Caroline.
"Really? I mean, you bought an aeroplane ticket all the way
to San Francisco? San Francisco, California? You're not just flying up to Edinburgh to spend a few days with your Aunt Mavis?""I'm going to San Francisco, Julie. And I'm never coming
back. Not while Amanda's alive."'Well, do you have friends there? People to stay with? You
have been there before, for a holiday or something?"''No,'' said Caroline, slowly, "No, and no."''You don't know anyone there, you have no one to stay withand you've never been there?"''That's right.""Caroline," said Julie, "Have you planned this? Have you
thought about what it's going to be like? You can't change country as easily as you can change your name.""For the last six years I have been quite unable to plan anything.""But without a work permit, they'll only let you stay six
months."''Then that's six months more than I can deal with at the
moment. I just have to get away, far away where Amanda can'tWinter 1993/94 61

get me, in a few months time when she's stopped being angry
with me and wants me back."''You're just running on fear," said Julie.
Caroline said nothing.
"Look," said Julie, "I'm going to give you the phone numberof a friend of mine who has a house in San Francisco. She'salways looking for people to rent rooms.""What's her name?""Ella," said Julie. "Ella Jordan.""Ella Jordan," repeated Caroline, savouring the sound of iton her tongue. "I feel better already."
She looked at Julie a moment. "You've been so good to me. I
think you're a decent person." She laughed at the awkward
formality of the phrase, but it was what she meant, and she did
not say it lightly.
Then she picked up her black bag, full of jeans and T shirts
and jalapeno peppers, and walked toward the boarding gate.
Julie watched her go. A thin woman with a big bottom. She
looked so terrifyingly alone. The kind of loneliness that smells,
a disturbing odor of desolation and barren landscapes. Julie
found a kind of comfort in the unfashionable spread of Caroline's
hips. She was solider than she looked.

62 sinister wisdom #51

Carellin Brooks

.

rIver
When you called me this evening you had just comefrom making love. I could tellby how your voice turned a notch
when you said her name.
It betrays us always, the false intimacy
of bodies, their interior spaces. My new loveris bigger than you,a strength that doesn't holdbut frees me to rise against her. Last night
she lowered her head and I gave inlips against wet skin.

(Everyone says
I want to get back together
with you, she said:
three or four times.) I asked
the obvious question. I could tellby how you said nothing
what you wanted.
That's how it's always been with us:
movement and silence, and waking from it
as from a dream. Then the parcelled-out months
when we said nothing, watching each otherfrom across the sheets.
I could have forgiven anything
but the turn of your body that said no. When you cameit was with a cry as if you had been forced. I learned
to take my pleasure quickly, moving without noise
against your watching eyes.

Winter 1993/94 63

It's always been goodwith us, you said, and I remembered
your unyielding mouth on mine,
the bones of your teeth
behind your thin lips.
Yesterday I walked
to the end of the concrete pierat the end of the island
where the herons land. I trailed my handin the brown rush of waterand thought about you. My new loverdraws me onto her thighs, working
like a river, taking me farther
than I can take myself. You are farther away
than I ever thought possible, beyond the uninhabited islands
and the faint line of hills, pale against the sky.

64 sinister wisdom #51

Standing female nude backview
litho crayon on paper

Adriana Medina

Winter 1993/94 65

Reggie W. Brewster

Not About the Ocean
Everyone is writing about the ocean these days
telling me of seaweed and kelp and sandwith all the details and sunshine.
.
I have been to the ocean, too, and yes, I got a sunburn,but it was long ago.
Since I have lived in the midwest so long,spent my whole life in the "Land of 10,000 Lakes,"
to write an ocean poem would be cheating.
Indeed, the water body I knew best
was hidden by a "Private Property - No Trespassing" sign.
It was dark, late-night, no stars reflected on the lake,rather chilly, too, as I recall.
We made love (though she has since gone to the ocean).
I'm sorry that I can't remember moreof the details; the sun wasn't out...
I can't tell you how the water lapped on the shore, or how
the cattails swayed, or how the lightning bugs blinked
or how the fish flopped on that water;
I can't tell you any of these things, and I can't tell you
about the ocean.

66 sinister wisdom #51

Pamela Gray

This Pantoum Was Not On My Schedule

I'm tired of breakup poems.
I wasn't supposed to write more poems like this
I wClsn't supposed to need new metaphors for grief
You were never supposed to leave me
I wasn't supposed to write more poems like thisI'd outgrown loss, you see
You were never supposed to leave me
You were supposed to stay with me forever
I'd outgrown loss, you see
T.he keening at bedtime, the ache in the gut
You were supposed to stay with me forever
I'd never have to feel like this again
The keening at bedtime, the ache in the gut
That's over in our twenties, isn' t it?
I'd never have to feel like this again
Never have to face that early morning dread
That's over in our twenties, isn't it?
I thought I'd paid my dues
Never have to face that early morning dread
That moment of absolute alonenessI thought I'd paid my·dues
Been left enough for one lifetime
That moment of absolute alonenessNo floor beneath my feet

Winter 1993/94 67

Been left enough for one lifetime
The old losses still live in my body
No floor beneath my feet
You were supposed to protect me, remember?
The old losses still live in my body
I wasn't supposed to need new metaphors for grief
You were supposed to protect me, remember?
I'm tired of breakup poems.

fEN/ HI1U..

68 sinister wisdom #51

Lois DeWitt

Hungry Hearts

The dollar of moon,sliding from the grasp of branches,
is nightly invested with the stars.
We could bask in this richnessof pale, black velvet night,
our legs entwined,breathing each other's breath.
But instead we lie alone,
me in my bed
you in yours.
And when, at last we sleep,
our hungry hearts go out andforage rodent-likeamidst the cornstalks and gutterweeds
for sweet kernels of love.

Winter 1993/94 69

Kathryn Eberly

Although You've Gone Dancing
Your breasts have stayed behind
to have a little chat with me.
They pull up a chair.
They say: we are serious and
we refuse to be dreamy.
They say: we've been neglected
and we're hurt.,
but we love you.
We miss the attention, what gives?
The breasts are asking me questions.
I'm trapped.
I'm in a comer and I've no other choice
but to send in the earlobes
to negotiate.

Figure IlluStration, No . 4
Reven Swanson

70 sinister wisdom #51

Rustun Wood

Passion/Play

See.
This is the page. And behind it is a writer and lying on it is
the life of a woman in a story. And outside of it is that world thatwas not made to fit around the woman writer in a cold flat, noraround a woman whose life will appear on a page. Now see themhunched together: woman and writer and imagine the blankspace that is to be the rest of the woman's story lying like agraveyard between the writer's fingers and the woman there
spread on the page. Now imagine the woman writer trying tocreate a life of daffodils in a minefield of war. For that was what
the woman writer, Serina, felt she was creating as she tried to diga trench between her life and the woman's on the page. She tried
to fill the blank page with a word in the alphabet, typed "T," butthe rest of the words refused to be finished.
Outside, the morning was opening over the entrails of thenight. But inside the cold flat, the unformed words collectedaround the typewriter, breathed in, and then disappeared before
Serina could use any of it. She tried to catch at least the tail-end
of one of the words on her tongue, but they were now here; thengone; quick as a fuck; and as quiet and forgotten as your lastdrawn breath. The page stayed empty.
Serina swallowed her saliva and rolled her tongue aroundher mouth: but there was no one thing she could pull out fromthe creases of her memory to complete a sentence. The end to thewoman's life lay long as a stormy waterfall in Serina's mouth:
dark, rich, murky - swirling with wells of deeps and orange andgreen and red and purple. She rolled her tongue around her
mouth again, but could find no word left over on the cusps of her
teeth.
The cold flat creased in on itself, and put a blanket on the lifeof the woman who smelled of the deeps of waterfalls and tasted

Winter 1993/94 71

of purple. The page stayed empty, and Serina could not get past
the one sentence that lay between her fingers: how does such awoman wake up and then find a place for herself in a world thatis not open to women who taste of purple? Perhaps if she had
smelled of just orange then she could have got up and had a longbath and then felt like a woman. And if she had smelled of day,she could have worn pastels and daintily minced down thestreets. But a woman who smelled of just purple? How could
Serina make her speak of the fat rolling around on the inside ofmouths, the taste of red wine around her folding thighs, thesmell of murder and revenge between her hair?
The daylight now leaned forward around the writer's shoulders and licked the last of the night from between the breasts of
the woman there on the page. The rising sun licked invisible thewounds of the night. Flowers raised their heads a little higher:
the sun looked up a bit, and while Serina was thinking of a word
to write, the ghosts that lived inside her fingers lay back andtried to find a space in the uncomfortable morning dawning.
+++++

Do not sleep easy now; do not sleep softly: there is a woman
on a page waiting for her life to be finished. The woman on thepage lay with her eyes open and stared up at the ceiling. Herbrows shifted a little. From beyond the page came the heavy
weighted sighs of the loneliness which kept turning around inSerina's bed and refused to find an easy grave. And as the daylight came up, the woman on the unfinished page could feel themoon being robbed of its witch powers.
The cold flat turned, dodged in-between the words that could
have described the woman, and Serina could only stretch herneck back and wait for her own silence to lick the night off her
neck. She closed her eyes, swallowed and felt the lies cut like asecret through her heart. Women, the angel in her head wastelling her, were treacherous things to write about. And thisWoman on the page was like so many before her who had been
written about: like many before they stuck the knife in the back;72 sinister wisdom #51

before they cut off the golden tresses of hair; before they threw
back their heads and felt the power of their runts go beyond
orgasm and bring out the god and the satan in them. But where
do women of purple go in this world? Each other? The other?
Themselves? That was it, Serina's fingers felt as she started
typing across the keyboard. They only have their own purples to
go,to. Therefore, women of purple don't wake up in the morning,and just lie back on cold pages. They smell their own hair; taste
their own fingers; draw their own blood.
"Sometimes,/ when I am not lying on empty pages, I lick thedeath/ around my enemies' hearts" the woman on the page said
to herself.
Serina opened her eyes, and continued typing: 'When / shewoke up that morning,! she could only lie back and/ taste/ the sinthat lived in her own bed. /"The woman on the page closed her eyes for a few seconds;
dreamed and breathed.
"Her hands were covered with it;/ she smelled the purple she
was bathed in,/ keeping her safe from the nightmares written in
tongues on her walls./"
Serina leaned closer into the typewriter, and brought her
thighs closer together.
"/She touched her hair; / and plotted murder.!"
The woman on the page pushed her head back a little, lickedaround her mouth and turned over.
"She counted the number of people she had haunted/ both/in their dreams/ and throughout the day,/ the ku klux klan/ thepreacher / the scared man/ the woman with a black maid andchildren to think of! the man with his finger on the button./"Serina let her nipples just skirt on the edges of the wooden
table. Her fingers felt satisfied walking so easily over the keys.
She drew her thighs closer to the table.
''The woman licked/ her fingers/ and tasted the salt of otherpeople's nightmares.!"
The woman on the page pressed her stomach and her tits

Winter 1993/94 73

further into the mattress. She felt the heads of her enemies being
smothered and drowned in the wined creases of her thighs.
"Lying/ back,/ staring atthe ceiling,! she laughed and rubbed
her stomach.! What would the president have for breakfast thismorning/ while/ he thought/ of! people/ like her.!"Serina pushed her thighs closer around the table leg andlocked her legs at the ankles. Her fingers and the keyboard werein conversation.
"No matter what/ the president/ would have/ thinking ofher / and them/ she knew she had his fear/for always. I"
The woman on the page moved out of the "sheets and wrapped
herself around the typewriter cartridges. Serina's fingers typed
and she rubbed her nose in the purple that was coming throughfrom her fingers.
"She/ lay / back/ and laughed/ /."Ankles locked, Serina started rubbing herself against therounded bulge of the table. The smell of somebody's cunt wascoming through and coming through strong. The woman on thepage pulled at her own nipples and felt the satisfying taste of herenemies' blood on her teeth.
"She laughed/ and/ laughed/ and saw the president eating
her blood for breakfast. I"
Serina's fingers pushed harder into the keys as she felt the
ground rise up and collect in her stomach and in her cunt. The
woman on the page licked and licked while laughing her head
off. And moving, moving, enjoying their own terrors against
each other, there was one woman with her fingers on the keys
and another with her fist in her enemies' hearts moving, moving,coming together: licking hard the flames of their own desires.

