Sinister Wisdom 47
Summer/Fall 1992
Publisher: Sinister Wisdom, Inc.

Editorial readers and advisors: Akiba Tiamaya, AIy Kim, Cristy Chung,Jamie Lee Evans, Laura Munter-Orabona, Maya Valverde, Sauda Burch,
Xochipala Maes Valdez
Typists and proofreaders: The editorial readers of Issue #47
Office help, correspondence, ads and accounting: Elana Dykewomon,
Laura Munter-Orabona, Leslie Rome, Sauda Burch, SJ Kahn, Susan
Levinkind, Valerie Valuch
Thanks to Bobby Rothschild and Rebecca Kutlin of Tamed Technology
Distribution and mailing crew (#46): Carol Cox, Caryatis Cardea, CathThompson, Debbie Fier, Elana Dykewomon, Elizabeth Fides, Elizabeth
Kirsten, Eva Schocken, Janet Petiny, Judith Masur, Laura Munter-Orabona,
Leslie Levy, Laura Stern, Michele Nichols, Sarah Carroll, SJ Kahn, Susan
Levinkind
Fulfillment: Dolphin Waletzky
Volunteer Coordinator: Susan Levinkind
Reader for the Womyn's Braille Press: Judy Freespirit and members of the#47 editorial collective.
Cover art: Aly Kim: Companionship, Exuberance of Youth and Wisdom of the Ages
Always I incorporate tradition with my own mythology. The fungus and thepeach are symbols of longevity and immortality. The waves represent theedge of human existence. The two girls express companionship and the
exuberance of youth, and revering age as well, the sword represents wisdom
which comes with age.

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 © 1992 Sinister Wisdom, Inc. All rights reserved to individual artists and authors.
ISSN: 0196-1853. Printed in the U.S.A. on recycled paper.

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

_________________ Contents
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Editors for Issue #47 • Notes for a Magazine
Toni P. Brown. The Swimmers (poem)
Donna Tanigawa • Pau Fo Trying Be Like One Haole Dyke
(narrative).
Terri de la Perra • Finding A Secret - Mexicana Lesbiansin the U.S.A. (narrative)
Yasmin A. Sayyed • Breaths on My Mirror (prose poem)
Margarita Benitez • Learning to Live with A.I.D.S. (narrative)
Charlene No Bears O'Rourke. We Walk (poem)
Ekua Omosope • Writing Process - Stitching Pieces ofMyself (narrative)
Granate Sosnoff. Mrs. Matsuda I & II (poems)
Lynn Scott • 1873 Alcatraz Avenue-Where I learned about
toliet paper and Nat King Cole (narrative)
Deborah Aguayo-Delgado • Stoop Summers (poem)
Ana Bantigue Fajardo • Island Dream (poem)
Maya C. Valverde • Pipe Carriers (poem)
Heidi Li • Song of the Late Summer Courtesan (narrative)
Dajenya. Untitled (poem)
Dawn Rudd • The Enemy (poem)
Irare Sabasu • Sustenance (poem)
V.K. Aruna • Journey In Progress (narrative)
Josie Miranda • Uno a Uno (poem)
Josefa Molina • Mestiza (poem)
Akiba Tiamaya • Just Give It to Me Baby - I Love Youl (narrative)
Loba. Untitled (poem)
Ana Castanon • Deep Seated Comfort (poem)
Edna Escamill • Black Orchid (narrative)
Maya C. Valverde • Workers Are Falling Through the GapThe Free Trade Agreement (essay)
Imani P. Ajaniku • for cora helen smith hadden (poem)
Jamie Lee Evans • WhyIAmLeavingNewCollege-A Woman
of Color Confronts Feminist Psychology on its Racism (essay)

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160

Sapphire. poem for jennifer, marla, tawana and me (poem)
Suzanne. Don 't Say Grace - A Movement (poem)
Victoria Manyarrows • Making Magic ... (poem)
Melanie Nelson. The Weaver (poem)
Terri Jewell • Moving In (poem)
Kyna Taylor • When It Was Broken (narrative)
Mi Ok Bruining • Not Just Another One of Those Identity
Poems (poem)
Charlene No Bears O'Rourke. Sundance (poem)
Mara Galvez-Bret6n • cuentos invertidos (narrative)
Irene DR. Freedom to Travel (essay)
Ruth Farmer • Subway Scenes (poem)
Maria Cora • To Provoke a Change (poem)
Shirley O. Steele • Ruby (narrative)
R. Erica Doyle • Yanki Vini (poem)
S. Jacqueline Miranda • Caribbean Waters (poem)
Charlene No Bears O'Rourke • Crossing Over (poem)
Alma Villanueva • The Continuance (poem)
Contributors' Notes
Upcoming Issues

ART
Cover Aly Kim • Companionship, Exuberance of Youth andWisdom of the Ages Always (linoleum cut)
18 Yasmin Sayyed • untitled (pencil)
27 Cristy Chung • Zori's (linoleum cut)
30 Aly Kim • untitled (pen & ink)
38 Laura Irene Wayne • We Hold Our Own (pen & ink)
40 Pacal Barraza • untitled (pen & ink)
42 Charlene Koskalaka • untitled (pen & ink)
60 Cristy Chung • Ms.Takuan (linoleum cut)
68 Jean Weisinger • Assata Shakur (photograph)
70 Maya C. Valverde • Irene Yazzie (photograph)
82 Maya C. Valverde • (Dine) Navajo activists (photograph)
108 Laura Irene Wayne • Stop AIDS (pen & ink)
112 Aly Kim • untitled (pen & ink)
120 Pacal Barraza • untitled (pen & ink)
132 Aly Kim • Yen Moi Lu (pen & ink)
138 Cristy Chung • untitled (linoleum cut)
142 Laura Irene Wayne • Celebrating Women (pen & ink)

- - - - - - - - - - - - Notes for a Magazine
The Writers

In our call for submissions we wrote:

Issue47 will be edited entirely bya collective ofLesbians ofColor. We
are a diverse group of writers, artists, community aciivists andreaders. Our responsibility as editors is to serve as advocates for andsupporters of the women wlw submit work for consideration.
We were ecstatic by the response. We received more than 400
pieces from over 90 authors/artists. We were privileged andenriched to have the opportunity to experience the lives of so many
Lesbians of Color through our work. The pieces submitted areclearly with ourselves at the center encompassing many aspects of
our lives. Our cultures were integral parts of our work, not tacked
on borders framing who we are. Our writing reflects our relationships with each other; reclaiming our culturally specific hers tories,
mythologies, rituals and healing circles; and creating our own
spaces rather than pushing our way into places that would have us
only marginally. Although it is necessary to write about that which
oppresses us, we ultimately resist further colonization when weare able to envision beyond that - to define ourselves not as otherbut as primary to our lives.
Our goal was to publish new voices and visions and ourpriorities for selection were diversity in writers, subject and style.
It was quickly apparent that 160 pages were insufficient to represent all lesbians of color. We did an extensive mailing to women'sbookstores, support groups, literary groups, etc. Our best outreach
was done word of mouth - telling somebody to tell somebody
else about submitting for the issue. With such an overwhelming
response, still there are groups oflesbians who are underrepresented
in these pages.
The Process
The eight of us came together in July of 1991, virtually as
strangers. We had no idea the journey this process would take us
on, both individually and collectively. We never laid ground rules,

3

never decided on consensus as a process, and never agreed not todisagree. Our process took its own form.
We knew how we wanted this process to be different. As
writers, many of us had experiences with editors / critical readers
where our words were chopped beyond recognition, our voices
distorted, our selves stripped away from our pieces - our workforced into the rigid linear structure of "standard" English. Our
responsibility as editors was to preserve the voice of the writer, thevision of the artist, to ensure that this is what is presented to thereader. We hope this is what you will find.
We came to the process open as few of us identified as editors
although each of us identified as writers. By the end, we each ca1l\eaway feeling assured of our editing abilities and clear that we havesomething valuable to offer on an editorial committee. For many,
the editing process helped in our own writing. Lesbians of Colortaking risks with their works and their selves encouraged us totake risks with our own writing. You will find the works of someof the editors in this journal.
The group process was empowering. Many of us were apprehensive before we began given difficult experiences we had working in groups, including groups of women of color. We acknowledged the ways in which our internalized oppression manifests as
mistrust and underestimation of one another, and that issues ofleadership have often been volatile. Within any diverse group,
individuals may perceive and experience leadership differently
given differences in race, ethnicity and class. Emerging from ourexperiences with authority cultivated in racist and sexist frameworks, we often realize our difficulty both in taking leadership andsupporting leaders. We neither want to be abused/silenced byleadership or become abusive as we assume leadership positions.
We have often confused leadership with the abusive use of authority. Some of us felt we didn't want to be attacked or alienated if wetook positions of leadership.
What we experienced in this group was quite the opposite. Most
prominent was our deep respect for each other. Individuals took onleadership in various areas and were trusted and empowered tomake decisions. We did, nonetheless, struggle around various
pieces that were submitted and issues they raised, and we hadstrong differing opinions. We discussed: the definition of lesbian
content, SM, whether writing about men had a place in a lesbian4journal, the responsibility and consequences of how we use language - discussions that often leave us angry, hurt and unable towork together. We were able to move through and resolve disagreements because we made room for difference. We walked
away with more respect for each other. We are indeed healing
ourselves within our communities.
As we got to know each other better, we moved our meetingsfrom a small office behind a bookstore to our homes. As we moved
into our personal spaces, so too were we able to bring more ofourselves to the process. Food was central to comfort of the space,
the more comfortable we got, the more expansive the food got.
Eating together positively impacted on our work. Though we
seldom gathered around a kitchen table, we created that space
which nurtures with offerings of our homes, of food and of
ourselves.
Our Future
We were disappointed that we could not print more of thework that we had received. Although we realize the absurdity oftrying to capture the richness of our voices in 160 pages, we did notleave this process disempowered. We began to explore the possibility of starting our own journal, written and edited by Lesbiansof Color and found an interested publisher.
We hope this issue will encourage and inspire Lesbians ofColor to continue to write, to create, and to send outwork. Look for
us in the future. We want to know what you think about this issue.
Please write us.
The Editors

Akiba Tiamaya: Hello world I am feeling sooo good my broken
wings re-grown gonna soar beyond the skies heart and spirit
rejuvenated my wounded spine now healed new fingers on my hands
eyes clear and looking to the stars feet strong and flat on the groundwith roots reaching to forever ... I am a 49-year-old black womon of
African, Native American and Irish ancestry; a Two spirited, healer,
writer/poet, artist, worrior womon living on the edge.
Aly Kim: I'm a 37 year old double virgo Hawaii -born Chinese-Korean
lesbian (of 22 plus years), lover of life, humor, computers, food andfriendship, dedicated to seeing Pacific/ Asian lesbian history being
preserved through art and writing.