74 sinister wisdom #51

Sandra Havener

FrackleNative leaves like mesquite, like mimosa:Yellow dangling tassels
like yellow food, like pink,food like clover for bees,
for the wax cages, for the honey boxes.

Peni HallWinter 1993/94

75

Jen Benka

Symbol of SoundI'd rather read "Have I told you that I put my tongue in Bernadette's
mouth," than "Have I told you I'm a lesbian?"-Stacy Szymaszek

A word is a word is a word

for something
frustrated in its own meaning.
Capturing and distancing itself two women masturbating
in separate rooms
imagining the other.

Without naming my wanting
I watch her
sitting near mestare at her softness ...
If I strung letters together
to make a line sound like her
it might speak
sunrise or sunflower or dusk.
It might be quiet
breath.
Without naming my touching
my hand presses her breast
circles it deep into her chest.
move with me
move with me
slow and around
My tongue touches her lip
follows a line
down to her hip I sturdy and sink
face first
inbetween then into her
slow
and aroundand aroundagain.

76 sinister wisdom #51

Susan Stinson

Cream

One day an angel was walking down the Main Street of Moody.
She saw a store, and entered. A fat red-headed woman stoodbehind the counter. She nodded at the angel, and the angel
recognized her. She leaned on the counter. "Are you Martha
Moody?"
Martha rang up a purchase and nodded again. ''What's yourpleasure?"
The angel blinked her large yellow eyes, and said, "I am
Azreal, and I need a favor."
Martha said, "I can't take any time off from the store."Azreal stuck her muzzle in a barrel and picked up an apple.
"Come on," she said out of the side of her mouth. "It'll just takea few moments of your time."
Martha frowned. "Don't bite that apple unless you're goingto buy it. Can it wait until after five?"
Azreallicked the apple with her long tongue, then put it backin the barrel.
"Hey," said Martha.
Azreal held up her hoof. ''That will make it extra sweet forsome lucky customer."
Martha looked skeptical, but as soon as the angel had wandered off, she found the very apple and took a bite. It tasted likehoney would if it had a peel.
Azreal was back at five sharp. Martha lowered the awningand locked up, then looked her visitor in the eye. "What would
you have me do?"Azreal's voice was suddenly grander. "Your task is to come toa dry town and use your powers to make it wet and green."
Martha stared at the angel as the store fell away around them.

Winter 1993/94 77

A wind came up and blew the gray cloak off Azreal to reveal her
in full glory as a winged cow. She was the color of fine butter,with deep yellow skin, broad yellow udders with veins in thepattern of lightning, yellow at the end of her tail, and the insideof her ears and around the eyelids yellow.
Martha saw that she was no longer standing, but floating on
blue air thick as cream. Her black dress melted away from her,and she found herself in a short garment of a shimmering whitefabric she did not recognize, with thin straps and a pattern ofeyelet flowers over her breasts. Her body was loose underneath- her corset frothed off her into ticklish bu.bbles - and she wasmoving all over herself, like the sky cream she was riding.
"Look down," lowed Azreal. Martha saw a hilly, green country, very different from Moody, with trees in abundance andblack roads and strange houses at regular intervals.
"You must make it wet and green."''But it's already green," said Martha, turning onto her side sothat she could see the cow flying beside her. "So many trees.""It's dry at the heart," Azreal insisted.
So Martha stretched out on her belly and floated looking
down through the clear blue cream to the clusters of houses andodd vehicles. Azreal watched over her shoulder and breathedgrassy smells on her back.
When they were close enough, Martha saw people - women,
mostly, and small boys and girls - carrying brown bags, talking,gliding the streets in closed wagons. They looked like the peopleof Moody, just dressed funny and most of the women werethinner - but a smell rose from them and their houses. Martha
didn't recognize it, but it bit into' her nose and made her eyeswater.
''Dry rot." Azreal flicked her tail, and the cream sky darkened. "Go on, Martha. They're desperate.'"Martha wondered how to go about bringing them liquid. She
could cry them a river, but she wasn't that moved. In fact, she felt
indifferent to lives whose dryness made her itch even from thisdistance. ''Why won't you do it?" she asked Azreal.
The cow stretched her·wings. "That's not my role. I just make

78 sinister wisdom #51

the cream."
Martha knew a thing or two about cream. She dipped a fleshrippled arm in the thick sky she was floating in. "So that's it.
Okay. I'll churn the air.""You 'can stand on my back if you want." Azreal beat her _wings and flew close to Martha. ''To have a solid surface."
So Martha climbed onto the back of the yellow angel cow.
Azreal's back was broad, and Martha's feet were bare, so when
she squatted for a moment, then stood up straight, she had a firm
footing. Sne wanted to beat as much of the cream as she could, so
she started swinging her arms and rolling her hips, the big
swings of her belly nfoving the cream in a firm circle. Her hips
stirred from the front and the back, and her arms caught the
motion over her head and brought it back down to her hips again.
She moved like sex, like magic, like the ocean she carried with
her in her rippling back. The soft parts of her body that she
couldn't agitate floated back and forth in rhythm as she worked.
It was hypnotic and exhausting. Martha hadn't learned so much
motion in childhood, but grew into it with her breasts and therolls of her sides. She walked forward on Azreal's back with her
hips and arms rolling, then turned on her toes and walked to thetail. Azreal sang low repetitions in the ancient voice of cow, tohelp.
They hung in froth that lasted for what seemed hours, ascreen of small blue bubbles that clung to Azreal's hide andMartha's skin, but slid off her shiny slip. They could no longer
see the town, but Martha had closed her eyes, anyway, to concentrate. She forgot about the people, forgot about dryness, but lostherself in texture, in nuances of foam as it slipped down her
sides, as it clung to her eyelids and coated her hair. She felt
herself swelling, armS and belly spreading until she and Azreal
could move the whole sky.
Then it happeneq. It thickened. Martha's breaths came slow
and filtered through blue whipped cream. Azreal kept singing.
Martha waved and rolled and danced. Quickly the cream clottedand buttermilk spilled upon the people who had been pursuingtheir business as if the sky were a far and placid place.

Winter 1993/94 79

Martha sat on Azreal, who flapped her wings slowly to help
her gather the butter into a ball.
"That's the moon," Azreal told her. "They'll see it shine
tonight."
Martha dug some craters with her fingers. "Do you go throughthis every month?"
Azreal shook her head. "Not that often. But these people areso hollow that they suck the moon down to nothing. So I look fora woman with strength and succulence who can churn my cream
to butter when it gets too bad. There's nothing like buttermilk
rain for dry rot."
Martha glanced down. It all looked about the same, only
glossy.
Azreallanded. "Thank you so much."
Before Martha could answer, she was standing at the counterof her closed store, with an apple sweet as honey in her hand.

80 sinister wisdom #51

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Laura Bean

Letter Written From One Hen to Another as
Dictated to a Sympathetic Farm GirlMy Dearest Amelia cluck-cluck,
If I, a chicken, were to stand before you; another chicken, andunruffle my feathers, which have been ruffled for some time
now, given the life of the coop - no, no, scratch that. I, a hen,stand before you, another hen, featherless, in the skin, as it were.
Yes, Amelia, there have been others.
But now, after reading Healing the Chick Within, I know that it
was fear which led me to strange roosts. "I hoped that surrounding
myself with other hens could make our loving risk-free. Oh, I havetransgressed, my darling! cluck-cluck
You are the only chicken with whom I wish to nest. I delightin scratching our names in the soil while we peck at the cracked
corn, though we hurry to cover them up before the others see.
Oh, they don't see, do they? And I fear that what they don't
understand, they must- destroy. What ills will my true affection
bring? Will my love for you be deemed foul? Will I be considered a danger to the chicks? Or sent to see the veterinarian?
cluck-cluck cluck-cluck
Such thoughts leave me flightless. But with you, I soar (sortof). Permit me to enter the folds of your loveliness once again.
Though we peck nervously and worry about getting our necks
wrung, we will love.
Without you, I am less than a fryer.
X

Gretacluck-cluck82 sinister wisdom #51

C. E. Atkins

Confessions

I won't get out of bed without coffee.
Some people like me, some don't.
I walk the streets planting my bitterness
between the cracks of sidewalks.
I'm afraid of the moon and her jade power.
The things it will do to me!
I have a weakness for mountains and small streams.
I have an aunt who was once young and very beautiful.
She played out her sadness on the white teeth of a piano.
I am a liar. A cheat.
I'll steal anything that fits inside my pants or pockets.
When I'm hungry, I read.
I had a father who was drunk, and fell downon the rug in the living room.
My mother kicked him, I think.
There are ways to survive and I've learned some.
I worship my soul, despise myself.
I am a loser, a thief, a footprint, a leaf.
Lately, I've had deep and endless dreams.
Sometimes my body is all fist.
I am stronger and weaker than you could ever believe.

Winter 1993/94 83

Gail M. Koplow

NovemberLike sniffles, sin is annual.
Every November, bittersweet as anise
I find noisy discontents, malfeasances
within my own undercountry.
My basement's low-ceilinged, has 'musty rock and mortar walls.
My body feels pressurized, as if in a rickety DC-3.
I have an idea from years past that I could
fly out the bulkhead into spacespinning with mischief.
When sin's up, I nosebleed, I heartache.
I see so much possibility, like acrash landing on Antarctica
causing great harm
doing banal, big-winged things.
I eat lightly so as not tofeed the goatish part.
I take long endorphic walks on the beach.
On the night of November twenty-first, 1992,
a woman in a top hat shouted carny speeches
in my dreams. Step right up andcarpe diem, she shouted
wiping her wet nose with a striped sleeve.
Even though I glimpsed my pleasant
fifty-three year old body at the discount store
the rules say: you're not sexy.
Even though my skin is dry and freckledfrom sunny antics. Even though my multipara
belly swells like an expensive sofa cushion.

84 sinister wisdom #51

I am beautiful. You see me?
My parents said nothing of lust and I never got to
ask my grandparents, though they owned several
candy dishes. When I slept on the couch in their
kitchen, Pop would slip me a slice of
Genoa salami at midnight. She doesn't wantlunch meat, Jerry, Nonny would whisperin their bed fifteen feet away but
he never believed her. N onny was awoman as restless as I am, fed me pink canada
mints, dressed in shivery, purplish silk
made love to Poppa. I could hear theirsmacking sounds. But she knew w.hat
she was missing. We cried at matinees
every Wednesday. Their basement scared me
full of orphaned cats she fed erratically.
A huge humanoid furnace, white, arms
outstretched toward the floor registers
heating itself, turning on in November
whenever anyone tOWlhed the thermostat.