5

Cristy Terese Mei-Ling Chung is a biracial Pacifica Asian Lesbian
deeply and passionately committed to social change.A writer, organizer,
artist and social worker engaged in eliminating violence againstwomen.
Jamie Lee Evans is a self-defined mixed-blood Asian radical cultural
feminist lesbian. She believes in new feminism led by women of colorand hopes that the revolution will come soon. She's currently coediting an anthology with Kate Miller considered by Aunt Lute
Books, entitled; Coloring Outside the Lines: Writings by Mixed-Blood andMultiracial Women of Color.
Laura Orabona-Munter I am a 40-year-old mixed-blood lesbian.
Born in Santurce, Puerto Rico, I was raised in the depths of rural
Michigan. I am an electrician. My writing has appeared in "Haciendo

Caras, Making Face, Making Soul."
Maya C. Valverde is a Chicana-Yaqui Native American from Arizonacurrently living in Oakland California.She is a journalist, videographer,
photographer, artist, mother of two young adults and expectant
grandmother. She's had several articles published, including thebook Coming Out Colored/Salir a La Luz . She is currently working on
her life stories and moving to Humboldt County California, locationof her new film "Girlz in the Woodz ."Sauda (Lillian) Burch I am a Black, nappyheaded dyke transport
from Chicago making my way in Oakland, CA. I am a writer andactivist on my return trip to the Mother. I edit regularly for Sinister
Wisdom as well as Ache': A Black Lesbian Journal. I am currently
working on a novel, most of which is being written as I sleep.
Xochipala Maes Valdez I am a Chicana writer/artist whose family has
been rooted in Southwest soils as far back as our conscious memory
takes us. My creative process is a way for me to remember what lies in
my unconscious memory as it has been passed to me through theblood of my peoples. My work is a tribute to my ancestors.

6

Toni P. Brown

The Swimmers
Two brown girls westeal away steal away
through the darkness of my room
you take my hand
Naked we run
to the shore of my bed
to the ocean of my sheetsleaving the land of ghosts
behindWe dive deep
mouths open eyes closed
down down
salty waves wash past our lips
over our tongues
you circle round and gently tug
a tiny mussel between your teeth
you suck her ina warm whirling eddie rushes throughmy fingers tangled in your dark hair
how long can we hold our breath?
side by side you stroke my cheek
you beckon me south but
I drag you up
for one more taste of the night
to fill our bellies with stars
Two brown girls
we raise our heads
our voices shine like stonesin the moonlight
We swim in secretagainst the current
with both eyes open
we diveagain
7

Donna Tanigawa

Pau Trying Fo' Be Like One Haole Dyke

Befoah time when I was one kid from da Leeward side mah haole
teacher from da mainlan' wen correct da way I wen talk in front dawhole fort-grade class. 'Ass right. It was one beeg ting fo' me. She
wen say to me dis: "You want to r-e-s-e-r-v-e the seat, Donna, notkapu it." Not kapu 'urn. Dis stuck in mah head fo' da rest of smallkid days. She wen say dat I neva like kapu tings, only reserve demo
Maybe wot rnah teacher wen tell me-no kapu tings- was bachi
fo' me. To kapu someting in Pidgen is to make 'urn your own-to
claim 'urn. Da ancient Hawaiians had kapu laws for anykine sacredan' forbidden stuff. Deez days, island-folks kapu everyday tings. (Dattingis mine afta I kapu 'em, li'daO Asa 9-yearold I wen wanttokapu
da chair. (Neva mind da bambucha kid wen take 'urn first!) Dis kine
haole tinking fo' reserve tings wen make me all jam up in da head.
Plenny times I tink of all da tings I could have made kapu in
mah life, but neva. 0 wow li' dat. Tings like mah chi-i-sa-i body.
Mah no-sked lezbeism (only da men can be mahu). Mah Japaneeroots and stuff. Mah local Pidgin talk. I wen grow up hea' in
Hawai'i witout any fo' real kine kapu laws of mah own. Cheez, dis
wen really trow me off. Maybe dats why it was so hard fo' me toclaim da tings dat important in mah life-mah desire, mah voice,mah self-identity. Omahgooness, yeah?
From dem hanabata days I was one nice, quiet Japanee girl. A
squid, li' dat. I wen talk plenny Pidgin. Good fun, you figgah. Dis
was local-style for us ovah he a' in da islands. Only in da classroom
I wen talk da kine Standard English. But all dis wen change to da
max wen I wen go to one priveet haole school in town. Ovah dea'
I wen try fo' be like one haole. (I know, you like slap mah head,yeah?) Neva have too much local folks at dat place. Only lita' bit
locals dea, tokens. Dis made me so nerjus.
So fo' one long time I wen' tink dat I could be like one haole. I
fogot dat I was one island femme. (Only get butch and femme in
Hawai'i, but da haole dykes no like dis,li' dat.) I shame fo' say dat

8I usedtato tink dat I could be mo' bettah dan da oddah local kids .
I wen talk hybolic. Cheez, I wen even try fo' look like one bananao
0' one kotonk. Da haole teachers wen tell me ovah and ovah again
dat I no need talk da kine Pidgin. Garans dey got huhu wen I wentalk Pidgin to dem in da hallway 0' classroom. I got chance fo' belike one haole, I thought. Neva mind lone rice eye an' got local
ohana. I no joke you, dem haoles at da school neva laugh at me.
(Dey felt good dat I wanted fo' be jus' like dem, eh?) Yeah, dey only
wen try fo' cut me off from mah tita friends.
Maybe it not too bad fo' be like one haole and talk funny kine,
I thought in dem days. I was so haolified by da time I wen finishhigh school. Someime good, but. You know I wen say to da ono
wahines, "How are you today?" Only I was trying fo' score wit
dem, of coss! Catch trills, yeah? I neva usedtato say "Howzit, tita!"
Honest kine, I wen tink dat I could be so haole. Maybe go mainlan'
fo' college. I wen try so hard- to da max, li' dat.
It's one good feeling fo' talk story wit you about dose wannabe-haole days, seestah. Ovah hea' in Hawai'i people. tink dat it's
akamai to keep your skin matching your guts. Dis stay akamai, no?
But it seems like all ovah da world folks tink dat to be haole is dasmart ting, and dat to be da kine of color means da t you one 1010 inda head. I no understan' why dey tink dat da haoles mo' bettah dan
da folks of color. I no lie you.
One day mah butch seestah wen have me look inside da mirror
ovah her lu' a. She wen ask me wot I wen see in da glass. It seem likeI wen tink fo' days. Das one Japanee, not one haole staring back at
me. 0 wow lau lau! Den mah seestah wen say no bulai yo' self. You
one buddahhead not one kotonk. An' den she wen ask me, "Whea
you was born?" Den da question, "Who's opu you wen come from?"
Eh, I was born hea in Waipahu da stink sugar mill town. I was
made inside mah moddah's opu, Ii' dat. Den she wen make like I
was making like one haole, and we wen bus' out laughing!
So, no mo' haole kine stuff fo' me. AlIas, hah? I no stay shameaboutmahself. So wot lone local-kine Japanee. One femme, li' dat.
Mo' bettah be one local dan one noddah wanna-be-haole, yeah? Daones who like be haole make bad rep for us. From befoah time dem
haoles wen tell us dat dey goeen make us look dumb. Hahdly, eh?
Us local-kine dykes. We know da truth.

9

I got to keep in mah head dis mah kuleana, not deirs. Da kinean' be honest wit mahself. Ass why hard to be one local-style dyke
in Hawai'i.
I like talk story wit you a lita' bit more seestah? Last semestah
I wen walk out of mah class because da teacher, one haole, when
decide fo' kapu da topic of Terd World Lesbian Feminism inAmerica. She not one Terd World wahine. Betcha she not even one
dyke, no? I wen feel good slam da door. I nevah care dat dis was
one graduate seminar. Dis kine haole will nevah understan' dat I
was trying fo' keep da kine enryo. Yeah, I still mad an' piss off at
her, Ii' dat. But I know dat no matta wot da teacher says about me-inarticulate, hostile, naive-she will nevah understan' me or all daoddah da kine dykes of color. At leas' not da anger inside our guts.
You know mah grandmoddah wen always tell me, "Do-nachan, wassamattayou?" Shi-ka-ta ga nai. No can help. Yeah, yeah,
yeah. No more ga-man for me. No more plantin' da anger at dabottom on mah opu wit da rice and takuan.
No worry seestahs. I no stay habuts. No say dat lone pua ting.
Only wase time, li'dat. I know I wen learn from dis. Wit dis kine
stuff I can live in dis haole world . I nevah foget whea I came from.
An' who I am. Da mirror is always dea fo' me.
I10Terri de la Pefia

Finding Out the Secrets:
An Interview with Eva Ayala Mexicana Lesbians in the U.s.A.

E vangelina Ayala Rios sits on my sofa, comfortable in magenta
polo shirt and blue shorts. A year younger than I, she hails from my
Mexican mother's home state of Chihuahua, and I am curious toknow more about her early experiences on this side of the border.
"S 0 , della Pena, what do you want to know?" Eva rarely callsme Terri. She likes to twirl her tongue around my surname; I nevermind because she is one of the few who pronounce it correctly.
liT ell me how old you were when you came to the U.S. and how
you met other lesbians.".
She surveys me briefly. "I came here when I was sixteen years
old, and I found other lesbians through my lover's father."
Used to her frankness, I am nonetheless surprised by this turnof events. "Did you come here with your lover?""No. I met her here through a heterosexual wedding. She wasone of the bridesmaids."
Laughing, I aim the tape recorder closer to her, not wanting tomiss any of this.
Eva smiles and keeps talking. "I really fell in love with her rightaway. There's anold saying that if you drink water from someone' s
glass that you find out their secrets. So I used that line with her. She
said 'oh, good.'"
I imagine Eva whispering intimately to a pretty Latina in a
fancy bridesmaid's dress. Too shy to be so bold, I vicariously enjoy
her story.
In the mid-1960's she was 18 years old and became involved
with that first lover, a Cuban woman. The woman's father, awaiter, knew several actresses who frequented the restaurant
where he worked. Some of them were Cuban lesbians, and thefather gave Eva and his daughter tickets to a play in which several
actresses appeared. Attending that play introduced the two young
women to the Latina lesbian community.

11

At that point, I interrupt to redirect the conversation to Eva's
life in Mexico before arriving in this country. She seems unfazedby my change of direction.
"Tell me a little bit about Mexico - about what it was like tocome out there."She looks at me askance, and I hurry to clarify.
"How did you know you were a lesbian?"
She pulls back her shoulders and faces me. "Oh, I always knew.
I was a feeling I always had. I was always attracted to certain
friends of mine." She explains that she noticed her other friends
did not seem to share her feelings. "50 I would find my feelings
very unusual. But then again - it wasn't so hard for me because
in Mexico, it's different. You're able to be close, to touch, to kissand it's 'normal'. It's not something 'homosexual'. There you canwalk down the street holding hands, or hug somebody in the street
and kiss in the street. "Nobody thinks anything of it."Her dark eyes grow intense. "So it never bothered me to do thatin the street. As far as my feelings were concerned - I thought I was
in love with some of my friends. And, well, I guess to disguise and be
like all the girls I had a 'so-called' boyfriend. Nothing serious," sheassures me. "But then he introduced me to his sister then we got
serious."Eva and I laugh together.
"50 I was going out with him and his sister, but his sister was,I think, kind of confused." Eva eventually released herself fromthat entanglement, but she did not stop being attracted to othergirls. "I had other intimate girlfriends. We'd go to movies and. kissand touch and stuff like that. It was never a problem, and it neverneeded to be discussed."
I lean towards her. "But you couldn't say anything to yourparents about it?""No. Not to nobody." She shakes her head vigorously. "Andthe girlfriends I had - whatever feelings we had - it was neverquestioned. It was like any normal type of thing.""But they probably weren't lesbians, right?"
Eva runs quick fingers through her hair. "They weren't lesbians, no." She says her Mexican girlfriends were jealous of her
affections. "But I took it as maybe curiosity on their part because
it was never discussed. But, on my part, it was not only curiosity,
that's how I felt, how I really felt."

12

"For you, it was serious - but for them, it was just something
they were going through."
She nods. "Growing-up feelings, I suppose you'd call them.
And this was how I met other girls."'When you were in Mexico, Eva, did you actually meet otherlesbians? Or were they all [the girlfriends] not really lesbians?""They weren't lesbians," Eva scoffs. "As far as I know today,
they're married with kids. So it's my belief that they were neverlesbians.""So when you came here and you met this woman at thewedding, had you been involved with anybody yet?"Eva has a faraway look in her brown eyes. "No. She was myfirst time, sexually. First time." She takes a sip of water and is silent
for a few moments .
Not wanting to probe, I decide instead to zero in on her family's
reaction to her Cuban lover.
"Eva, when you got involved with this woman, did yourfamilies know about this?"She sighs and gazes at me. ''My family knew, but it was very, very
difficult. They didn't like her at all because ..." She breaks off, as if
searching for appropriate words. "Coming here, it seems like people
don't seem to understand why other women get close to each otherand hold each other and kiss each other and call each other nice things
like 'honey' or whatever. They always take it in a negative way." Heroldest sister's negative attitude, in particular was a constant problem.
Eva explains that her older sisters and brother remained in the
United States when her parents had returned to Mexico in the
1940' s. The youngest in the family, Eva and her two older brothers
were born later in Guadalupe, Districto Bravo, in the State of
Chihuahua. A railroad worker, Eva's father died a few years after
her birth. Because of the family's poverty and Eva's ill heath, hermother encouraged the attention a local childless couple focusedon the girl. This couple's home was on the way to Eva's school, andshe would stop by often to visit them.
Eva looks at me. "Eventually, I stayed and visited longer. And
before I knew it, I stayed nine years."
I recall my own Mexican grandmother's proclivity for housing
relatives' children. If the need arose, my grandmother never asked
questions; she simply took in the children. I meet Eva's gaze. "Didyou stay there until you came here?"13

'Well, they died," she murmurs. "That's why I came here."Her own mother died later. Eva explains that one of her older
sisters visited Chihuahua and suggested that she immigrate to the
U.S. At first, the teenager balked, but then she changed her mind.
Eva shrugs. "So I figured, well, I would take it as an adventure.
I told myself, What harm would that do? I'll go anyway. What thehell."
However life in Whittier, CA, a city in the eastern section of Los
Angeles county, did not run smoothly. Eva stayed with one sister
for a year, then the other for a year. Her sisters' children were Eva's
age, and the teenagers were incompatible.
"They were tossing me around." She rolls her eyes. "I was
impossible to live with.""Plus the language barrier," I interject. "Eva you didn't know
any English."
She grimaces. "The language barrier was awful.""How did you manage to learn to speak English so well?"
Eva tells me that after numerous fights with her sisters, shesecured a full-time babysitting job, working for an Anglo family.
Before long, she moved into that family's spare bedroom.
"I said, 'Oh Jesus, how am I going to talk to the kids?' But thegood thing about it was they were little kids." She smiles. "And I
realized it was a great opportunity for me to talk to them because
I wanted to learn the language. This woman [her employer] wasvery nice to me. She said, 'Since we can't talk to each other, I'm
going to buy two dictionaries, one in Spanish, one in English. What
I can't say, I'll look up. What you can't say, you look up.' Believe
it or not, the kids were like a school for me because we were alllearning to talk. It took me one year to start talking, all in all, you
know. And I was amazed that I could."
Eva also enrolled in evening English classes, and eventuallybecame a student at Fullerton High School.
'What year did you go into?"'Well, I took a G.E.D. test to see how much I could deal with.
So I just took the classes that I needed to. The only thing was, thelanguage was a pain in the ass," Eva adds with a laugh.
'Well, it's not an easy language." Because I understand Spanish
far better than I speak it, I marvel at her language facility. But I also
realize that necessity often makes the most difficult task possible.
'When you were in high school, did you meet any lesbians?"
14

"N ever," she says adamantly. "If they were, I wouldn't know.""They were kids. They probably didn't know either.""Not only that, they were mostly white and ... "I remember she went to high school in Orange County, homeof Disneyland and assorted right-wing politicians. ''Were theyracist?"''Very much so."
"Did you have problems with that?"
Eva shrugs. "They never talked to me. But I thought they didn'tlike me. People don't like you - they don't like you.""Coming from Mexico, you weren't used to that."''We don't have that," Eva agrees. "It [racism] doesn't exist
with us. So I didn't like that at all. And they started doing things tome.""Like what?"''Well this woman [the employer] bought me a motorcycle."
Recalling this occurred in the early 1960's, long before thecurrent popularity of motorbikes, I start to laugh. I wonder if her
swaggering walk stems from those adventurous days . "Wait aminute, Eva. Were you the only girl who had a motorcycle?"
She smiles. "Yeah, I was the only one. And I had a helmet.""And you were wearing pants to school?""Yeah. I was wearing Levis."
My laughter becomes more raucous.
She catches my drift.
"I must have looked ..."I manage to sputter, "You must have looked butchy.""Or different or something," Eva agrees.
''Well, wearing Levis and riding a motorcycle ... " I make a
sweeping gesture with my hands.
She nods repeatedly. "Yeah.""And those kids were white," I remind her.
Eva finally begins to protest. "But I had long hair ... ""Yeah but stilL" I try to stop my laughter, signaling her to goon.
She gives me an exasperated glance. "I didn't look, well,anyway ..." She pauses to regain her bearings. "One day, they put
dirt in my gas tank."
My laughter stops abruptly. "Oh, God."

15

"And one time I came back from my break and I'd left myhelmet inside. They painted it. They dirtied it really nasty. And I
came in and I didn't know who to ask. They looked like they didn't
want to talk to me anyway. So I figured it out. I told this woman [theemployer] what they did to me. She said, 'I think there are a lot ofmean people in this world. I don't know what to tell you. I don't
know what you're going to do.' And I said, Well, I'm getting a little
bit sick of this.' You know, I would cry because I didn't haveanyone to tell it to in school."
After her motorcycle was vandalized a second time, Eva
decided to take action. "That was the tops. That really upset me alot. I said, 'I'm going to move. I don't have to put up with this.'
Besides, I was very lonely.""Do you think they did these things because you're Mexicana
and a lesbian? Do you think they knew?"
Eva shrugs. "To me, I don't think it was because I'm a lesbian.
I think it was mostly because I'm Mexican. I could tell by theirways. It hurt.""Sure, especially at that age. Not only that, but you'd neverdealt with this before."
By then Eva reminds me, she had met her first lover at thewedding. "We would see each other once in a while; she lived in
Los Angeles and I lived in Orange County. I decided to move to
Hollywood and finish at Hollywood High. So I got a job working
in a little store in Hollywood."
Eva and her lover found an apartment for $95 a month. She
went to high school while her lover worked in a downtown
factory. Their bliss, however, was constantly interrupted by herlover's parents. They considered Eva a bad influence.
"The turmoil kept going. In the meantime, I graduated from
Hollywood High.""Did you have any trouble in that school?"
Eva offers a wide grin. "Oh, no. It was wonderful there. My
teachers were gay - I loved it! My biology teacher was gay! And,
my God, I had a ball! There were gay kids. There were Latino kids
- kids from all over the world, for heaven's sake - Peru, Mexico,Southeast Asia. I had a ball in Hollywood. The only thing thatwasn't okay was that her parents interfered a lot."
This first relationship ended some years later when Eva's lover
left her for another woman.
16

"So then what did you do, Eva?"
She looks away. "Then I was devastated - totally devastated."
While living alone, Eva reveals, she became a fitness freak,jogging, keeping a healthy diet. And in time, her broken heart
began to heal. She had other relationships with women, some longterm, some stormy.
Eventually, she enrolled in a two-year medical assistant course,
completed it, and worked in that field for several years. Eva's loverat the time, a Mexican-American woman, urged her to seek nontraditional work to increase her income. One of her regular patients, a black woman bus driver also encouraged Eva to change
careers.
These women's support spurred her to enroll in the the LA
Unified School District's bus driving course. Once she had someexperience, Eva secured employment with the Santa Monica Municipal Bus Lines. Since 1979, she has driven the Big Blue Bus forthat seaside community. Over the years, she has not only copedwith sexual and ethnic ha!'assment, but also with flirting passengers of both sexes.
It's that uniform," I tease, recalling my own reaction the firsttime I'd seen her. "It makes people crazy."
Eva laughs. "Yeah. And the black leather shoes.""And don't forget the gloves.""You're crazy de la Pena." She looks at me, shaking her head.
For a few moments, she watches the tape whirling in the recorderand reaches for the glass of water.
I make sure she does not pick up mine by mistake. Remembering her earlier remark about drinking in the secrets, I decide there
are a few things I want to keep to myself. She knows enough about
me, and today I have found out plenty about her. I pick up my glassand smile at her over the rim.

17

- --

untitledYasmin Sayyed

18

Yasrnin A. Sayyed

Breaths on My Mirror

I mprinted in the mirror lives the likeness of you
I can not bear to claim as my own.
The way you hide your fear of venturing close to the core ofyour truth ...
your likeness that evokes suspicion,and challenges,
and accusations of
untrustworthiness ...
likeness that shifts and stretches
shrinks and misshapes to afford amnestic self-ignorance
and self-obscurity.
Imprinted in the mirror,
just below or above the face of truth
resides the countenanceI fear recognizing .. .
A likeness that wears arrogance and snobbishness ...
the linings of shame and insecurity,
the over-compensating,and striving for illusions of togetherness ...
the flip sides of humiliation and self-annihilation,
the micro-dots of confidence ... pleading for room to spread,
like legs agape ... knowing new,wanting more .. .
deeper, sweeter knowledge.
Your imprinted image clings like an acid etched shadow ...
beyond which stands my naked lungs
coughing and wheezing ... begging
for both voice and self-compassion.
My passages to self .. .
squeezing and pushing,19

whimpering and pleading ...
then screaming and thumping against the echoes of their shadows,
for expansion and recognition,for expression and regard
for extrication and reclamation.

"I' accuse'~ You stare intently through the image-eyes,
and I at you
staring at me,
staring at you.
"I' accuse ...
accuse you for daring to breathe,daring to claim life's essential,
daring to take enough air to laugh and howl as you do soshamelessly.
II

I accuse you of breathing on my mirror,acid etched shadow,of dancing
with broad, sweeping movements,of laughingwith deep, from home, inhalations.
Smashing and crashing ...
foot stomping, tantrum throwing children
want to scream and holler
and spit red-dot-in-the-eye-rage,
for a lifetime of contsricted breathing.
Seemingly motionless air squeezes past life
without being for it,
or of itmuch less in it. .
I accuse you,accuse me,accuse you of restricting me,of possessing me,of retarding my progress,of inhibiting me ... my genius.