Winter 1993/94

85

Bettianne Shoney Sien

The Cold War

I don't believe Russia exists.
When I think of Russia I see my mother is shouting that if
someone were at the neighbors with a gun pointed to their heads,
wouldn't we defend ourselves?
.
''But mom, why would Russians point ~ gun at Allie Ziegler'shead? They didn't point a gun at anyone else's head.""You're seven years old," my mother says, "what do you
know about Russians?" .
It's just that it has been snowing all week. It has to do with
God and Saint Norbert's Catholic cemetery and how the groundis so stubbornly frozen that our dead uncle can't be buried.
"Russia's even colder," my mother says," so be grateful you
don't live there."If Russia exists.
I breathe holes into the frost on the pane to watch the sky. I
confuse flurries with stars and planets while my mother whacks
sprouts off last summer's potatoes before throwing chunks ofthem into the soup pot.
It is eight 0' clock. It has been snowing all week, and has beennight for hours. The house smells cold and the scraped ice I suckfrom my fingernails taste sweet.
"Stop it," my mother says, "you know you can't see stars
when it's snowing. Why don't you listen to me? Half the timethose aren't even stars. It's the Russians, watching us. They canhear everything, too. Put your coat on if you're going to sit by thewindow."
Out the window I watch a million tiny Russian ballerinas
plummet to the ground, while my mother mixes chicken fat into
the soup pot.
I pull my mother's plaid woolen coat around me and playwith the sharp beads I find loose in her pocket. I once thought

86 sinister wisdom #51

they were glass, before I held one up to the sun and saw theplastic seam.
''What does it matter?" My mother said, "They're still pretty."
I had been sitting on her lapin the car, the frost like moss
across the dashboard in front of me. The tip of my tongue stuckto the metal in the same moment that she warned, "Don't you
dare lick that dash." She had given me the beads for comfort but
the string broke as I wondered how long taste buds took to growback.
It is eight o'clock and has been snowing for months. My
mother is a gray frayed dress with red hands.
I wish they would come, marching in their furry hats across
Highway 12. They could blow like drifts from someplace that
does not exist, past toy farms and humps of wrecked tractors inwhite fields. The children would stop with their rusted wooden
sleds to watch as the woolen soldiers knocked over the priest.
The dogs would be too scared to bark, they would stand like they
had been dipped in dry ice. The sisters of St. Francis would excitedly chant the rosary, their faces triumphant with martyrdom.
My mother looks at the clock and strains to hear a car engine
above the silence of the snow. She drops dry chicken bones into
the soup. It is eight o'clock and I watch seamless snowflakes
build hills across our farm and walls to hide us from our neighbors. Fog rises from the soup, and I think of the headless chickenthat ran scarlet circles in snow yesterday,.
When the Russians point their guns at my hat, I would foldmy hands as I had been instructed by the nuns, bow my head andtell the truth, "Nope, I do not believe inGod."
Then would the soldiers take me back to Russia with them?
"You' ll see when they come, "my mother insists. "Look at thesnowflakes," she says, "God made each one different."
But I have no proof, they always melt into my mitten before
I can compare.
My mother says, "It's eight o'clock, how can it still only beeight o' clock?" She opens the door, tries to make out the roadthrough the gray shield of the storm, then slams it against theinvading flakes . She sits down at the oilcloth covered table andWinter 1993/94 87

picks walnuts loose from their cracked shells.
What if the Russians don't ask me if I believe in God? They
might just line me up with all the others against the barn doorand blast us.
What will happen then? With no God or heaven, and I'm notso sure about limbo either, though I like that limbo song on theradio. But I think they only allow babies.
So there I'll be in the snow bleeding with my family in stale
hay and manure and the cows will be mooing, while the Russians climb the walls to Allie Ziegler's farm to point guns at theirheads.
Soft bombs of snow will fall and our bodies will have to wait
for the frost to end before we can be buried along with our deaduncle.
I uncurl a strand of paint from the windowsill and say, ''Mom,
the clock is unplugged.""You and your snotty mouth," my mother says.

88 si nister wisdo m #51

Figure Illustration, No.1
Reven Swanson

Winter 1993/94 89

Darmaye Marley

Experience
South Texas, one hundred miles from the Mexican border. Everything flat, hot, dry and thorny, even you. I'd been there five years
when we met. I wasn't a native. You liked to remind me of that.
I was a damn Yankee. I left you there. Burned all your cards,
letters - even tried to burn the jewelry. Traveled back north.
Back to cool green mountains. Back to where I knew the water
flowed and wouldn't sting my eyes, like your Gulf. Yes, I remember swimming there with you. Drunk.
You wouldn't know me now. But I think of you sometimes.
I'm embarrassed to admit I've forgotten your last name. Yourmaiden name was Russell, is that right? We used it sometimes invarious small-town hotels. We were a real hoot, weren't we? Twomarried women sneaking away from the watchful eyes of husbands. State parks, secluded beaches. Had to be so careful.
Your husband was a real Texas man. Even in his slick business attire, he was real Texan. Nothing more than a red-neckpacking a pistol. He hated damn Yankees, especially me. Camefor me once, with his gun. Thanks for calling and warning me.
Last time I ever talked with you.
Ah, well, we weren't in love by that time. What was it? All ofnine months? By that time we had managed to create so muchscandal. God, you should have known better - a successful
business woman like you. So calculating, no wonder the company thrived under your direction.
I'd like to sugarcoat it, like so many stories I've since heard.
"Sweet." "Mystical." "Empowering." I didn't know any stories
back then. I just knew what I was experiencing. You. When I feel
I must classify you, and often lately I feel I must, I place you in
the experience category.
"She was my first 'experience.'"Thanks for calling and warning me about the gun.
South Texas. Flat. Hot. Dry. And thorny.

90 sinister wisdom #51

Lenore Baeli Wang

Fullness of Harmony
When you were fifteen it was like being on a merry-go-round.
With each revolution you caught a glimpse of the brass ring, but
it was always one hand's length out of reach. That's what being
fifteen was like, Terry thought, hiding her eyes behind her copyof My Darling, My Hamburger. From the moment they left their
shiny apartment in New York, until now, her parents' communication had deteriorated. They should stop every hour, even if
they didn't have to go to the bathroom, her mother said. Sitting
long in a filthy car required frequent refreshment. His car wasclean, her father had snapped, and if he listened to her theywould be in Florida Christmas time.
Although being in the car with them was as comfortable as
being in a tank with piranhas, Terry speculated it might be interesting to find out how well she could manage.
Now they were arguing whether or not they should visit
Terry's cousin. By her mother's voice she knew it was more thana matter of inconvenience.
"She should not be exposed to such an influence.""Karen is our relative, my sister's daughter. We're in the area.
There's no reason we shouldn't drop in. We can have coffee. You
can wash your face," he enticed. ''Then we'll be on our way."
Her mother complained that it wasn't necessary and becamea "stubborn mule" in the eyes of her father who, to her mother,had become very painful to her ass.
Terry took her father 's side. Putting her book tent-like on theseat - she could always return to it should things get hotter she prepared to speak. It would be like poking a finger into thewater when the piranhas were feeding. She felt her sentencereach over into the front seat like a finger: "I'd like to see mycousin, especially if she lives in a trailer. It would be like goingto a circus camp.""Yeah, a couple of clowns." Her mother snorted.

Winter 1993/94 91

Terry could feel peace spread slowly through her stomach as
the muscles of her hands and arms relaxed. Like two outstretched,unsevered fingers her sentences reached over into the front seat,perhaps one resting on the head of her father, the other on her
mother's shoulder. They had not screamed at her.
The "lawn" was mostly dirt. Sparse grass grew straggly andblond, like the sparse but fluffy brass-colored triangle on thatgirl in her father's magazine. Sometimes when her parents wereout, she rescued the glossed-in women from under father's pajamas at the bottom of his night table drawer. She couldn't resist
staring at the brassy, fluffy one, labelled Janice, who loved to ski
and kayak. She confessed her fantasy was to lose her path on alonely ski trail, to be rescued by a healthy St. Bernard with brandy,a broad-shouldered owner close behind. She wanted that burly
owner, she reassured the interviewer, who told readers that at
this point she laughed, shaking her blond hair.
Terry most liked Janice's smooth blond hair that slid curvy
down her shoulders. If she could stroke it once, if she could haveit in place of her own dull brown hair-.
Her mother was wanting a promise they would not stay at
Karen's an hour. Damn it, he wanted help finding those invisible
trailer numbers.
The dirt may have been dusty, bland, but amidst tussocks ofgrass, it held narrow homes, some corrugated, as if holding anenergy like the one in Terry's gut now. She wished she could
open all the doors.
Karen's strong, clear "hello" made her forget everything but
visiting ~aren. It was celebratory, like a bird wanting to sing justbecause it could. Terry said "hello" in hopes that Karen would
sing a second time, but Karen was already dragging in her parents, telling them they would love the place. Her father asked,
responding to the female teasing he liked, "What is it, a hollowed out two-by-four?" Karen laughed as if she appreciatedsomething in his comment that he was unaware of and patted hisback. She invited them into the kitchen to meet Laura, to have abottle of beer.

92 sinister wisdom #51'Why do you live in a trailer?" Terry asked.
Her mother took little sips of beer from a huge glass withgreen ·and purple flowers. Terry could imagine climbing into a
glass that size, but didn't have much time to - Karen was explaining, "Singing in nightclubs is not lucrative.""Care" - that was the way Laura pronounced her cousin's
name - "does some electrical work on the side. She repairs
things for people here." Her hair was like janice's.
"Lucrative," Karen answered her question, "means moneymaking, which music is not.""But you play in nightclubs. Isn't that being famous?"
Karen poured half the beer from the bottle into her throat.
"It's being hard-up; don't ask what that means, you dictionary
thumper.""Dictionary thumper?"Karen slapped the table in amusement so strong that the beerin her mother's glass hissed softly and made new foam. The two
girls and her father laughed - he watched Laura like she wanted
to - but since Terry could not see what was funny, she put themouth of her beer bottle into her mouth, tilted her head back.
She felt fish-like, her lips forming an "0"; maybe that's why they
were laughing, no, they had laughed before that. She couldn't
remember anymore when it was her beer disappeared. It had
been delicious, tasting almost like pretzels, bubbly, golden, bitter. Despite her mother's grumblings, "Sure she could have another," her father said. "The kid's had a rough trip. Besides, youknow how observant she is."Terry pretended to be very observant of Karen's fingers as
they pinched the cap off her fresh bottle. Her thUIpb rolledsmoothly round its ridges; her index finger, with its neatly squared
nail, pointed backwards in the opposite direction. It was such apersuasive finger Terry almost believed the direction it stung the
air was significant, but it only indicated Karen's own breast.
From beneath her burgundy shirt, which must have been soft, anipple was outlined. Laura saw her. Terry was surprised to receive a smile from this curly-haired friend of her cousin.
Strong, smooth, the color of coffee with just a drop too much

Winter 1993/94 93

of cream, Karen's hands would stay for a long time curved aroundher brain. She felt them massage an odd joy around her mood.
"She's wasted," Terry heard Laura say from the far end of thetable.
Was she really drunk? She had never been so it was fuzzy tofigure out. If she really were, she would not wonder if she were.
That was easy. Her brain felt like the Cheshire cat, wide, white,
grinning ... .
Everyone was discussing sleeping for some reason, her motherinsisting it would be an inconvenience, they could easily find a
hotel; Karen, that hotels were expensive; probably not clean, herfather speculated. Laura said, 'We have more space than you
think, and look at poor Terry."
Terry did not feel poor, just thirsty, eager to sleep. It she could
only get sleep now, it would be like hay to a cow, milk to a baby,
sex to the sex maniac - she thought this would make a goodpoem.
"Could I have a pen, Karen?"
Karen pulled a thin maroon pen from her breast pocket. It
was heavy, and she felt, just from holding it, it would ink beautiful lines" penmanship, words; it could probably even write agreat poem.
"Are you going to write on my table, or would you like some
paper, too?"
Terry could not figure out what Karen meant. The pen was
perfect; she did not want to scribble on the table with it. Was she
hinting that like a schoolgirl Terry would be inclined to write ondesks? She could see herself filling the entire surface, then thesides, legs, scribbling the best parts underneath. Anyone sitting
there would miss what was scrawled beneath the surface of thedesk. But she really did want to sleep.
Karen put a cot in the bedroom, where Terry would sleep
with her parents. It was fruitless to protest, Karen and Laurawould take the fold-out couch. Terry was glad to stretch out on
the tight canvas bed. It did not sink, but vibrated slightly when
she struck it. Both her parents were soon snoring in the dark.
When she awoke - had she slept? - to the lion of their

94 sinister wisdom #51

snores, she remembered that she had fallen asleep to the ocean. The
ocean roared, but then it murmured, hummed and sang while theearth danced beneath it. Pounding the sand, it hummed; singing,it clawed back into itself particles of shell, sand it would fling out
again. The hum and scrape of the ocean was the sound she heard
now. It wasn't her parents snoring. Something scratched the sand,or was scratched by it; something murmured.
Karen was playing guitar with her fingers, making moremusic with her mouth. Terry brought knees to chin by the door
and listened. Listening in the dark was funny. Fingers of musicbrushed against her cotton pajamas, made her goosebumpy.
Should she go into the living room to hear better? It might be toogood, then Karen and Laura would see her cry. If it was strong
from here, she should let it surround her and be satisfied ... but
if there was a chance of getting it fuller, she had to take it. She
opened the door as narrowly as possible and closed it quickly sono light passed over the gaping faces of her parents.
Karen sat on the floor cross-legged, her guitar, like a curvy
woman, across her lap. Laura lay in front of her, a curvy woman
in a knee-length white T-shirt. With her chin resting on thecushion of her palm, her fingers folded down, exposing her very
red lips exposing small teeth. Laura watched Karen playas if shewere reading the most beautiful line of a poem over and over.
Just above a knuckle on her right hand, slid as far down her
middle finger as possible, a braided silver band encircled. Karen'seyes followed a line, perhaps an invisible guitar string that ran
over Laura's shoulder out the low window and into the dim
porch lights. Terry dared not move for fear of stirring air particles
that would jar the invisible string, creating disharmony where sofine a tension throbbed in perfect harmony.
Who will you be? She sung her words over the string into an
upward trajectory, so that once out the window, they mergedwith the stars - that's why they trembled; they weren't reallytwinkling.
And what will you say when they tell you you're done? Karen
shook her head sadly as she sang, causing the string to shift theparticles, filling the air with a bewildering melodiousness. WhenWinter 1993/94 95

she had finished, words and music diminishing gradually until
what lingered was as round, sharp, fine as the final period in a
Portuguese sonnet, it was Laura who plucked the silent "string"by inviting Terry, curled in the corner of the hallway, to finish
creeping into the living room.
"Can you play?" Karen asked. Terry shook her head. "Here."She received the glossy instrument into her lap. If the strings
were lines in a poem, she wanted to say, maybe I could play themso you'd at least get a little pleasure. But this, this long-necked
body, I have no idea what to do with it.
"I'll teach you a chord," Karen said. She came round and saton the floor behind her so Terry could feel the soft little hills ofher breasts nestle against the curves of her back. With her left
hand Karen grasped Terry's limp, curious fingers and molded
them into the C-chord. "Use your thumb. I haven't a pick. Good,
now we'll try an F." She also learned G7. Karen held up grid-likedrawings, scattered with solid black dots, indicating where sheshould put her fingers. She alternated between the three chords
until the tips of her fIngers ached; they came away barred withtiny grooves.
"Let me teach you to bring them together." Her cousin cameback around to hold her hand and cushion her shoulder blades
once more.
But the next sound they heard was not strings vibrating
together; instead it was the toilet flushing. Her mother sprang
from the bathroom, shouted from the hallway that she was todress immediately; they were leaving. "Sam, get up. I told you
we shouldn't have come." She looked at the women. "Guitarplaying excuses for touching my daughter," she said.
Karen looked directly into Laura's eyes. 'We won't lower
ourselves by defending what needs no defense.""Right." Laura nodded firmly, opening an encouraging smile
to Terry.
"You'd better get out of those pj's and into your travelingduds," Karen said. She rumpled Terry's hair.
"Right.""And take these with you." Karen gave her the five chordcards.

96 sinister wisdom #51

At the door her mother said she had nothing to say.
"That's fine with me." Karen shook her father 's hand, told
them to have a safe trip. Laura took a step back, although she did
extend her hand to him.
Terry couldn't look at Karen, but Laura grabbed her hand andshook it in a way that said, You're alright. She couldn't believe it.
Karen gave her left hand a hard squeeze.
''The shamelessness, the nerve to actually be proud of sexualdeviance," her mother said as they got in the car.
Let her. Terry would keep the throbbing of that song. It
flowed through her veins now, she felt it, radiating outward, leaf
by leaf vibrating the passing trees, through the veiled morningsun, glimmering in her ears, filling her. In her hands the chordcards she clutched were a kind of connect-the-dots. She would
examine them as soon as they arrived at a lighted place.

AspenWinter 1993/94 97

Donna Allegra

The Women Always Wave the Flags

A t construction sites
they stand boredsignalling trafficout the way of big machines
Women in hard hats
fly fluorescent orange warning:
caution, slow down
their banners telegraph:men at work
But today I saw
a worker with round in her hips
straddle a machine gun drill
shuddering through stone
She braced her bodyto conduct its force
to trumpet a hole in the rockanchor a bolt to the wall
fasten the poleshe hoisted like a baton
unfurled her colors
and let the flag wave
by itself.

98 sinister wisdom #51

Neta C. Crawford

Sound of My Voiceffiyvoicea chaira pillow
the soft wide bed of childhood
should comfort
the rhythm
wrap you up
soundcover youwith feathers
resonatewarm
in a different language
tones understoodonlysound of the story
continued
after sleep begun

Winter 1993/94 99____________________________________

Revie~The Issue is Power -- Essays on Women, Jews, Violence and Resistanceby Melanie Kaye-Kantrowitz, San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 1992.
This is an essential nonfiction resource book, a collection of
essays (1979-1992), which grapples with the complexity of issues
vital to women, lesbians, feminists, Jews and all progressives
concerned with social justice. The collection displays a type of
insight and sophisticated perspective only an experienced activist like Melanie Kaye-Kantrowitz can offer. Taking into accountthe wide scope of issues that comprise the ongoing struggle that
Kaye-Kantrowitz has actively dedicated many years to, this bookneeds to be viewed not as "polished" writing, but as a synthesis,
a commentary, a record of hjstory and a list of questions andsuggestions necessary in order to continue the struggle.
One piece, a written transcript from her talk at the March,
1991, Out/Write Conference in San Francisco explains the type ofwriting she seems to engage in:"". 1. the personal journal, raw, in which personal/politicalboundaries blur. Unfinished. Art is the last thing on my mind
and audience next to last.
2. press releases, speeches, statements, project descriptions,leaflets, chants. Finished writing, for me, has focused outward,
to what's immediately useful" (230).
Knowing this explains the unique organization of some of theessays; however, the brilliance of Kaye-Kantrowitz's writing (acombination of data, explanation, personal experience and illustration) lies in the "immediately useful" nature of the analysis
and the suggestions she makes for individual and mutual understanding. Hers is an important, hopeful voice reviewing a decadefrought with fractionalization, a war, a rise in hate crimes, violence against women and the trivialization of the needs ofunderrepresented peoples. Her analysis of Jewish lesbian identity, the placement of Jews historically and the dilemmas of

100 sinister wisdom #51

progressive Jews now is important and clarifying.
The section "To be a Radical Jew in the Late 20th Century,"
confronts the primary injustice Kaye-Kantrowitz sees in operation: American capitalism. She argues that progressive Jews needto deepen our understanding of the relationship of anti-Semitism
and racism to class. She does not believe that we can fight antiSemitism or racism without attacking the systematic economic
injustice of American capitalism. This means confronting "thereality of how we live versus how much of the world liyes" (135).
She sees anti-Semitism as a smokescreen that prevents people
from examining the true structure of property and power: "AntiSemitism protects christian wealth. As economic straits tighten
for many, history teaches us to expect a rise in anti-Semitism aswell as racism" (121). While Kaye-Kantrowitz sees racism andanti-Semitism as two very different experiences, she convincingly states that they come from the same source - a white
supremacist ideology that underpins this country.
She addresses media-exacerbated tensions between African
American and Jewish communities with calls for mutual understanding and action: "Jews need to articulate strongly a proJewish, anti-racist position addressing not just our common
ground of discrimination and race hate but our not-so-common
ground of economic inequities. Many Jews working against
racism and on various progressive issues are invisible as Jews,
and we need to identify ourselves cle.arly" (128). Kaye-Kantrowitz
counters inflammatory media hype by giving us names of bridgebuilding political activists. The work of several Jewish South
African anti-apartheid activists (Ruth First, Nadine Gordimer,
Abie Nathan, Albie Sachs, Helen Suzman, Janet Levine) is seldom heard of or acknowledged, as well as the work of African
American organizer Albert Raby, who first brought Dr. Martin
Luther King to Chicago and worked to unite the Black and Jewish communities there.
Other calls to unity come from Kaye-Kantrowitz's interpretation of the way African American and Jewish women havebeen maligned by sexism as well as anti-Semitism and racism.
She explains that in both communities "male privilege and homo-

Winter 1993/94 101

phobia have interfered with women acting in their own interest"(125). Jewish women experience sexism from Jewish men as wellas the dominant culture, which focuses on the"loud, pushy Jewish woman" and the "Jewish American Princess" (JAP). KayeKantrowitz sees these myths to be similar in construct to thestereotypes plaguing African American women, again from outside and inside the community, as the strong" black matriarch" andthe "welfare mother." She argues that Jewish and African-American women can heal the split between communities by seeing
themselves outside of male and white definitions which ignore
issues of class and grossly distort economic reality. KayeKantrowitz also notes that some of the most hopeful and healing
individuals in this crisis between communities have been lesbians.
She cites the political work and lives of lesbians who " ... havealways formed a disproportionately high number of cross-class,cross-race, cross-culture relationships. Often these relationships
retain familial status even after breaking up .... For many lesbians,
dealing positively with Black-Jewish tension is not abstractly
desirable but concretely necessary" (126-127).
Another excellent analysis is Kaye-Kantrowitz's reconstruction of the way we view Arab-Israeli relations. In citing the workof Algerian psychiatrist Frantz Fanon who asked, 'Why do oppressed people strike out at their own?" Kaye-Kantrowitz's examines the Arab-Israeli conflict as a classic example of internalized oppression because Arabs and Jews are both Semitic in
origin. The history of British colonialism in Palestine, Transjordan
and Egypt, as well as the French colonialism in Lebanon and
Syria, created a perfect climate for "allowable" resentment andaggression to manifest against members of the same station(Semites), or those weaker, rather than the more accurate sourceof rage (the colonialist anti-Semites). Kaye-Kantrowitz explainsthat the rage of the Jewish survivors of the European Holocaust("never again") was misplaced against the Arabs of the Middle
East, while the rage of the displaced Palestianian Ghurbas became pitted against the early Zionists, who were viewed as " onemore set of colonials. Kaye-Kantrowitz maintains that Jewish
and Arab hatred is really directed against Europe, but acted outII102 sinister wisdom #51

against each other: "Europe colonized the Middle East. But inFanon's terms the West is too frightening to hate directly. ... Whereas
Israel- now that's a hatred you can act on. Zionists were Europeans weak enough to attack safely" (217). This somewhat tragic
explanation reveals an international dynamic of "mutual
scapegoating in which Europe and the U.S emerge innocent"(217). Again Kaye-Kantrowitz's important observations of theuncomfortable positioning of Jews in history, the effect on thecommunity and the individual, are consistently discussed.
Finally, I found Kaye-Kantrowitz's "Notes on Jewish Women
and Therapy" fascinating and wonderful. She urges therapists
to never underestimate the impact of being Jewish on a client
and warns them that reclaiming Jewish identity in North America
is not a simple matter: " ... consider the possibility that someblockages relate to alienation from one's Jewish self and think
about how to raise this issue" (191-192). She dispels possible
misunderstandings therapists may have about being Jewish:''Don't assume that Jewishness equals Judaism. Religion is only
a part of Jewishness. Jewishness is a peoplehood, a culture, ashared history, an ethnic identity. Conversely, women who
struggle to reclaim Judaism are reclaiming not just their religion
but their history, their wholeness" (192).
An increased awareness of Jewish cultural traits may require
therapists to reexamine their assumptions. Kaye-Kantrowitz cites
conventional counselling definitions of healthy boundaries tobe a troublespot for counselors without this sensitivity: "There's
the issue of how to define the self. Traditional therapy focuses on
an individual's exploration and healing; its very bias runs counterto the bias of Jewish culture, which is towards the collectivity"(194). She notes the collision course that therapists must avoid togain and keep the trust of a Jewish client who has experienced thebenefits of "fuzzy boundaries" as a survival tool. Kaye-Kantrowitz
equates the self-defined "nosiness characteristics" of Jewish culture as extremely useful: " ... if you constantly monitor information, you may be able to ward off disaster ... But the therapist who
attempts to point out the danger without grasping the positive,
life affirming aspect of Jewish culture forfeits my trust" (194).