20

I accuse you,accuse me,accuse my parts split off and held under house arrest,with attack dogs posted at the gate,
for over forty years.
I accuse you of being in my face ...
when my face wants sight without vision,voice without telling,breath without living.
Beyond the image,anew with recognition,
I see the cringing child, so damaged by intimatesthat intimacy hovers, predatorily,
with razors and swords .. .
and threatens freedom,
imposes silence and eclipses truths ...
just by whispering tenderly.
In the mirror you are not you,but the distortions I wear
like tinted, refracting lens ...
twisting, distorting,making unreal anything real ...
making attack-worthy anything distorted in the frames of my eyes.
Self-possessing my lungs ...
refusing them expansion,
self-possessing, like a jealous lover, my passages to self,
I accuse you, accuse me;
fear you, fear me;
run from you, form me.
In the mirror, past a lens of perception inherited by repeatedtraumas on a fledgling selflies the truth ... touch her,I tell myself ...
tell you.
When your image is close enough for me to see the whites ofyour eyes,21

I give you my-this-will-make-her-run-propaganda.
If you run ...
if you back-up .. .
if you pause .. .
if you flinch .. .
if you blink ...
I say: See,she can't be but poison for me ...
see how she runs,
see how she has no heart authentic enough for intimacy,no legs sturdy enough for path-work,
no feet sure enough for planting themselves in her won footprints ...
laid out by destiny ...
See how she has no courage to face the fire .. .
and turn my back to fire ...
and self.
You touch my heart and I feel fear of pain.
You do not bring pain to me,
do not lay it at my door,
do not endanger me.
The reminder that pain lies within is borne anew by the contact
of loving.
You say "I love you"I think I am hearing a lie ...
and watch to see if you are watching me as I watch you waiting
to catch me slipping ...
so you can jab my heart with your sword,and slash my jugular with your razor ... as you run.
Love and pain, in these refracted lens,
are tragically wedded incommon vulgarity.
I see your divorce of self,
feel it as a betrayal
curse your inauthenticity
and choke on my own.

22When I am estranged from my self,
I see you,a stranger in my mirror.
I damn your presence,then rejoice in the limited intimacy.
I smell fear in my sweat
and think you stink.
You are my sister,
not my adversary ...
my mirror-image,
not my tormentor ...
my lover,my amnesia eraser.
You are a gift ...
I feared unwrappinga lesson ...
blessed to come.
When I fear facing the me of you,
I want you out my face.
Your breathing on my mirror,
illuminates
the breaths I've yet to take.
May the me of you,and you of meeach find ... and touchand havethe life ...
the vision .. .
the voice ... we each seek
and may the voices speak the language
and heartsof the Goddesses that walk in the footprints
that are truly our own.

23

Post Script:
I wrote this piece, Breaths on My Mirror, for my work with
Bishop, and Maryel, and Andrea, and Renee and all the othersisters who have been in my life, and in my face, in my mirror, in
my breath and in my heart.
I wrote it for Elizabeth, De Ann, Akiba, Paula, Joreen and all theother sisters who have whispered, and shouted, and sometimes
shook theirfists at me while saying "Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell
the truth, Yasmine."
I wrote it for Amana, who reminds me to be true to my art, andcreativity, and the truth of the wellspring thereof.
I wrote it for my birth-sister, Zenni, who holds up the mirror
with unyielding courage and integrity, and for my aunt Alfie, who
illumines hope and enfoldment with unswerving accuracy, andfor my grandmother who both ho.nored and wounded ... and who
elucidates, in my mirror, self-contained contradictions for me tosee and understand, and my mother, who was injured and has apropensity to give that pain to others ... and who magnifies
similarities for me,
and for my birth-sister, Kim, who could not bear the pain oflooking in the mirror, who believed the images to be the entirety ofher self ... and whose death ignites the lamp posts of my path.
I wrote it for every sister who ever wept alone, believing she
was alone, and every sister who hurts, or was hurt, or wants tohurt, or is so afraid of being hurt by another sister that she refusses
to know the heart and aches and wondrousness of another Black
woman.
May we all rise ... to meet the fear we see in the mirrored-eyes,
and pass though it ... to meet ourselves.
Blessed be!

24Margarita Benitez

Learning to Live With AIDSIn 1985 I had done volunteer work for the AIDS Foundation. I waspart of a team of translators for our brochure advising people totake the HIV test. I never thought at that time that I should take thetest. Two years later I found out I was HIV positive.
After a long period of sickness my doctor suggested I take the
HIV test. Two weeks later when he entered the examining room togive me the results he looked like he had lost a friend . He looked
more scared than concerned. He told me he was moving to Tracy
and a new doctor would be assigned to cover for him. That was that.
I received no counseling, no referrals and no hope. I was in shock.
My world was completely turned around. I walked out of thedoctor's office and went to work in a daze. I did not want to tellanyone. I called the Foundation for help but no services for women
were available. I was confused, scared, alone and did not knowwhat to do. I told my lover that night and asked her to take the test.
She refused as if it had nothing to do with her. Everyday I asked her
to take the test. A month later she said she would. She said she didand never went to get the results. A few weeks later she said she
had taken the test and the result was negative. I never knew if she
actually took the test. Our relationship was difficult and she got
involved with an ex-lover of hers. During the last five years she has
not called me. I have lost contact with her since.
How am I surviving? To tell you the truth by the grace of ahigher power. First I sought medical treatment. Doctors did notknow anything about women and AIDS. I began to relearn biology
and figured out how viruses live in the body. I had to understandwhat was going on in my body. I found out I carry a virus that
deteriorates the immune system and that many thousands ofpeople have died of this virus. I have a grip on the physicalmanifestations of HIV in women. Women suffer from disseminated yeast infections - yeast grows rampant in any area of the
body - pelvic inflammatory disease, fatigue, irregular menstrual25

cycles with pain, not just from menstrual cramps but also from thesystematic weakness and anemia which accompany the hormonalchanges that occur in the body at that time.
I sought therapy and went back to work for a clinic and trained
professionals how to treat people with AIDS. Now I work as aconsultant. . I developed the Margarita Benitez Fund with the
purpose to raise funds for people with AIDS who believe in holistic
healing but can't afford to pay the high cost of alternative therapies. Currently, I am taking a Science of Mind course on learning
how to apply the creative power of thought to the healing process.
The mind can expand to maintain a healthy attitude in spite ofphysical symptoms. After three years I will be a certified licensed
practitioner and help others heal themselves with the power ofcreative thought.
My lover relationships don't last very long. The strength
needed to live with a lover who has AIDS requires honest andemotional maturity. It is a big step to make a conscious commitment to put yourself I the middle of an epidemic that most peoplechoose to avoid. I choose to be celibate and watch what happens.
I have been present with myself and watched the course of thevirus in my body. I tried to understand what the hell the medical
profession is doing about it. Let me tell you. Very little progress has
been made in the last decade in researching a cure for AIDS. This
discourages many of us living with the virus to just give up. But I
cannot do that! I get recharged with anger and my survival instinct
kicks in and makes me hold on to continue living my life the way
I deserve to live. The people living with AIDS who survive thelongest have taken charge of their lives and their medical treatment. Doctors have been very cruel, giving patients short terms tolive. Many have gone home to die. I was given six months to live
one and a half years ago. I have never been healthier and moreaware of caring and loving myself.
In the Latina lesbian community I have a group of friends who
support me and are with me no matter what happens. They show
their support by calling and checking on me and fixing the bestchicken soup in the world. I am invited to events and parties andthat makes me feel I am not forgotten. I am close to these
Puertorican and other Latina lesbians who are sensitive, loving
and caring.
26

I dream of a lover who is not in denial about AIDS. Women canlove and live with each other and for each other. I want a lover who
can love herself so that she can love me. A lot of the recovery work
I have done on myself is about loving myself, nurturing thewoman that I am. Sometimes a friend calls me to say, she is sorry
she hasn't called in months. My response is, "I am glad you callednow." By the time we finish our conversation she says, "I feel it is
my loss when I don't talk to you."
I wanted to write about my experience because it is anotherway of healing myself. Sharing the pain and the love makes lifeeasier to experience. Life is the birthright of every human. The
potential to live a long healthy (in every sense of the word) life lays
in the path we follow in our lives. When one lives in a society where
human beings are secondary to profits, that right is taken away andthe potential to live a healthy life is threatened.
Those of you who know me have complimented me in myendeavors. I raised a family, educated myself and gave back to thecommunity the support, love and understanding I found there.
For those who do not know me, I also learned from many of you.
I have trained myself to survive my adversity.
I wanted to be remembered in life. I want to be honored in life.
If we share our pain the load gets lighter and love grows where
there was isolation. My goal in this lifetime is to live a long,productive life.

Zori's
Cristy Chung
27

Charlene NoBears O'Rourke

We walk, We fall
We dust ourselves off We
Get up We walk We fall
We dust off, We fall again.
We do not want to crawl,
We are adults, are we not?
We want to walk proud
With dignity, We step
Another step only to taste
The earth!

28

Ekua Omosupe

Writing Process: Stitching Pieces of Myself
excerpt from a work in progress

Often my writing process feels like I am sewing together piecesof old garments that I thought were discarded from my memory.
Things that are of no use to me or anyone else. Old things, scraps,
dry rotted fabrics, the frayed edges of dresses that are rippedbeyond repair. There is no easy way to catch the parts, sew together
a straight, neat seam and render a smooth line. It is frustration.
Patching. Patching that leaves me disgruntled. I ask myself, "whynot find a new pattern, stronger fabric, be done with old stuff?" But
this is easier said than the doing of it. 'Why revision a story that I
have lived, that my mother told me? Why remember? Re-member
things that, perhaps, never happened?"
My writing process is chaos. Wondering. Wandering. Days oftrying to find the words that are impacted with the meanings of aparticular situation, emotion, power to resonate beyond my understanding, beyond what is written on the pages. I do not knowwhat I want to say, how to say it. For days a word, a phrase, amemory stings the edges of my mind, a bitter taste on the tip of mytongue. The universe inside my self wants to turn itself inside out.
I struggle in the transition to bring thoughts to words and put themon the page. I procrastinate. I refuse to put pen to paper, click to
typewriter, electrical current through the computer. I tell myself,"I can't do it now. I'll write tomorrow when I know that I'm
thinking. I work better under pressure." Writing is fear. Someone
will judge my thoughts, my intellect, compare me to someone else,
invalidate my meanings, my experiences. I have blood, skin, bone,years invested in these words I refuse to vomit up. I will be exposed
and naked. I want to tell. I want to keep it all a secret. For me, towrite is to free myself from myself.
When I write I am a traveler in known and unknown territories. "Have I been here before?" I ask myself. "Is this the place of
my childhood-revisioned? Is it the childhood I wished for, that I
never lived?" Perhaps it is.

29

As a child my mother brought me here to this place that feels
familiar, yet is foreign. This place of black words, woman words,
grandmother's memories, mother's childhood, memories I haveappropriated as my own. In truth, I do not know this place, but I
piece it together. I construct it. I make it mine. A patchwork of
dislocated events, sayings, "old foggie" notions "mother wit,"
which the mother in me calls up to contextualize, make sense of.
My mother calls them up, the mother inside me, the one who wears
my face, looks through my eyes, uses her words. She is obsession,
living inside my body when it is necessary. I search the inside of
my head, the space between my eyes, the terrain underneath myskin to find the connection between us that makes her memories
mine. With precision, I enter that blackness deep inside my marrow, my stomach, my woman selves and locate the memories of all
the women who are the skin, the blood the womb of me. Their
voices speak to me, through me. We speak in a synchronization ofmemory that creates a discourse of song, weeping, denials ofthings almost forgotten. They tell me, "speak the words, sing thesongs, tell the stories. These things must not be forgotten, though
to remember is to be in pain." I obey their beckonings, decipher
what meanings I can and write. Often I do not know where I am
going, what I will learn, but I write . I am an agent in the orderingof our madness, lived and denied.

AlyKim30

Granate Sosnoff

Mrs. Matsuda
What she must have been feeling.
Thanksgiving day for a Japanese woman who spent her adolescence in a concentration camp. Her father hunted rats for thefamily to eat. Her mother did not smile.
Turkey and stuffing, fried rice, sushi and cranberry sauce.
By the time she reached sixty, no one could know all of her pain.
In the end, it was an unworthy husband that she ached for. A
Japanese man, one of a handful in this half .town, half spreadout farm. He left her for a simple white country girl.
She herself had been a country girl once. A large Japanese
woman from peasant stock. she was no lotus blossom. She bore
him three fine children. Cooked him fresh rice each evening,gave him the food of his homeland . Kept his home clean.
She laughed from some place deep within.
She did not try to find another man. She pretended that theblonde, Heidi-like creature didn't exist. She pretended that her
husband was away working.
What else could she have done.
It seems that there is always a flower that grows easily inthe sun. It is neither beautiful in shape or bold in color.
Some would call it a weed. A common flower, it withstands the pollution of it's air, the drought, and the insects.
By all accounts the weed/ flower is a hearty breed.
A weed/flower in one part of the world is an exotic inanother. Sometimes it lives in a different climate, andsometimes it dies, but it always struggles valiantly. It is asurvivor. You have to respect it.
Mildred took her own life. A very Japanese thing to do. But her
method was pure Nisei: she hung herself just like in a Western.
For the first time, she claimed her life for her own.
31

Mrs. Matsuda(number two)

I have been told that all Koreans hate the Japanese.
I am not Japanese
Mildred was.
She gave me my first bath.
1.
I remember her well:
She is a tall woman, tall for a Japanese woman. She looks
like a woman from the country: short, thick trunk;course black hair. The shape of her body reminds me ofthat of a worker. It knows hard work.
We are in her kitchen and she is preparing different
kinds of sushi. She makes the kind my mother likes. The
kind with lots of stuff rolled up in the seaweed and rice:smoky eel, pickled ginger, the sinewy threads of campio.
2.
Mildred was Japanese and an American. She was American
even though she was Japanese. The comprehension of this fact
took her all through grade school and into junior high. she wasan American. She could wear red lipstick, beaded sweaters,
heels; could speak softly or loudly in English; could dream inJapanese.
She was born here. She was born Japanese.
Unfortunately, World War II coincided with Mildred's teens.
We spoke about that period of her life only once. She told methat it really wasn't so bad. "Really, it was kind of fun, likecamping."
And then she told me that while she was in the camps she lostthat feeling of Americanness, of belonging. It changed her.
She never spoke about it again.

32

3.
I think about Mildred when I make Sushi. The preparation I do
is from pure childhood memory. No one ever showed me how.
4.
I have been told that all Koreans hate the Japanese.
Korea was a colony of Japan for over three decades.
My mother was forced to speak Japanese while in school andaround Japanese officials. She does not speak Korean that muchthese days.
In America my mother speaks Japanese with Mildred.
They eat similar food, the two of them: rice and fish and·vegetables. Sushi, Kim-Chee, Mochi, Tea .
. As a child, I am not sure which food is Korean andwhich is Japanese.

5.
I have had nightmares of being taken to a concentration camp.
It is night time and they come for me at my home.
They knock on my door to take me away.
I am terrified.
And although it shames me,
I cannot stop myself
as I tell the American soldiers

I am not Japanese.

33

Lynn Scott

This piece came to me about Big Mama, my Grandmother,17 years after
her passing from this life.1'd brought a chair that belonged to her out fromthe confines ofmy basement for my partner/friend to use at her computer.
In the days that followed, my senses began to recall the smells of her
clothes and her kitchen, the sight of her cooking, sitting, moving around,and sometimes laughing. I also remembered the loud silence that often
surrounded her and sent me to places of confusion and, then, mental
escape. The stories of our times together began to unfold. Here is one ofthem.

1873 Alcatraz Avenue:
Where I learned about toilet paper
and Nat King Cole

1873 Alcatraz Avenue was the bottom-rear apartment in afour-unit building just inside the Berkeley border. Big Mama,
Daddy's mother, and Auntie Earline, her daughter, moved there
after Jan died. Jan, my only first cousin, died at seven within six
weeks of being diagnosed with kidney disease. Two years younger
than me, she was the closest possibility I had of having a sister, andnow she was gone. It appeared to me that after the funeral, which
I didn't attend, the adults just picked up their mood and got onwith their lives, though I noticed Auntie Earline was in her rooma lot when she and Big Mama still lived on Grove Street, where Jan
had lived, too. I tried to imagine a happy Jan, in a white gown,
living in the cloudy landscape of heaven. I was afraid when I thoughtof a young healthy child, like me, suddenly dying of illness.
They moved into the Alcatraz Avenue apartment and alsobegan to pay much more attention to me. The opening gesture was
the evening when Big Mama said, "Lynn come here," and I
followed her voice into the bedroom. Holding a small green
suitcase in her grip, she said, "I want you to have this." It was Jan's
record player, a very big possession for a child in the 50's. I'dalways thought Jan was so lucky to have such nice toys and had
been quietly envious. Now, I was being given the record player. I
felt so happy as I held it and began to make it mine, but thirty34seconds later, when I emerged from the bedroom, I felt like a
traitor. My two brothers, Freddie and Michael, were sitting on the
couch waiting for their names to be called to receive their inheritance. No more names were called, no words of consolation werespoken. We rode home, the three of us in the back seat of the station
wagon, in our muted pain.
When my family (Mama, Daddy, my brothers, and I) visited at
Big Mama's and Auntie Earline's on Friday evenings, one or theother would often ask if I could stay overnight or for the weekend .
Usually, the answer was yes and Daddy would bring me extra
clothes the next day. I was excited about the attention I was getting.
I also felt guilty being chosen over my brothers.
Big Mama's and Auntie Earline's apartment was small, but had
two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen with a small dining area anda bathroom. They kept the drapes drawn and used lamps day andnight. The furniture and accessories were beautiful. Beauty and style
were Auntie Earline's thing; that's what she spent much of her nurse's
salary on. I loved beauty, too, and I adored my beautiful Auntie withher dazzling smile, hearty laughter, fine clothes and her sharp hairstyles. I never saw her sad. When I was near her I could feel her
vibrancy and enthusiasm. When she talked to me she looked right into
my face, called me loving names, and told me I was pretty. She wasso brilliant and I wanted to be like her. The trouble was that she
sometimes worked double shifts, sleeping during the day, and she
also had a busy social life, so I didn't see her as much as I wanted.
I loved Big Mama's soulful, tasty cooking. She used lots of onions
which Mama never did because Daddy said he didn't like them andshe made the best cobblers and turnovers I'd ever tasted. There wasn't
much to do in the apartment except to watch TV, write or draw, andlisten to the adults talking to each other or on the telephone.
Sometimes, I took a tennis ball and played in the driveway.
I really liked it when one of Big Mama's or Auntie Earline's
friends were over because the conversations were so for real. I wasnever bored listening. Daisy, Big Mama's longtime friend, was oneof my favorites. Daisy came with her bottle and her blues music.
Big Mama would cook chicken and dumplin's, or oxtails, or
neckbones, and they talked for hours about the women and men in
their lives who had names like Luellcerine, Opal, Leola, Earl, Dot, and35

Lofelia. I loved watching Daisy's lips, so full and always moist. I knewthat whoever was kissed by her lips would know they were loved.
One Saturday, I was seated in the dining room, my back to thestove, with high hopes that this hair pressing session and this kindof grease would keep my hair straight for weeks. The TV waspositioned so that Big Mama could watch while she worked on myhead, and I could watch, too, without risking that fateful move thatwould get me burned on my face, ear, or neck by the hotcomb. The
N at King Cole Show came on and, simultaneously, the phone rang
with a friend on the other end reminding us that one of "our own"
was on television. As we watched Nat's flawlessly suave performance, Big Mama said, somewhat harshly, ''What color is thatman?" I gave what seemed to me the obvious answer, "Brown."
Again she questioned in an even harsher tone, ''What color is thatman?" Hesitatingly, in a softer voice, and against what I believed
I saw, I said, "Light brown?" I don't know what I expected, but thevenom in her answer left me speechless. "That man is BLACK!
He's as black as this here frying pan!" Having expressed her scornfor his blackness, she seemed satisfied and said nothing more. I
said nothing either, but I fell into a net of questions - how did she
feel about me and my skin color? Even more, how did she feel
about Auntie Earline and her skin color which was darker thanmine? her brother, Uncle Ed? Daisy? Jan? Mama? everyone who
was not her and Daddy's color? How could she be so disgustedwith the talented "first Negro to have his own television show"?
Not even Nat King Cole was above Big Mama's colors truck wrath.
Time passed on my 9-year-old' s calendar - week or monthsI don't know. Auntie Earline got married to Uncle Godfrey. Therewas some partyin' going on - a wedding shower, bachelor party
and the reception. There was more joy and laughter than everbefore on Alcatraz Avenue. The apartment was filled with silver
and golden wrapped gifts and with family and friends dressed to
the nines. Auntie Earline promised me her yellow chiffon wedding
dress and matching yellow silk high heels. I could just see myself
wearing them, being as pretty as she always said I was. It seemedthat the event had everyone high.
Auntie Earline and Uncle Godfrey moved to West Oakland
and I saw my adorable Auntie even less than before. Big Mama still36

invited me to spend some weekends with her, but the apartment
was darker, colder and lonely feeling. When I stayed over, Big
Mama still opened the sofabed for her and I to sleep on together.
I never understood that. There were two bedrooms, two beds, but
she always wanted us to share the sofabed. I didn't like her
toenails. They were too long and I was afraid she'd scratch my legsin the night. That never happened, though; she didn't even try to
sleep particularly close to me. I guess she just liked talking to me
until she fell into a snoring sleep.
On a certain Saturday morning we were out of toilet paper. I
pulled some pedal pushers over my ashy legs, slipped into my
Keds and a sweater, wove the straight parts of my hair into thematted portions with my fingers, and took the dollar bill that Big
Mama had laid on the coffee table. Stepping out into the Berkeley
fog, I felt proud to be "going to the store." At home, my older
brother, Freddie was the one to do such things. Crossing the
A venue and only glancing at the fantastical window of the Stagecraft Theatrical Store, I headed for the small grocery store in the
middle of the block. I was not going to take too long, I was goingto buy just the right thing, and bring home a receipt and the correctchange. Finding the corn flakes was easy. There was only one
brand to buy - Kellogs' and I knew what size box always sat on
the table when we were having dry cereal. The toilet paper was adifferent story. There were three different brands, each in theirsingle-roll packages. Well, over all the years that I'd gone shoppingwith the women in my family, I'd surely learned on thing - buy
the cheapest brand! I picked up the least expensive roll and carried
my two items to the counter. I remembered to ask for a receipt,
counted my change, and stepped smugly out of the store. Back at
the apartment, I first gave Big Mama her change and the receipt,
hoping that she'd give me a tip for the excellent job I'd done. I
removed the corn flakes and toilet paper from the bag, neversuspecting that anything other than a compliment would follow.
"WHAT-KIND-OF-TOILET-PAPER-IS-THIS? WHY-DID-YOUBUY-THIS-STUFF? THIS-IS-THE-CHEAPEST-ROUGHESTTHING-YOU-COULD'VE-PICKEDt GO-BACK-AND-BUY-SOMEMDt" I was crushed because I'd thought I'd done everything to a"T," with such careful thought and good intent. Further, how did

37

I get to be 9-years-old, sitting and shitting everyday of my life andnot know the difference between toilet papers?! I slumped back to
the little store, nervously made the exchange and shamefully
returned to the a partment. We went on with our day with no more
words about the incident.
A year or so later, Auntie Earline and Uncle Godfrey broke up,
and shortly after that, Auntie Earline moved to LA. We helped Big
Mama move into Daisy's house on a rainy Halloween night, andI didn't spend the night with Big Mama anymore until I was
twelve, when she moved into another apartment on Grove Street.
We still slept together on the sofabed, her toenails were still too
long to my liking, and we still talked until she fell into a snoring
sleep.