Winter 1993/94 103

I found this explanation to be one of the first in print of thesubtle ways Jewish people in the United States are misunderstood because of cultural differences. Because Jews are not often
recognized as having minority status, we are told that we are theproblem; when in fact, what we must contend with is one more
attempt to acculturate and assimilate us to a Euro-Americanmodel.
I have touched on only a few of the essays which I found to
be unique contributions to progressive political, social and cultural
thought. The collection is densely written. Kaye-Kantrowitz's
use of questions and humor can put an unexpected twist into themost serious of subjects - it's a strikingly "Jewish" style. Her
meandering organization may cause the reader to yearn for moredefinition - some of the generalizations about the complexityof gender-race-class dynamics can be less theoretical with evenmore illustration and concrete language than the essays offer.
However, The Issue is Power deserves praise for its groundbreaking analyses and original cultural connections. MelanieKaye-Kantrowitz has recorded essential history. This is an invaluable resource book for anyone working for social and economic justice. She discusses, questions and explains issues important to lesbians, feminists, radicals, Jews and progressives
from the inside - issues so often convoluted and misunderstood by outsiders that her work is cool mountain air.
- Abby Bogomolny104 sinister wisdom #51

Books Received ______________
About the Books Received List: We list (almost) all the books we get in themail. Unfortunately, we never have room to review everything we thinkshould be reviewed. I tend to list books here by books / authors / presses
I think are important (although all books from one press are listed together),with an emphasis on lesbian-owned presses. HI've read all or part of a book
I may add subjective qualifiers like "read this." While the presence ofadjectives can be interpreted as editorial endorsement, the absence ofthem only means I'm going by the publisher's press release - Elana.

More In Than Out - engaging poetry and prose by women in the Writing
Workshop at Bedford Hills prison in New York, edited by Hettie Jones.
1992, $5.98, Writing Workshops, 27 Cooper Square, NY, NY 10003.
Sister/Strangers: Lesbians Loving Across the Lines - 34 dykes take up thepolitics of difference within intimacy, edited by Jan Hardy. 1993, $11 .95,
Sidewalk Revolution Press, POB 9062, Pittsburgh, PA 15224.
Lesbian Culture - An Anthology: The Lives, Work, Ideas, Art and Visions ofLesbians Past and Present - an important, amazing, ambitious (mostly
successful), 562 page, large-format collection that will make veteranssigh and new dykes wonder, edited by Julia Penelope and Susan Wolfe.
1993, $21.95, Crossing Press, Freedom, CA 95019.
The World in Your Kitchen - vegetarian recipes from Africa, Asia andLatin America, by and for a Western take on internationalism, by Troth
Wells. 1993, Crossing.

The Perennial Political Palate - The Third Feminist Vegetarian Cookbook,probably the only one with a bibliography, features vegan food and apalatable radicalism garnished with quotes and photos, by the 16-yearold Bloodroot Collective. 1993, $16.95, Sanguinaria Publishing, 85 FerrisSt., Bridgeport, CT 06605 (where their restaurant and bookstore are).
Conditions of War - guerrilla action and lesbian politics, set inNorthampton, by Lierre Keith. 1993, $10.95, Fighting Words Press,
Northampton, MA 01060.
The Bat Had Blue Eyes - Canadian poet Betsy Warland explores family
secrets and the role of language in keeping them. 1993, Women's Press,. Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

The Unforgetting Heart: An anthology of short stories by African American
women (1859-1993) - Stories "selected on the basis of their social, historicaland cultural relevance...," demonstrating how "African-American culture
forms a basis in collective destiny, bound by historical experience," editedby Asha Kanwar. 1993, $9.95, Aunt Lute, POB 410687, SF, CA 94141.

Winter 1993/94 105

Only Lawyers Dancing - the dyke daughters of a crime boss and apoliceman share a friendship, obsession and mystery, with an Australian
twist on the American genre, by Jan McKemmish. 1993, $9.95, Cleis Press,
POB,8933, Pittsburgh, PA 15221.
Restoring the Color of Roses - creative nonfiction memories of sex, alcoholism, cultural identity, by Barrie Jean Barich. 1993, $9.95, FirebrandBooks, 141 The Commons, Ithaca, NY 14850.
Mohawk Trail - Beth Brant explores, in autobiography, poetry, shortstory and American Indian myth, her several families, connected byblood, gayness, and urban working-class lives. 1985, $7.95, Firebrand.
Lesbian (Out)law: Survival Under the Rule of Law - Ruthann Robson
explores how lesbians can use the law withput being used by it. 1992,$9.95, Firebrand.
Lesbians in the Military Speak Out -over 37 lesbians in all service branches,
spanningWWII to the Gulf War, tell their own stories to WinniS. Webber.
1993, $9.95, Madwoman Press, POB 690, Northboro, MA 01523.
Sinister Paradise - mystery and intrigue at a Greek isle archaeologicaldig by Becky Bahan. 1993, $9.95, Madwoman Press.
OtherWorld - Sarah Dreher's fifth Stoner McTavish mystery creates anamusing dyke ride in (& beyond) Disney World. 1993, $10.95, New
Victoria Publishers, POB 27, Norwich, VT 05055.
Hers Was The Sky - a mystery set among women aviators in 1929, by
ReBecca Beguin. 1993, $8.95, New Victoria.
Dirty Money - the second CC Scott mystery, exploring radical feminism,
incest, substance abuse as well as money laundering, by Pele Plante. 1993,$10.95, Clothespin Fever Press, 655'4th Ave., Ste. 34, San Diego, CA 92101.
Love Me Like You Mean It - a new edition of Leslea Newman's 1987
poems. 1993, $8.95, Clothespin Fever.
Gooseflesh -solid lesbian poetry by Emma Morgan. 1993, $7.95, Clothespin Fever.
Unleashing Feminism: Critiquing Lesbian Sadomasochism in the Gay Nineties- seven radical dyke feminists offer new perspectives and detailed
analyses, edited by Irene Reti. 1993, $8.95, HerBooks, POB 7467, Santa
Cruz, CA 95061.
As You Desire - set in Paris during the student uprisings of the late '60s,
dealing with incest, therapist abuse, by Madeline Moore. 1993, $9.95,
Spinsters Ink, POB 300170, Minneapolis, MN 55403.
Final Rest - Mary Morell's second lesbian mystery. 1993, $9.95, Spinsters.
A Killing Cure - the latest Jane Lawless mystery set in a powerful
Women's club, by Ellen Hart. 1993, $19.95 (cloth), Seal Press, 3131 Western Ave., #410, Seattle, VvPl. 98121-1028.

106 sinister wisdom #51

The Things that Divide Us -16 interesting, well-written stories by very
different women, edited by Faith Conlon, Rachel da Silva, Barbara Wilson. 1985, $10.95, Seal Press.
She's A Rebel: The History of Women in Rock & Roll - is the definitive
sourcebook, with photos, by Gillian G. Gaar with preface by Yoko Ono.
1992, $16.95, Seal Press.
-

First Refrains and Sister, I - Parts One and Two of A Seven-Course Feast,
selected poems of 1984 and 1985-1992 by Kay Stoner. 1992,1993, Stoner
Productions, PO Box 8116, Santa Rosa, CA 95407.
Claire of the Moon - maybe the first lesbian novel written from a movie;
about gals cavorting at a writer's colony, by Nicole Conn. 1993, $10.95,
Naiad, POB 10543, Tallahassee, FL 32302.
Silent Heart - an icy academician meets a hot dyke reporter, by Claire
McNab. 1993, $9.95, Naiad.
A Proper Burial- Another in the series centered on Berkeley pri vate eye
Helen Black, by Pat Welch. 1993, $9.95, Naiad.
Happy Endings: Lesbian Writers Talk About Their Lives and Work - Dorothy Allison, Willyce Kim, Jewelle Gomez and 19 other dyke writers,interviewed by Kate Brandt. 1993, $10.95, Naiad.
The Spy in Question - American lesbian caught up in South American
political intrigue, a Madison McGuire Espionage Thriller, by Amanda
Kyle Williams. 1993, $9.95, Naiad.
Fragments Recalled at Eighty: The Art Memoirs of Ellen H. Johnson combine
art, memory and a woman's accomplishments. 1993, $12.95, Gallerie
Monographs.
Imperfect Moments - lesbians' relationships with each other and theworld explored in short stories by Candis Graham. 1993, $14.95, Polestar
Press, 2758 Charles St., Vancouver, BC, Canada V5K 3A7.
Pride Against Prejudice: Transforming Attitudes to Disability - a British
feminist analysis of the social construction of disability, public policy andalternatives for women by Jenny Morris. 1991, $12.95, New Society Publishers, Springfield, PA 19143.

This River of Courage: Genera!ions of Women's Resistance and Action documents the struggles of ordinary women from every continent by
Pam McAllister. 1991, $14.95, New Society.
Making Violence Sexy: Feminist Views on Pornography - a thick, intensecollection of essays and testimony, including many straight feminists
and men, edited by Diana E.H . Russell. 1993, Athene Series, Teachers
College Press, 1234 Amsterdam Ave., NY, NY 10027.

Winter 1993/94 107

The Writing or the Sex? or why you don't have to read women's writing to know
it's no good - questions the differences in female and male literature andposits that the difference is not in the work but in the perception, by Dale
Spender. 1989, $14.95, Athene Series.
Vampires and Violets: Lesbians in Film - an analysis from Queen Christina
to Born in Flames, with great photos by Andrea Weiss. 1993, $12.50,
Penguin, 375 Hudson St., NY, NY 10014.
The Change - Women, Aging and the Menopause - a pretty straight view
from Germaine Greer. 1993, $12.50, Ballantine.

Meeting at the Crossroads: Women's Psychology and Girl's Developmentchronicles the difficult passage to adulthood of 100 girls from a private
school in Ohio, by Lyn Mikel Brown and Carol Gilligan. 1993, $12.50,
Ballantine.
Against ·Our Will: Men, Women and Rape - reprinting of Susan
Brownmiller's 1975 feminist classic, a political history and analysis ofrape. 1993,12.50, Ballantine.