We Hold Our Own
Laura Irene Wayne

38Deborah M. Aguayo-Delgado

Stoop Summers
Sprawled across the stoop,(el Barrio's patio)
heated brick slabs
rust tinted bits
scraping our suntanned shoulders,piss laced city pool waterstinging my eyes.
Lighting foil wrapped sparklers
Mami bought for a precious
thirty-nine cents some July ago,
I turn my facecatching more of your whispered Spanish hymns,
feeling your brown wrinkles softly hanging,laughing at the webbed chairaluminum legs slanted
begging relief
from holding you up.
I wonder,did you notice mewatch the gold flecked shadows
flit across your eyes,
inhaling the cinnamon driftingfrom between your breasts
as you stroked my belly
and played with my half undone braids.
I wonder,if you know
how transfixed I become
watching the blackboard sky crackle
or that I learned to love
women from you.
39

And
if you can see me Abuelita,
do you think you could
still hold my handwhen it thunders?

Pacal Barraza
40

Ana Bantigue Fajardo

Island Dream
Long ago before the whites came,
you watched mefrom afar
as I paddled my "banka"
up on to the shore
returning from a fishing trip.
You noticed the way
my muscles
tightenedas I drove my paddle
gently throughthe ocean waters.
My brown skinperfectly baked fromthe tropical sun,my rich black hairdripping with sea waterand sweatYou noticed theintensity of my Pinay Filipina eyesthe way I was one withmy canoewith my paddle
with our mother sea.
You waited for me
to ride the wave in,and you watched as
I slipped my "sarong" offand lay on the sandto rest.

41

You noticed the way
my breasts were
flawlessly molded "Parang Mayon Volcano,"
and inisip mo. "Kay ganda."- How beautiful- you thought.
It was then you could wait no longer
so you approached me.
"Malacas na babae, kailangan ko kita."
Strong woman, I need you.

Charlene Koskalaka
42

Maya C. Valverde

Pipe Carriers

Just before I was to blow my mind
Over the hill they came
Laughing loudly andCarrying the sacred bundle.
Four women of different age
Becoming silent nearing the circle.
After the medicine man wouldn't let women
touch the pipe
As it passed along
And another said
We could touch yet not smoke,
Our time was not yet,
And still they came
Carrying chanupa to the fire
For the blessing and the prayers,
Pipebearers all.
And we thanked the earth, Grandmother,
Grandfather, Great Spirit and all our relations .
Ho!

43

Heidi Li

The Song of The Late Summer Courtesan
My name is Fook Ying Woo. I am twenty-two years old and alesbian - a dyke to the core. I am also a prostitute or what somecall a "whore."
People can call me whatever they want. They have called me
many things, since the day I was born. A no good disgrace. An
ungrateful daughter. A stupid girl. A concubine slave. A slanteyed woman. An evil dragon lady. Ayellow-skinnedcunt. A silent
menace. A chink. A sneaky bitch who'll slit your throat when you're
looking the other way.
As one customer of mine once said, "You're a hole to fill any
way I want." He's right. For the right price I will pleasure as you
wish, let you think whatever you want, but no amount of money
can buy me - allow you to reach the depths, the insides of my soul.
Very few have ever seen or touched my soul.
I am many things to many different people. But my life did notstart out this way.

••••

I was born during the Year ofthe Ox. I grew up in Philadelphia's
Chinatown. My family still owns and runs a small bakery there
right off Mott Street.
I am the oldest of three daughters. I am of "mixed" background. My dad's family is originally from the south, from Canton
Province, China. He grew up in the city slums of Hong Kong andemigrated here at twenty. My mother was born in Taiwan. She is
the illegitimate daughter of a native Taiwanese woman and an
exiled, northern Chinese PRC (People's Republic of China) official.
To this day she does not know who her father is. He never married
my grandmother and disappeared shortly after mom was born.
Grandma" Ah Boo" sent her only daughter to this country tofind a husband. My mom was only sixteen. She and dad met in agambling club in New York's Chinatown. She'd been here only
three days, sleeping on the subway trains at night. My father was

44

twenty four and working twelve hour days ina Chinatown bakery.
The night after they met, they went home to his small rooming
house flat. Within a week, they were married.
My mom wrote home. Soon afterwards, Ah Boo sent money tothem, $5,000 U.S. dollars. This was half of Ah Boo's life savings
from working in various Chinese-owned sweat shops in Taipee.
After four years, my parents had saved enough money to move
to Philadelphia and open their own bakery. The shop space theyrented was very small. The two bedroom apartment behind it, notmuch bigger. Half the money saved had to be put into converting
the place into a decent bakery: Business was slow at first. Philly
Chinatown was not very big back in the early 1970's. Not many
Chinese lived there at that time. A few rich ones came from thesuburbs to buy oriental goods and food. A smaller number of whites,
mostly a trickle of tourists, would come in and buy the baked goods.
Business gradually picked up over the years as more working
class Chinese settled in Chinatown and some middle-class ones
moved into the surrounding areas. From the time I was seven, I
was needed in the shop to run small errands or just keep my Mom
or Dad company.
Up until the time I left home, we all lived in that apartmentright behind the bakery. Running that bakery was hard work. Dadstarted baking each day atthree in the morning. Mom closed up theshop each night at ten. Seven days a week this went on. Since I've
left, I've heard they've slowed down a bit, but not very much.
We were born shortly after the shop was opened. I was the first.
My sisters, Kwock Ying Woo and Po Ying Woo, followed two andfour years later. As we got old enough, my sisters and I all helped
out: running the register, restocking the baked goods, cleaning thecounters, and wiping up and washing down the shop during theevenings, weekends, and summers. We never got paid. We neverasked to be. It was a family run business. My parents were glad we
all lived within seconds behind the shop.
To this day, my dad does not forgive my mom for not bearing
hima son. He has never complained, but we all knew. My mom has
always worked hard at the bakery, trying to do the best she can toearn his forgiveness. Throughout the years, I've seen him staringat her still beautiful reflection in the shop mirrors, wondering tohimself whether he'd chosen unwisely.

45

Each time he would look at her reflection, she acted like it
didn't bother her. She just kept silent and worked harder .

........

When I was ten, a books hop opened up about one block further
down on Mott Street. It was the first one that sold classic" Chinese
literature, not just Chinese magazines and paperbacks from abroad.
It also carried a couple of English translations of some older classical texts.
Hua Mei's parents, the Yuans, thought that the bookshop
would make them lots of money someday. Hua Mei herself neverunderstood this. Her mom always told her that running a books hop
meant you were educated and loved books. Wealth and prosperity
would come from such steadily increased knowledge. Mrs. Yuan
was a proud woman. She only read the classics" the store ordered,. never the new stuff.
Hua Mei s dad never touched a book. He sat in the store day
after day and watched the t.v. or read the Chinese papers. He
smoked his own hand-rolled cigarettes. The store was always
musty even that first day it opened.
I remember walking into the bookstore that day sent by mymom to welcome the new family with some sweet rice cake. It was
the middle of August, only a few more weeks before If d be back inschool again.
Hua Mei was sitting on a stool behind the counter. Her dad was
also seated, his face turned downward toward a newspaper. He
did not look up as I shut the door behind me. I felt uncomfortable
going in there. I might have turned around and left immediately if
H ua Mei had not looked at me right then and smiled. She had a real
serene, almost sad smile that said a thousand hellos and goodbyesin the same flickering. I smiled back at her, set now on not turning
back and running out.
As I approached, I looked right at her. She was pretty, butthin.
Almost too thin. Everything about her-her face, her body, herarms and legs-seemed narrow and frail.
Her features bordered on delicate. Her face was a clear mix ofboth her mother's Shanghai lineage and her fa ther' s Toishan roots .
HuaMeiherselfwould onedaysay to me that those of us of " mixed
blood," whether we were ugly or beautiful, were devastating for
II

II

f

46

most "pure" Chinese to look at. We made them think too consciously of times long past ... our first Mother's and Father's forgotten and lost history.
As I reached the counter, I saw that Hua Mei's black hair was
braided into two thick strips. She was proper looking, even in her
faded yellow, summer dress. She looked my age, perhaps younger.
I knew that day, Hua Mei and I were going to be close friends. From
the way she'd smiled at me and the way I'd smiled back. From theway we'd both looked at each other. We both knew.
I spoke in English to her, "Hi, my name is Fook Ying. My mom
asked me to come over and welcome your family . Here are somerice cakes from our shop. We hope you like it here in Philly."
Hua Mei accepted the cakes and showed them to her father. He
mumbled something to her without hardly looking up. She said
"thank you" to me in Mandarin.
Then she asked me, "Do you understand any Chinese?"I responded, "I'm fluent in Cantonese only ... by choice. My
mom is part northern Chinese, but she won't speak any Mandarinwith family, only customers."
Hua Mei said in English, "I can speak both, but I prefer Cantonese
too. Out of respect, I speak Mandarin with my mother, but usually
speak English only when I am not around either of my parents.""That makes sense," I said.
The whole time we talked, Hua Mei stared at me intently. Like
she'd seen me somewhere else before. Knew who I was . After we'dbeen friends for a summer, she told me it was in her dreams where
she thought she'd first seen me .

••••Apparently, Hua Mei always had these dreams, ever since she
could talk. The dreams were unusually vivid. Too eerily real she said.
While asleep, Hua Mei dreamt she was a courtesan from many
centuries ago who'd exiled herself to an abandoned Daoist temple
in the northeast mountains of China. Riding on horseback, she'd
fled from the illustrious court of the Emperor Ching, then eminent
ruler of the farthest northern province.
As a courtesan, Hua Mei had done many sexual favors during
her lifetime for other rulers and brave men, including various
dalliances with their first wives and concubines.

47

But one day, the Emperor had come to her and said, "You arebeautiful, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are alsoquite smart. I have listened to your every word, pondered yourthoughts, and read your scripture writings. You shall bear me achild - a son fit to rule this dynasty. My present heir is sickly andstupid. I chose badly with my first wife. Her child is not fit to rule.
Yours will replace him."
For several weeks after that the Emperor came to Hua Mei's
rooms. He entered her on numerous occasions, intent on his seedbringing forth fruit. The art of seduction was no longer desired ofher. Her body merely bore the harsh assaults of their passionlesscoupling. Sometimes, she cried for him to stop. He refused, saying
he would not stop until her body accepted the roots of his seed.
After nearly two months, Hua Mei awoke one morning in her
chambers and vomited. She knew now she was to bear theEmperor's child.
Every day thereafter, she expelled the wrenching sickness
from her guts and the rumors spread. The Emperor's first wife, his
concubines and consorts all whispered about the forming child.
The Emperor's first wife, dai Ching, was most angry with theEmperor. She secretly vowed to destroy Hua Mei's unborn child.
During the early evening hours, dai Ching walked along thecorridors of the palace, her lilting footsteps echoing outside thedoors to Hua Mei's rooms.
Nine months passed. Neither the Emperor nor any othermembers of his court entered Hua Mei's rooms. Her belly grew big
and cumbersome. Her skin stretched tight. She despaired, because
she did not feel love, only fear for this life growing within her.
The child was finally born. A dragon son. He cried angrily,
heralded by the Emperor and the early Summer winds. The night of
his birth, Hua Mei's torn insides bled the blood life. Both mother andchild's eyes shone with an enraged glow. The struggle of life anddeath had been momentarily received into both their weary bodies.
That night, the Emperor Ching came to Hua Mei's chambers.
He named the boy Hong Wei, "Red Sun," and then took him from
Hua Mei's nursing breast. Hua Mei's heart bled with rage, with theknowledge of her own defeat. She cried and no one heard.
Twelve days after the boy was born, he was formally presented
to the Emperor's court. All the wives, concubines and consorts48

listened attentively as the Emperor Ching proclaimed his new son.
The air was very still, no sound but the Emperor's proud, insistentvoice could be heard.
With utmost ceremony, the Emperor placed the boy into dai
Ching's outstretched arms. His voice resonated, "Take this boy as
if he were your own. He is the one I have chosen to succeed. You
are my first wife and I trust you will do no wrong."
The boy was received. No more words were said.
Throughout it all, Hua Mei stood far back from the processional, never moving from her spot in the ceremonial order. She
looked at her son from afar. She wondered if he would ever grow, if
his life would ever extend beyond the confines of these palace waIls.
Two days later, Hong Wei's little body was discovered, flungfar over the East Garden wall. His throat had been slit and his little
eyes plucked from his head. The Emperor's third concubine wascharged with his death. Within hours, her head was sliced from her
being by the Emperor's highest ranking guard.
Hua Mei heard the news. She knew the emperor would cometo her shortly, demanding that she again bear him a child. She
could not accept the burden yet again.
She fled that very night to the far northeastern mountains .

••••Now, Hua Mei was alone. She wandered the abandoned temple
gardens, sometimes circling the edge of the chrysanthemum scented
lake nearby. Each day she would explore the same spots insolitude, wishing for earthly, or perha ps festive, spiritual companionship to join her. She mourned the death of her pitiful little son,knowing isolation was the price she must pay for her own selfbanishment.

••••

One day, Hua Mei heard footsteps while meditating by thesouthern side of the lake. Fear eclipsed her heart. The late afternoon summer sun fully exposed both her movements and form.
She could not flee.
She rose and waited for the footsteps to approach her.
A tall, young woman emerged from behind the darkened
blossoming leaves. Dressed in a red silk gown full of embroideredfolds, her figure entered through a shadowy southern opening by

49

the lake. Her long hair unrestrained and flowing, she appeared
dressed in the clothing of a highly favored courtesan. A longsword, wrapped in a heavy sheath, hung unmoving from the sideof her hip.
Hua Mei looked at the young woman's face and saw that it was
beautiful. Rich with expression, the lightly painted eyes were both
sad and expectant, equally yielding and withholding as theylooked directly at her.
The young woman's lips were full, reddened by the color ofripe summer berries. Her face appeared angular yet rounded byfirm serisuallines.
To Hua Mei, the approaching form seemed both female and .
male in appearance. The young woman's lengthy torso and sturdy
limbs were expressions of a curving softness that touched every
part of her being. Yet her movements were like that of an uncaged
tiger, full of restless energy, ready to spring forth into explosionsof unrestrained movement.
Hua Mei looked down and saw that the young woman's feetwere not bound .
A voice suddenly spoke out, "I am looking for a place to takeshelter for the night. Is the temple abandoned as it appears to be?"Hua Mei replied, "The temple is empty. Only old quiet spirits
remain. I am presently its only human companion.""The temple is most fortunate, but why must you alone grace
its forgotten solitude?," the young woman asked . She had stopped
her approach and was now but three feet from Hua Mei.
"I see no reason why you should not stay for as long as you
wish." Hua Mei replied.
At this point, Hua Mei said the dream would diverge, venturing into many different possible outcomes .

••••Sometimes, the young woman would explore the temple andthe surrounding grounds and then depart. Other times, she would
stay only the night, accompany Hua Mei in early morning meditation that following day, before taking leave on the rested, bareback of her mare.
Sometimes, the dream would change and the young woman
would stay. Days and nights would pass. Neither would speak a50

word during that whole time they were in each others' presence.
Then one night, while laying on their bamboo mats upon the still,
temple floors, they would begin to speak of their lives ... uncovereach other's histories.
Hua Mei would recount the events preceding her journey tothe temple.
The young woman would listen attentively and then speak ofher own life. She had been captured by rebel conquerors and takenfrom her village in the south. Her own mother had been born andraised in a far off island in the oceans. When still very young, hermother had been brought to the mainland to bear the children ofa southern farming lord.
During her childhood, the young woman was told many talesof her mother's native island and its people - tales of the boundlesshealing powers of the island and its waters, of deeply revered
journeys into the elements, of numerous spiritual and physicaljoinings amongst native women and men brought together amidst
the various plants and animals. She listened attentively to accountsof the transformative gifts of the sun and the moon and all thesurrounding planets, each guided by the greater spirits of theuniverse.
At night, when the young woman's father was already fed andasleep, her mother would share these secrets with her in untamed
whispers - her voice remembering as she gazed upon her only
daughter. Over and over again, her exhausted, weary motherwould recount these wonders, until the sun rose in the sky. Until
the rooster bellowed and crowed its way into another waking day.
The young woman was raised to be a laboring girl, strong andunbending like the land . Her feet were kept unbound so that one
day she could pull the plow in the fields along with the ox.
Her whole life was spent in the fields. Out under the hot sun or
the torrent rains, her father would stand over her, beating her
when not happy with her day's work. He always said she mustlabor harder. As she grew older these beatings grew more frequent. Her younger brothers became big and strong like her father,and in silence they worked the land alongside her. When angered,they too began to beat her when she failed to do as they pleased.
Finally, at the age of fourteen she was sold to the high Court of
the Emperor Xiao. Her father received two oxen in exchange. The

51

young woman was taken by cart to the Emperor's palace locatedat the northwestern edge of the village. Her feet were a disgrace,
but the Emperor found her face most pretty to look at. In the midstof his passion, he would often say to her that if he cut all her toes
off she would be perfect. She became his most favored courtesan.
Many evenings she was summoned to his private chambers topleasure him as he wished.
One day, there was word of agitation in the Northern Provinces. The Emperor Xiao laughed and said nothing would come ofit. He continued to summon her to his chambers. Each time before
their lovemaking began, she was bathed in wild flower scents anddark oils by the Emperor's own private palace eunuches.
While the young woman was in the Emperor's chambers onenight, screams and cries were suddenly heard coming from the outerrooms. The Emperor immediately rose and ran to the window.
Looking into the palace garden, he saw heavily clad figures withraised swords rushing their way into the main palace entrance.
The Emperor turned to summon his most trusted guards. His
stately figure cloaked in confidence, he strode into his outerchambers. The heavy doors burst open. The rebels had succeededin their surprise attack. Two of them grabbed the Emperor andpushed him toward the floor. In one fell swoop, his head tumbled
forward onto the marble tile.
The young woman quickly hid behind the inside chamber curtain, her naked form wrapped in rich, heavy material. The two rebels
shouted victoriously and ran from the Emperor's chambers concerned only with the prized head in hand. The young woman
emerged. As she reached down to pick up her red evening gown,
blunt, powerful hands grabbed her neck. She tried to break free. Herlips began to tum blue.
She looked up at the dominating figure's face. The rebel
leader's visage stared back at her in both surprise and disgust. It
became clear he would probably squeeze the life from her if she
continued to resist. She stopped.
His hands still around her throat, the rebelleader hissed to her,fly ou are a most welcomed surprise - I will take you back with me
to the north. I will present you to high Emperor Yao as an offeringfrom the spirits who have blessed our conquest."
The rebel leader then released the young woman from his grip.

52

Her hands were immediately bound and she was placed on a horse
beside him that night as they began the ride north. The deadEmperor's head was placed beside her, its' bloody eyes the samecolor as her gown. A group of twenty soldiers accompanied therebel leader and the captured young woman. Their colorful armorand brightly lit torches dotted the long trek north bringing news ofvictory.
Days and nights passed. The rebel soldiers beat the young
woman each day, but did not touch her inside, fearful of theretributive wrath of the Emperor Yao. However, years of beatings
had left the young woman stronger than the rebels thought. Eachnight, she plotted her escape as the group moved farther north.
One evening, all the rebel soldiers except their leader left tohunt wild, white horned deer. The rebel leader waited until thehoofs of their horses could no longer be heard, before approachingher.
He spoke in a contemptuous voice, "You are a palace whore!
Duty compels me to bring you to my Emperor, your forbidden
womanly parts untouched by my common flesh. But you are stilla whore ... no better than a filthy dog unfit for eating!"
The rebel leader stood before her, his figure tall. He smiled ather beauty, fully reassured by her restraint.
"I could violate your flesh now and who would know? Only
you and I and the spirits .,. and perhaps the Emperor. I could kill
you now, slit your throat, tear your heart and stomach from you,and who would know? I could do a lot of things, but I'm not that
reckless!"
The rebel leader continued to smile, aware that the young
woman was powerless. With her hands bound together in front, a
thick knotted rope loosely extended from her arms to the trunk ofan old, rotting walnut tree.
The rebel leader stood inches from the young woman's kneeling form. Even through his garments she could see his malemember hardening. The worn leather belt that secured his sword
hung low over his hips, running around the full length of his torso.
Although it was becoming full, his groin remained partially obscured, harnessed by the wide strip of leather.
The young woman whispered to him, "I can take you here,"
she pointed to her face, her lips, "and you would not be betraying

53

your beloved Emperor or the spirits ... but you must first remove
your belt if you wish to be pleasured."
The rebel leader's eyes narrowed. He stared at the young
woman, a feeling of pure hatred coursing through his being.
"Stupid whore, how do I know you won't kill me if I take mysword and belt off?""My hands are still tied," she responded, "I cannot harm you
if you do not untie them."
The rebel leader did not move. The young woman's words, herpromise brought a suffocating stillness upon him. His eyes faltered. Suddenly, his angry gaze fell to the ground and he relented .
"You remove the belt," he said, "but if you do anything to trickme I will grab your neck and break it immediately.".
The young woman brought her bound hands up and began toundo the belt. It came undone quickly and slipped to the ground, its
heavy metal weight released. The young woman made sure to let the
sharp tip of the sword fall into the dust by her left hip. As she glanced
down she could see the handle of the sword resting before her knees.
The young woman looked up and saw the rebel leader watching her every movement. She pulled his hardening member fromthe folds of his silk gown, exposing it to the dusky air. Without
hesitation, she took it between her lips and the rebel leader' s eyes
closed.
She looked down at the pointed steel blade of the sword laying
on the ground . Her bound hands trembled as they slowly twisted
to one side. She reached downward for the handle within inches ofher knees. She continued to nurse the rebel leader. Her fingers
gingerly grasped the base of the sword. Both hands began to secure
their grip on the rounded metal. She looked up again and saw therebel leader's eyes were still closed.
She closed her own eyes. Breathed in deeply as her hands
turned upward. Without hesitation she plunged the sword upward, far into the rebel leader' s bowels.
He screamed in terror and pain. His eyes flew open in fear, hisgaze glazed from the instantaneous shock of human flesh piercedby metal. The young woman released the rebel leader from her lips
as he began moving backwards, his arms outstretched. The rebel
leader tried to grasp at her hair, her face, but he could only gasp.
Blood drained from his body as he fell finally to the ground.