In the Wake of the Goddesses: Women, Culture and the Biblical Transformation- Tivka Frymer-Kensky posits monotheism over gender-based
worldview of goddess religions. 1992, $10.00, Ballantine.
The Girls in the Balcony: Women, Men and the New York Times -engaging
narrative, including brief biographies, of women at the Times, culminating in landmark 1973 sexual discrimination lawsuit, by Nan Robertson.
1992, $10.00, Ballantine.
Alias Olympia - a search for the woman known as "Monet's mistress" ashistorical biography/memoir/fiction by Eunice Lipton. 1993, $20,
Scribner's.
The Invisible Epidemic: The Story of Women and AIDS - a readable, analytical feminist chronology of the spread of AIDS among women, by Gena
Corea. 1993, $23 (cloth), HarperCollins.
The Moon Cycle - fairly straight, fairly well-written lunar poetry by Effie
Mihopoulos. 1991, $8, Ommation Press, Chicago, IL.
Sisters, Sexperts, Queers: beyond the lesbian nation - 16 dykes write about
the nature and definitions of "lesbian," edited by Arlene Stein. 1993,$11.00, Plume.

Revaluing French Feminism: Critical Essays on Difference, Agency, and Culture - Nancy Fraser and Sandra Lee Bartky, eds. Explores what has been
lost and what gained in this ten-year intercultural encounter. Indiana
University Press.
The Thinking Muse: Feminism and Modern French Philosophy - Jeffner
Allen and Iris Marion Young, eds. Essays by u.s. feminists exploring
feminist and French philosophy. Indiana University Press.

108 sinister wisdom #51

Apache Mothers and Daughters- Ruth McDonald Boyer andNardssus Duffy
Gayton. Anillustratedfarnily history of4generations ofChiricahua Apache
women from 1848 to the present. Oral history and anthropology. $24.95,
University of Oklahoma Press, Norman, Oklahoma.
Escape to the Wind - The first book ofJennifer DiMarco's trilogy about
the part-woman, part-beast Windriders in the post-Armageddon worldof the Patriarchy. $11.95, Castillo International, NY.
Afterglow: more stories of lesbian desire - Anthology of lesbian erotica,
edited by Karen Barber. $8.95, Lace Publications, Alyson.
Confronting AIDS through Literature: The Responsibilities of Representation- 23 writers, mostly men, attempt to change prejudices, edited by Judith
Laurence Pastore. 1993, $12.95, Univ. of Illinois, 54 E. Gregory Dr.,Champaign, IL 61820.
Living in the Lap of the Goddess: The Feminist Spirituality Movement in
America - an historical and journalistic view by Cynthia Eller. 1993,$24.95 (cloth), Crossroads, 370 Lexington Ave., NY, NY 10017.
Aging and Gender in Literature: Studies in Creativity - mostly straight,
white, academically oriented essays on the intersections of gerontology andliterature,edited by Anne M. Wyatt-Brown and Janice Rossen. 1993,$16.95,
Univ. of Virginia Press, Box 3608 Univ. Sta., Charlottesville, VA 22903.
Cancer As A Women's Issue: Scratching the Surface - Midge Stocker, ed.
Essays and personal stories explore how cancer affects us as women,
individually and collectively. $10.95, Third Side Press, Chicago, IL.

Confronting Cancer, Constructing Change: New Perspectives on Women andCancer - Midge Stocker, ed. Essays confronting myths about cancer,
exploring nonWestern possibilities for treatment, coming out as onebreasted women. $11.95, Third Side Press.
She's Always Liked the Girls Best - Lesbian Plays: Roomers, Raincheck,
Hannah Free, Movie Queens, by Claudia Allen. $11.95, Third Side Press.
On Lill Street - Novel about '70s-era feminism in Chicago, by Lynn
Kanter. $10.95, Third Side Press.
Women's Studies: Essential Readings - eclectic and multi-cultural, but
academic and fairly straight, edited by Stevi Jackson et al. 1993, $19.95,
NYU Press, 70 Washington Sq. S, NY, NY 10012.
Changing Our Minds: Lesbian Feminism and Psychology - an important
pro-activist, communi ty- and ethically-oriented analysis of what therapy
culture means for lesbian politics, by Celia Kitzinger and Rachel Perkins.
1993, $14.95, NYU Press.

Winter 1993/94 109_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Contributors' Notes

Abby Bogomolny is a Jewish Lesbian writer living in Santa Cruz,_CA. Her two collections of poetry, Nauseous in Paradise and Black ofMoonlit Sea are distributed by WIM Publications.
Akiko Carver is a 17-year-old, middle-class, Nisei Asian dyke whocurrently lives in Seattle. She works mostly on reproductive rights,
anti-porn and anti-military stuff. She regrets having been in Act Up
and is sex-negative with a vengeance.
Amy Concepcion: I am a Cuban-American living in'exile trying tocapture with my writings the forgotten memories of a happy
childhood and the everlasting pain of a mixed identity.
Anna Livia's latest novel, Minimax, is a magic realist romp. She iscurrently translating The Angel and The Perverts, a 1920's Frenchnovel about a hermaphrodite, for New York University Press,
and writing her PhD thesis on gender and cohesion. "Bruised
Fruit" is the second section of a novel in progress about a lesbian,a hermaphrodite and a bisexual serial killer psychology major at
UC Berkeley.
Adriana Medina lives in San Francisco.
Aspen is a disabled lesbian writer living in England.
Bettianne Shoney Sien has just completed writing a radical,
lesbian feminist mystery: A Dirty Shame -look for it! Her collection of stories, Lizards/Los Padres, is available from HerBooks read it, you'll love it.
Carellin Brooks: I'm an Anglo-Canadian student, activist andwriter living in Montreal, which I love for the coffee and hate forthe winters. I've been previously published in Fireweed, a Canadian feminist quarterly.
C.E. Atkins is a 24-year-old lesbian poet who is living in Wisconsin with her partner, working at a food co-op, learning to play thedrums and deciding what to do next!

110 sinister wisdom #51

Darmaye Marley: I am white - working poor - ex. full-time
mother of four - now student of feminist philosophy and literature trying to get into grad. school - lesbian.
Donna Allegra writes poetry, essay, fiction and cultural journalism. She is a 1992 co-winner of the Pat Parker Memorial Poetry
Prize. Her latest works can be found in Sister/Stranger: Lesbians
Loving Across the Lines edited by Jan Hardy; Tradeswomen - A
Quarterly for Women in Blue-Collar Work, Vol 12, #3 and Woman in
the Window - Tales of Desire, Passion and Love edited by Pamela
Pratt, my friend, now dead and much missed.
Elliott: As a Dyke Sep, and a Midwesterner by birth and choice
who nonetheless lives temporarily on the east coast, I think a lot
about geography, especially the physical boundaries of privilege, oppression and colonialism. My first geography was linoleum, wall-to-wall carpeting, paneling, the dust of stock car
races, a town whose roads were all straight lines at right angles
and miles of corn in straight rows. What was yours?
Gail M. Koplow: I am a 53-year-old writer whose menopause has
sparked a prodigious flow of poems, stories and paintings. I'ma former fiction editor of Sojourner and am working on a collection of poems entitled Fear on the Weekends.
Janet Mason is a poet and fiction writer. Her work has been
published most recently in the Exquisite Corpse, The Chiron Review,
Common Lives/Lesbian Lives, Pearl and Sister/Stranger. An earlier version of "In those days" is published in her chapbook A fucking
brief history of fucking from Insight to Riot Press.
Jeannie Witkin: I am a Jewish lesbian living in Berkeley, California. I work with other people's words as a sign language interpreter. Writing lets me speak for myself. I am happiest whenclimbing tall trees so I can see what is happening in the world
around me.
Jen Benka: I am a 25-year-old, middle-class Polish lesbian-feminist poet and performance artist living in Milwaukee. I have
performed in Milwaukee, Madison, Chicago and New York City.
I try, with my work, to combat denial, repression and silence.
Mine and yours.

Winter 1993/94 111

Josi Mata: I am: A Tejana. Born and raised in the Rio GrandeValle, Pharr, TX. The eighth child in a migrant farmworker family. Currently live in Dallas, and am looking for a new place tocall home. I sponsor the One World Women/Lesbians of Color
Poetry & Short Story Sessions in Dallas.
- Kath Rodgers, 47, lives in Oakland with her partner of 13 years,
Simi. She belongs to Lesbian Visual Artists and is active in the
disability arts community, showing her multi-media works in
San Francisco and Oakland.
Kathryn Eberly: I'm a poet and have been published in lots oflittle mags and small presses, have work forthcoming in RANTand Poetry Motel. I'm also a' health care worker at San Francisco
General Hospital.
Laura Bean is a graduate student in creative writing at the University of Arizona. She enjoys the desert very much.
Lenore Baeli Wang's chapbook, Born in the Year of the Pink Sink, isjust out from Malafemmina Press. She has spent the summer
responding to Emily Dickinson's poetry and completed a manuscript, Conversations with Emily. Her work has been most recently
accepted for publication in California Quarterly, New Voices andKalliope.
Lois DeWitt was born in Minneapolis in 1942, has lived in New
York, Miami, Boston and presently, Falls Village, the second
smallest town in Connecticut. A writer and artist with an MFAfrom Pratt Institute, she works as a librarian at the Ford Memorial Library of the Hotchkiss School in Lakeville, Conn.
Neta C. Crawford is African American, in her '30s, and is auniversity professor. She is from the lower middle class and has
been a vegetarian for 18 years.
Pamela Gray is a 37-year-old Jewish lesbian poet, playwright,
screenwriter and comedian living in Santa Monica. Pamela wrote
the ''Violations'' episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Peni Hall is a visual artist, video producer and technical coordinator for theater and video who resides in Berkeley, CA. Since1985 she has worked as Technical Coordinator and has been a112 sinister wisdom # 51

performer with WRY CRIPS Disabled Women's Theater. In 1991,
she created Migraine 2000, her first art video with Melanie Media.
Peni is the originator of Hallway Productions, a series of disability-related art and cartoons. Her art has been featured in suchjournals as Sinister Wisdom, Belle Lettres, Hikane, This Brain Has A
Mouth and the upcoming disability anthology Range of Motion.
Reggie W. Brewster: I am a dyke in my mid-twenties and I havea hidden disability (mostly hidden by society, but I hide it sometimes, too). My ancestors lived in regions known (now and/or
then) as Germany, Poland and Bohemia. My work has previously appeared in Common Lives/Lesbian Lives.
Reven Swanson: Biologically I'm female. Biocenologically I strive
to understand rocks and dirt. I strongly encourage biologism,
especially when it relates to biovular situations. Within my biosphere, I have begun the search for bioluminesence in hopes toachieve biometric phenomena.
Rustun Wood is a queer black South African dyke who has juststarted living in London. She's a broadcaster, journalist andwriter who just refuses to be silenced.
Sandra Havener has worked as a journalist, as a liaison officer in
the Texas government and as a health care worker. She has written poetry since the mid-'60s.
Sima Rabinowitz lives in Minneapolis and works in St. Paul.
Her poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in a variety of
publications including Eating Our Hearts Out (Crossing Press),
The Persistent Desire: A Femme Butch Reader (Alyson) and Format.
The Advertising Magazine for Minnesota.
Susan Stinson's first novel, with a working title of Fat Girl Danceswith Rocks, will be published in Fall '94 (Spinsters). Belly Songs:
In Celebration of Fat Women, a chapbook, will also appear in 1994
(Orogeny). She is a 33-year-old, raised middle-class, EuropeanAmerican who lives in Easthampton, MA.
Suzanne: I am a former fugitive scofflaw recently returned to
Detroit where I sometimes forget that I am small and tasty in abig, gorging world.

Winter 1993/94 113

tatiana de la tierra: i ama 32-year-old colombian-miamian lesbiana
seeking total transformation from self-hatred. i am dedicated tosilk scarves, world-wide expansion, fresh-fruit love, and pleasure with my words.
Teresa Ortega is a Chicana lesbian, originally from Los Angeles,- now living in Durham, North Carolina. She participates in the
Durham Lesbian Writers Group and plays second base for the
Safe Sox. She hopes to see a lesbian mariachi band at her next
music festival.
Terri Jewell: I'm a 38-year-old Black dyke living in Lansing, MI
whose first book, The Black Woman's GUMBO YA-YA: Rich Words
and Sayings will be released from Crossing Press in Fall 1993.
Victoria Lena Manyarrows is a Native/mestiza (Eastern Cherokee), lesbian and 37-years-old. Since 1981, she has worked extensively with community arts and alcohol! substance abuse programs in the San Francisco Bay Area, and has a Master's degreein Social Work (MSW). Her work has been published in various
Native and multicultural anthologies and journals, including
Without Discovery: A Native Response to Columbus; Piece Of My
Heart: A Lesbian of Colour Anthology; The Poetry of Sex; Calyx andSinister Wisdom (Issue #47).

114 sinister wisdom #51

A call for solidarity with thelesbians of ex-Yugoslavia
The following is adapted from a mailing Sinister Wisdom received
recently from Action politique lesbienne:
We are a group of lesbians in Montreal called Action politiquelesbienne (A.P.L.) We have been in existence since 1992. Our goal
is to make public interventions on that which concerns lesbians.
By way of a contact in Paris, France, a lesbian member of theCollectif de Lesbiennes, de Feministes, en Lutte Avec les Feministes et les Lesbienn~s de l'ex-Yougoslavie, we have received
some information about the situation of lesbians in ex-Yugoslavia, who have launched an international call for solidarity which
was taken up by, among others, lesbian groups in France andBelgium who are networking the information across Europe. To
establish contact with lesbians in Belgrade, French lesbians havetaken on the task of enlarging the network across ex-Yugoslavia.
They are in regular contact with individuals and Lesbian andfeminist groups in Zagreb and Belgrade, who have especiallyasked for, above all, books or essays in english on rape, lesbianism and feminism, and lesbian novels. Due to closed borders,
communications between lesbians in the various regions in exYugoslavia have been rendered impossible. They rely on ouroutside contact to relay information within ex-Yugoslavia.
What You Can Do:• Send funds: Write on the back of the international moneyorder or bank draft: "solidarite avec les feministes et les lesbiennes
de I' ex-Yougoslavie." Make it out to "UTOPIA C.C.P.2389, 72 H
Paris, Centre de Cheques Postaux -75 Paris." Send it to: Collectif
de Lesbiennes, de Feministes, en Lutte Avec Ie Feministes et les
Lesbiennes de I' ex-Yougoslavie, Maison des Femmes, 8 cite Prost,
75011 Paris, France• Deposit books in french, english or german treating the subject of lesbians, at the Archives Lesbiennes, BP 362, 75526 Paris,
Cedex 11, France. Also video cassettes with lesbian themes. In

Winter 1993/94 115

addition, the lesbians there have asked for images of lesbians,
photos, drawings, etc.
• The lesbians and feminists can not buy anything and haveasked for office materials (paper, notebooks, pens, photocopiers,
telephones, fax machines ... ). (Best to send money to us for the_convoys at the Collectif address).
• Organize public meetings in order to exchange ideas on thetheme of rape in war time and in peace time.
• Relay information to other regions of the world and send
us a list of groups contacted, as well as all information, documentation, and political analyses regarding this question. Our mutual collaboration is crucial.
We can send you a copy of "Lesbians in Croatia" as well as''Traces and Questions," an article that appeared in Lesbia magazine (Paris, no. 114, March 1993, in French), if you send us $2.00.
We, and others, invite you to copy, publish, distribute them as far
and as wide as possible.
We believe that it is crucial that lesbians around the world
respond to this call for solidarity in great numbers. The existenceof lesbians in ex-Yugoslavia is under great threat, and it is timeto activate an international network of lesbian solidarity.
We are all a part of this concern, act now!

from: Lesbians in Croatia
Lesbians under Socialism... The tumultuous events of the '80s initially began in
Ljubijana, Slovenia. In 1984, it was in this city that the firsthomosexual organization, MAGNUS, was created. The firstmeeting of feminist groups took place in 1987, the year that thefirst lesbian group was established. The latter brought together,among others, lesbians from the feminist group LILIT. The windsof change swept onward to Croatia where the first group of
lesbians, LILA INITIATIVE, was founded just before the first
democratic elections, in a climate of liberalization and an explosion of associative initiatives.
The idea of setting up a lesbian group grew out of an opinion

116 sinister wisdom #51

poll conducted, on an anonymous basis, during the second feminist conference held in Zagreb in December 1988. The results ofthis inquiry revealed that a large number of women proposedthat the problem of lesbianism be treated in a much more open
manner. Following an advertising campaign in the media, about
70 lesbians revolved around the group for a period of one year.
Soon after the May 1990 elections, the group disappeared forvarious reasons: the loss of a place to meet, the lack of money, butalso the bum-out of the two or three lesbians who carried thegroup on their shoulders. The most important achievement of
LILA INITIATIVE was to successfully bring into contact a large
number of lesbians who had been, up until then, isolated fromone another.
The New Independent State of Croatia
While women and lesbians could finally - for the first time,after 45 years of socialism - participate in creating democracy
and demand their rights, the absence of organized groups ofwomen and lesbians and the lack of self-confidence (engendered by socialism) resulted in the near absence of women in theparliament (4% of women) and a lack of influence on the courseof political events. Furthermore, the new government is only
democratic on paper.
According to the discourse of the very influential church andthat of the political power, lesbian relations are dangerous because they damage the relations between women and men, callinto question the roles of women and men in society, and thus,
the practice of a sexuality that doesn't produce children - particularly in these times of war - destroys the hopes of creatinga strong national state. From the government's point of view, awoman should only be a tool in the service of perpetuating thenation. Lesbians are accused of not loving Croatia and, therefore,should be re-educated.
Like 94% of the population, we voted for independence, but it
was certainly not - at least on our part - with the intention of arriving at a nationalist ecstasy. It is extremely harmful that politicaland human power is only based on the notion of national roots.
Meanwhile, Serbia refused to recognize the independence ofWinter 1993/94 117

Croatia, and the short war in Slovenia, in Summer '91, only
served to delay the Serbian aggression against Croatia. It was at
this moment that the Yugoslav crisis developed into an international affair. The tragic consequences of the war against Croatia, (the devastation of cities and village, the loss of civilian lives, the-expansion and escalation of the conflict) forced international
public opinion to no longer conceive of prolonging the existenceof the Yugoslav federation. The arrival of refugees and the rapeof thousands of women have brought about an increased awareness in the international community and the organization ofhumanitarian aid.
The Life of Lesbians Today
It is in such a context that lesbians live. They are isolated not
only from society but also from one another. There is no place(except the small space loaned to LIGMA by the radical party),no magazines, no publishing houses, and too few books get to us
from the outside. Our sole intellectual nourishment is the propaganda of the media that portrays us as prostitutes or as insane,and if not as non-existent, then as the destroyers of the state andof its moral values.
Confined to silence, lesbians unfortunately seldom dare to
react. Many of them give in to the system or try to keep themselves out of sight. Furthermore, because of the unequal status of
women, they often tag behind gay men in order to develop asense of identity and community.
It is in this context of repression and passivity that some of us
founded LIGMA, in June 1992, with the help of the radical party
who loans us a space and gives us access to a fax machine, aphotocopier, etc. We've decided to unite with gay men because it. would be otherwise impossible to have these advantages. And
we are forced to ask for outside help in· the form of money andbooks.
In short, this is the reality in which we live. We realize that theearly stages are always difficult and that our organization is
young, but we are well-organized and we will fight for our rights
up to the very end.

118 sinister wisdom #51

Announcements and Classified Ads _ _ _ _ __PUBLICATIONSESTO NO TIENE NOMBRE, revista de lesbianas latinas en miami,
is a new quarterly creative forum for latina lesbians with a
Miami twist. Open to all forms (Spanish, Spanglish, English),$10 per year (checks to: Tatiana de la Tierra). Guidelines, subs to:
4700 NW 7th St. #463, Miami, FL 33126.
LIKE READING LESBIAN FICTION? 12 issues only $15. Lavendar
Life, 215 Cleveland Ave., Dept. SI, Endicott, NY 13760.
MAIZE, A Lesbian Country Magazine. $10 per year (4 issues) .
Single issue $3.50. New address: MAIZE, POB 130, Serafina, NM
87569.
WE ARE HERE - national resource guide for lesbian and gay
youth, pub. by the Gay Youth Comm. Coalition of the Bay Area,$5 (pay to WeAre Here) from: 2215 MarketSt., #479,SF,CA94114.
SEP - publication for lesbian separatists only since 1986. Ask alesbian separatist how to reach us. Be a part of the contagious
spread of dyke separatist courage!
TEEN VOICES - by, for & about teenage and young adult women,
sample $2: Women Express, POB 6009 JFK, Boston, MA 02114.
CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONSWHAT ABOUT US? Children Tell of their Lesbian/Gay Parent's
Breakup: seeking first-person stories or thoughts from children of
all ages for valuable anthology. Questions or submissions - Jenn
Christiansen, POB 1841, Champlain, NY 12919 by June 30, 1994.
LESBIAN ADVENTURE STORIES anthology: wild women,
eccentric characters, sexual exploits, fiction/ nonfiction. Mikaya/
Tough Dove Books, 11101 Eastside Rd., Ukiah, CA 95482. Deadline: January 1994.
MULTICULTURAL LESBIAN RELATIONSHIPS anthology.
First-person, cassettes, interviews O.K. Topics: racism in andoutside relationships, having/ raising children; socializing/ friendships; language differences, etc. For guidelines, info: SASE toRene Dawson & Terri Jewell, PO Box 23154, Lansing, MI 48909.

Winter 1993/94 119

BLACK LESBIAN CULTURE: PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE Putting all "correctness" aside, let's be honest and claim ALL weare, have been and will be for centuries! All and every form
(photos, bios, herstory, songs, joJ<es, rumors, anecdotes, fashion,art, names, organizations, bars, poetry, essays, stories, radical_ and separatist material) welcome. For guidelines, info: SASE to
Terri Jewell, POB 23154, Lansing, MI 48909, running deadline.
BROTHER-SISTER INCEST writings and visual art by womenfor anthology, pseudonyms accepted. Send worK with SASE to
Risa Shaw, POB 5723, Takoma Park, MD 20913-0723 by Dec. 1, 1993.
RADICAL HEALING issue of Lesbian Ethics - share what you
know, from a paragraph to full-length article. Send work, queries to LE, POB 4723, Albuquerque, NM, 87196 by April 1, 1994.
DOCTORAL CANDIDATE in Women's Studies seeks unpublished journals/diaries by contemporary U.S. women artists,
writers, activists, 1970-1990. Send reply to: Margo Espenlaub,Box 36, MSCD POB 173362, Denver, CO 80217-3362.
POOR WHITE TRASH WOMEN calling Poor White Trash
Women - all forms, on growing up pwt in North America wanted
for anthology. Send work, queries to: Pauline Will Triumph, 3536
Univ. Blvd. N, #198, Jacksonville, FL 32211 by March 31, 1994.
RISING TIDE PRESS, a new lesbian publisher, seeks full-length
lesbian novels. For guidelines, send SASE to: Rising Tide Press,
5 Kivy St., Huntington Station, NY 11746.
THE SAGE WITHIN -The Spiritual Lives of Everyday Women
seeks prose on how women incorporate spirtuality into daily
life. All faiths, paths, backgrounds. Query with SASE to: Hummingbird Press (was Stoner Press), POB 8116, Santa Rosa, CA 95407.
SPINSTERS INK is seeking feminist writing by women of color- full-length novels and non-fiction works. For more info: POB
300170, Dept. C, Minneapolis, MN 55403 (612) 377-0287.
WOMAN IN THE MOON POETRY PRIZE is open for submissions Jan. 1- March 31 THE PAT PARKER MEMORIAL POETRYAWARD is open for submissions from May 1 -July 31. Fulllength manuscripts are considered between Jan 1 - April 30. For
fees and guidelines, send SASE to Woman in the Moon Publications, POB 2087 - NR, Cupertino, CA 95014-1466 (new address!).

120 sinister wisdom #51

EVENTS/ORGANIZING/CONFERENCES/RETREATS
OLOC - Old Lesbians Organizing for Change helps form newgroups of lesbians over 60, provides ageism education, stimulates existing groups to confront ageism. Contact: OLOC, POB
980422, Houston, TX 77098.
INTERNATIONAL MARCH on the UN to Affirm the Human
Rights of Lesbian and Gay People, June 26, 1994, called by theInternational Lesbian and Gay Assoc. (ILGA) & U.S. organizers
Stonewall 25. US org. meeting Jan. 15-17 in Dallas. Much more
info: Stonewall 25, 208 W. 13th St., NY, NY 10011-7799.
GRAILVILLE, an education center conducting programs for
women in SW Ohio offers residential semester, New Women,
New Earth, January 25 - May 18, 1994. Contact: 932 O'BannonvilleRd., Loveland, OH 45140,513/683-2340
CONFERENCE ON SISTERHOOD - building sister hood acrosscultures, class and sexual lines - workshop series from Sept.,'93-Feb. '94. To present or coordinate, send SASE to Conf. Coordinator, Diana C. Long, Urban Art Retreat, 3712 N. Broadway,
Chicago, IL 60613 or call 312-275-1319 (inexpensive nightly rooms
also available through UAR).
COTTAGES AT HEDGEBROOK - A Retreat for Women Writers provides free cottages and meals for accepted writers for astay of up to three months. Application deadlines: April 1 andOct. 1. For applications: 2197 E. Millman Rd., Langley, WA 98260.
(AD)VENTURESLESBIAN ART RETREAT on beautiful Oregon Coast. Toxicfree, safe, creative environment in a rural setting. $175/week
includes meals with other working artists, separate living andstudio spaces. Private instruction available. RIVERLAND, PO
Box 156, Beaver OR 97108503/398-5223.
SALLIE & EILEEN'S PLACE, vacation cabins for women, in thewoods. Mendocino, CA (707)937-2028.
YELLOW BIRCH FARM. Small cottage on working farm in
Downeast Maine. Beautiful, remote, unspoiled Cobscook Bay.
B&B or weekly rental. Brochure, 207/726-5807.

Winter 1993/94 121

LESBIAN PARADISE! With 20 charming rooms, 100 mountainacres, pool, hot tub, hiking/ skiing trails, yummy breakfasts, peace
and privacy. We're your perfect vacation choice year round! HIGHLANDS INN, Box 1185R, Bethlehem, NH 03574 (603) 869-3978.
BUSINESSESRED RIVER, 100% Cotton Menstrual Pads, comfortable, ecological, economical. Made by Land Dykes. Write for brochure:
Red River, Box 130, Serafina, NM 87569.
RENT LESBIAN VIDEOS THROUGH THE MAIL!! The CharisVideo Rental Service makes almost every major lesbian title
available. Drama, Comedy, Erotica, Documentaries and a lot
more! Why buy when you can rent? To join immediately, send
$20.00 for your membership kit (USA only). Or write for more
info. Charis Video, POB 797, Dept. SW03, Brooklyn, NY 11231.
Lesbian owned.
SUPPORT
SPINSTERHAVEN, INC., a retirement haven for older women
and women with disabilities, promoting physical, cultural andspiritual well-being of women. Membership info and donations, PO Box 718, Fayetteville, AR 72701.
SHE - Sister Homelands on Earth has purchased its first two
acres - Saguaro Sisterland - to primarily provide accessible
space for lesbians with mobility / or allergy/chemical sensitivity
disabilities and low-income wimmin. Money and support services are critical to SHE's survival- write to SHE at POB 5285,
Tucson, AZ 85703, inc. SASE for reply.
WHIPTAIL WOMYN'S COLLECTIVE provides a womyn-only
dyke-identified, drug-smoke-alcohol free space in S.F. & needs
all the help it can get. Send $, questions, energy to: 3543 18th St.
Box #29, S.F., CA 94110.
LAVENDER 1.E.A.F. is the Lesbian Emergency Action Fund ofmoney given anonymously, available to any S.F. or Alameda
County (CA) woman-born lesbian of poverty or working classbackground who needs it. Lavender 1.E.A.F.'s long-term goal is
to diminish economic disparities among lesbians. Send checks,
queries to: 1. Leaf, POB 20921, Oakland, CA 94620.

122 sinister wisdom #51

WOMYN'S BRAILLE PRESS - desperately needs money tocontinue, as well as volunteers to read and type. WBP provides
over 750 titles to blind, partially sighted and print disabled
women, and publishes a great newsletter. Tax-deductible donations, queries to: WBP, POB 8475, Minneapolis, MN 55408, (612)872-4352.
SAPPHO'S, a program providing safe, affordable, transitional
housing for women of all ages and incomes in San Francisco, CA.
Information, volunteers, donations, contact 859 Fulton St., SF,
CA94117,415/775-3243.
THE LABYRIS PROJECT: Helping Lesbians Heal from Incest wants a safe home for all lesbians having trouble surviving due
to incest memories, as well as a meeting place for local survivors.
Community-based, holistic, realistic, feminist healing. Send
checks or SASE for info: New Mexico REEF /Labyris Project, POB
40097, Albuquerque, NM 87196.
LESBIANS IN CRITICAL NEED have been sending us increasing numbers of requests to run announcements for their personal funds. Instead of printing these individual appeals, weurge you to contribute frequently and generously to local organizations. Imagine it as if we just told you your childhood bestfriend, your favorite gym teacher, an admired dyke activist or
your first lover had metastatic cancer and couldn't pay the doctorbills; or had developed E.I., could no longer leave her house andhad no way to get or pay for groceries. Then make a contribution
to Lavender L.E.A.F., The Dykefund, the Charlotte Maxwell
Clinic, The Women's Cancer Resource Center (these are Bay Area
resources, find the ones in your community). We need full support networks as well as money - dykes willing to shop, drive,
talk, listen, organize.

AD RATES
Deadline for #52, On Being Allies: Jan 7, 1994 (Pub: April'94).

Classified: 401t a word, $5 minimum.
Display: $200 whole page, $100 half, $75 third, $50 quarter, $35
2x2, for camera ready copy. Write for other deadlines & size sheet.

Winter 1993/94 123

Consuela & fera, Pinkney, Michigan -1993
Terri Jewell

COMMON LIVESLESBIAN LIVES
Stories, journals, graphics, essays, humor,
poetry, and more . ..
The experiences and ideas of common Lesbians.
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124 sinister wisdom #51

get your own ooh!

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126 sinister wisdom #51

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a magazine offeminism.
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women's literary and artistic works. Eachissue explores a theme central to an
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WOOl •• ofIncest and Child Abuse: ~V~
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Definitely not the same old story.

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Winter 1993/94 127

sinister wisdom
Some Current & Back Issues.#50 Not The Ethics Issues we had planned (read it to find out why). But there isgreat new work on ethics and other themes. Guest edited by Caryatis Cardea andSauda Burch.
#49 The Lesbian Body: here's where flesh and theory meet - Includes lesbians of color, roles, disability, body image, fat, sex, menopause and more.
#48 Lesbian Resistance: investigations into the activist heart of our courageincluding mess~ges from dykes in prison.
#47 Lesbians of Color: Tellin' It Like It Tis'. Special 160-page issue edited byles-bians of color, includes new work in all forms - essential reading!
#46 Dyke Lives. New, international fiction and poetry on topics from Palestinian identity to lesbian weddings.
#45 Lesbians and Oass. The first issue edited entirely by poor and working classdykes includes analysis, personal narrative, poetry, fiction & a graffiti wall.
#43/44 The 15th Anniversary Retrospective. 368 pages, over 90 lesbians' workfrom the second wave. An amazing, indispensable source collection!
#42 Lesbian Voices. Our first intentional all-lesbian issue includes legal theory,
racism, Israel, hair, surgery, the effects of rape on relationships, much more.
#41 Italian-American Women's Issue. Guest edited by Denise Leto & Janet Capone.
#40 Special Focus on Friendship. Essays, fiction, editorial discussion transcript.
#36 Special Focus on Surviving Psychiatric Assault/Creating Emotional Well
Being in our Communities. Includes testimony, prose, poetry and essays.
#35 Passing. Investigations into trying to appear other than we are.
#34 Special Focus on Lesbian Visions, Fantasy, SciFi. Includes work on disability, separatism, building and transformation.
#33 Special Focus on Wisdom. Lesbians of Color, non-violence, war stories,
incest, leaving a will, assirni1ation & The Real Fat Womon Poems.
#32 Special Focus on Illness, Death, Mourning, Healing, the disappeared,
hunting season, dealing with suicide, cancer, new ritual observances.
#31 Special Focus on Sex and Fiction, coming out in the south, Found Goddesses.
#28 Special Focus on Women & Work; Body Image, Size & Eating.
#26 Special Issue: To Go To Berbir by Jill Drew, a book-length journal written
by an American nurse working in Beirut during the 1982 Israeli invasion.
#21 Separatism revisited, Jewish survival & defiance, Black lesbian writing,photos of dykes in drag, suicide, bars, letters about anti-Semitism.
We recently found a case of slightly damaged copies of #39, On Disability ($5 ea.).
Sinister Wisdom #1-19, 27, 37 & 38 are out of print. Photocopies can be provided $5 for the first article, $1 for each add. in the same order ($17 for a whole issue).
Allow one month for delivery.

128 sinister wisdom #51

flnifTER
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Please send all to: Sinister Wisdom, POB 3252, Berkeley, CA 94703.
Submission Guidelines- All written work should be mailed flat (not folded), with your name andaddress on each page. Submissions may be in any style or form, or
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per issue. We may return longer submissions. We prefer you type (orsend your work on 31/2" discs, ASCII or Mac, with a printout). Legible
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ARTISTS should send B&W photos, stats, or other duplicates of theirwork. Let us know if we can keep artwork on file for future use.
We publish only lesbians' work. We are particularly interested in workthat reflects the diversity of our experiences: as lesbians of color, ethnic
lesbians, Jewish, old, young, working class, poor, disabled, fat. We
welcome experimental work. We will not print anything that is oppressive or demeaning to lesbians or women, or which perpetuates negative
stereotypes. We do intend to keep an open and critical dialogue on all theissues that affect our work, joy and survival. See pages 6-7 for details on
upcoming issues. We are open to suggestions for new themes.

Sinister Wisdom, Inc. is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization. We provide
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We need lots of lesbian energy to keep printing. • We particularly needvolunteer or commission grantwriters and ad sales reps. • Our equipment
wish list includes (in order) an office-quality Mac-compatible laser printer,a scanner & OCR software, a CD drive, a fax or fax-modern. Thanks to eachof you who participates in reading, writing for, building Sinister Wisdom.

i wanted to be "american" and attai ned"resident alien" status. i don't want tobe "american" any more; the term"american" denotes geographicalignorance, cultural arrogance andimperialism. as a south american living
in north america, i've been anamerican my entire life. and i turned
out to be all-american: a fat-liberallesbian-feminist-bearded bruja, anunsightly independent heterosexuallytrained-lipstick combat femme.
my mom is proud of me, and so am i.
- tatiana de la tierra
and Amy Concepcion
from Weave-talk$5