54

The young woman stood up. She looked down at the bleeding
figure. She felt no remorse. Only sadness at the cruel choices she
had to make. In a few more moments, the rebel leader would be
dead. She would flee now, free for this moment.
The young woman removed the sword from the dead man's
body once he had stopped breathing. She secured the belt on her
own hips, placing the blood stained sword back in its sheath.
She then mounted the tan mare after removing the deadEmperor's rotting head from its side. In order to outsmart her
captors, the young woman rode north instead of south for several
days and nights hardly stopping. On the seventh day, she finallycame upon the abandoned temple in the mountains where she
found Hua Mei resting.

••••

When Hua Mei first told me about this portion of the dream I
cried. It was not a dream but a violent nightmare full of pain anddestruction. Ghastly stories of an old order that had destroyed both
itself and its people mercilessly. Hua Mei said that perhaps she hadread too much ancient Chinese history at an early age upon her
mother's insistence, and these dreams were only a reaction to thehorrible images of history which she'd already gleaned in her
young life.
But from what she told me, I know the dreams had started
when Hua Mei could first talk, not when she began reading
somewhat later.
We were only eleven years old when Hua Mei first told me
about her dreams . I though they were terrible dreams for a kid her
age to be having. Things far too adult and ugly seemed to fill her
sleeping hours. I didn't understand the possible meaning of thesedreams for myself until I was older.

This piece is a work in progress and is the opening chapter to one of twocomplementary novellas. Although somewhat historical in both its
reference and placement, this piece is a work of fiction and should not be
relied on for any sort of historical "accuracy" and/ or "correctness." In it,
I have utilized what I know to be the "romanization" or "pinyin" methodof translation/ spelling for a number of the individuals' names and other
Chinese words.

55

Dajenya

born

black
and whitefemalebaby childrapeddeniedignoredloved
sometimes
beat
into madness
challenged
by lifeto survive
everything
dope
gave comfort
enough to live onsex
was a distraction
searching endlessly
for reason
meaning
loveto the rescue
not obsession
lovecompassion
saved
my lifeiama
survivor56

Dawn Rudd

The EnemyBra

GirdleDress shields
Panties
Stockings
Hold my mother hostage
before her clothes becomeher captor to the world
Bent all the way over
Foot in right hole
Foot in left hole
Now pullFingers tense and resentful
Full body unwilling to yield
to this foreign force
Force
that spandex, lycra
polyknitted cotton content
piece of rubberized slavery
up those calves
Past the knee
soft like doughUp, upward to the thighs
Screaming and pleading
Bleedingfrom this external enemy
waiting to become one
with the internal enemy
Hate
She rests a moment
Long enough forperspiration to form

57

causing dreaded sweat stains
God bless dress shields
looped and fastened tightly
around her arms and shoulders
There is safety now
There is safety now
It is 1969
The country is on fireFighting for equality
Fighting for justiceFighting for freedom
Fighting to fit into clothing
designed for a thin, flat
white woman
Fighting large breasts
that spill out of hereighteen hour bra
Protruding buttocks
defiantly protest
Thighs demand their right to be
Walter Cronkite delivers the numbers
How many killed
How many wounded
My mother marches
Clenched fist held high
Buttocks held highBreasts held highTummy tucked andThighs constrainedFighting for freedom
Fighting for freedom58

Irare Sabasu

Sustenance

She says:
I am her conch stew, fungi and callaloo
i am her ginger beer and mauby brew
i am her tamarind and soursop
her mango meat, when the sun's too hot.
she says i am her sustenancei am her guava girl ... papaya pearl
her smooth, raw honey colored, lover girlindeed, i am the most favorite fruit
on which her woman hunger feeds
and all my juicy-sweetest parts
where her hot tongue hungrily darts
are deep, banyon-root deep .. . inside
i am her roast fish and johnny cakeher tripe soup, and well done steak
her pigeon peas and rice, king fish slice
i am her opened up green coconut
i am her head flung, drink down, coolsmile-sweet sip ... that i fill
her mouth, and ooze on out her lips
brazen, wet down to her nipple tips
says i am her supple sugar caneshouldn't nobody be so sweet somake her body heat so, bush-tea burnbeg ... for kisses ... to kill the pain.
i am her fig, her cinnamon stick
tongue flick, salt lick, sweat slick
legs on her bare back grip ... wild
beast sounds from her throat rip
ahh ... she says i am her flan
her lozenge, her triple-layer ...

59

chocolate cake, her cherry apple-raisin bun
and any part of me she tastes
she always have ... big funsays i am her fate, her life's plani am her woman ... the rest be danmed.
she says, i am her sustenance.

Ms. Takuan
Cristy Chung
60

V.K. Aruna

Author's Note: This work is excerpted from a longer essay I am
writing about the many visions and voices of South Asian Lesbians,
currently living, working, or passing through the United States; women
who, like me, are looking for ways to bridge exile and return bytransforming the very concepts of home and community. This version
presents a montage of journal entries, prose, and internal dialogue thatoffers the perspectives of one South Asian Lesbian - Black, Feminist,
Nonimmigrant - looking at the complexities of multiple returns togeographic homelands and psychic locations; returns with other South
Asian women who are making some of the same journeys; returns from/to/and from lovers' arms to reflections of self.

Journey In Progress
RETURN I
Sometimes memory can soften the glaring sun of a late morningin July into a delicate mood light, filtered through white muslin
aged with buttermilk stains. It can get a mug of Maxwell House totaste like coffee stretched to frothing perfection by vigorous vendors balancing boiling liquid between two enamel cups at roadside stalls in KL/Pune/Madras. And if the air in my apartment issimultaneously heavy with sandalwood incense and Shivkumar's 1
santoor rippling through the speakers, memory can even transform sound: traffic noise on Sixteenth Street becomes rickshaws on
Bhandarkar Road, cardinal calls become koil cries, and neighbors'
accents, South Asian.
On unplanned mornings like these, when certain variables fuse tospark a certain energy, memory is not shaped by the actual remembering of how things are, but by a pit-of-the-stomach desire for what
I call home. In the realm of such memory rain-washed mud turns togolden dust, filth on roads seduces, public toilets lose their fecal stink,
crowds feellike welcome lovers. Yet . .. mud is sticky, filthy, noise andcrowds enrage me. Nostalgia breeds illusions.
•61

Out of the tiredness of always being different, I have spunromantic fictions of what home is like. I struggle with the "illusions" I have conceived and reject my exaggerations of a glorified
home-land. But the pull is strong. I am there, not here, yet, also here
and there. It is as if the boundaries that keep me from all of myhomes have suddenly collapsed, and I am in a space where
external geographies have ceased to exist.
Perhaps, then, these "illusions," these mis-memories are deliberately created to compensate for separation from my internal
geographies. Perhaps, they are an exile's attempts to return home
in a time frame that makes re-turn impossible.
I look past the trees in thepark and hear the song ofkoils mingling with the
sputter of scooters.
I taste rich Madrasi coffee
on the back of my tongue
and smell jackfruit ripening
on the tree.
Desire transforms what is into what I will it to be. There will betime to analyze, time to politicize, time to reject illusions. This
morning, however, I push open memory, blur mirage with reality,
and ride nostalgia "home."
RETURN II
It's self indulgent to talk about the personal, identity, me. There
are more urgent struggles for us. Rapes, dowries, ejaculations on
crowded buses against backs buttocks & thighs, female lung disease,infant mortality, multinational fuckovers, government sellout. Who
AmI ... WhoAmI ... don't you already know? Sounds like an American malady to me. An excuse to sit around and chat about ID-entity.

JOURNAL NOTES:
But I am a woman wlw loves other women. How will I survive
erasure by my communities, radical and progressive as you may be? To
talk about myself/yourself to ourselves is to keep you from making us
nameless. This is part of my struggle.
62

RETURN III
Return to KL ... Colombo ... Delhi ... Trivandrum ... to settle
for the dubious title of un-sexed, de-womanized woman after
risking deportation from America for daring to name my Self. That
will be SelfMurder like the murders of those who never left or
those who returned and had no community. I must make a way forothers to do their own returns. For eventually, I will do mine.
RETURN IV
He was Gay; she was safe with him. It was a plot to keep theirparents off their backs and the INS off hers. Faked a marriage,
foolproof, she said. Compiled the photo album, opened joint
accounts, did the ha ppy couple act - one for them and one for Them.
Then, he wanted a piece of her. He was afteral1, Husband. She told
him to go to hell. He hit her across the face . She filed for divorce.
N ow, some of her family is talking to her and some of them are not,but she is loving women more openly. Until, that is, They send her
Home.

JOURNAL NOTES:
Imagine the psychological and emotional dilemma of a Lesbian who
realizes that having left "home" to avoid marriage, she now has to marry
to remain in the U.S. Imagine her constant fear of being caught, and her
isolation if she is abused by her "paper husband." How does she survive
the act of bartering one oppression 2 for another to buy her "freedom"?
And if she is a feminist, at what price does the greencard come when she
is now defined by her relationship to her male sponsor? Does any act ofbarter ever cease to be just that - an exchange of weapons with which
to kill us anyway? In the end does it matter whether it is execution bystoning or execution by gas?3
Borders are not my creation: immigration, passports, visas,greencards. Citizenship, presumed or assumed, is state-sponsored control, and the feminist lesbian who marries for their greencard chooses
between lesser and greater contradictions; she chooses among many
departures in order to Return.
To speak about myself/ourselves is to keep You from making us Name
Less.

63

RETURN V
June 1989: "Improperly filed. Rejected." Three words thattranslate eviction. Ghos t moving in fog, she wonders, pack first but
store where? Leave for but go where? Goodbye but for how long?
Lover is here, conference next month, film in progress, manuscript
incomplete ... should this all go in boxes?
"No appeal necessary, work authorization revoked." Like she
is not even here: the woman whose plants need watering, ceilingneeds repair. The woman with ivy creeping over her kitchen
window so the sun has stopped breaking in.
She asks for voluntary departure. Dictionary definition: y 01untary - "proceeding from the will or from one's own free choice;intentional; volitional. Endowed with, possessing, or exercising
will of free choice. Done without compulsion. Performed without
legal obligation." Eviction by some standards can also mean
voluntary departure.
Tonight, her sobs do not come, trapped inside tunnels of fearthat lead her back to the same place ... same place ... everytime.
Because her mind will not see beyond deportation. Yet.

JOURNAL NOTES:
It is true that nonimmigrants tell ourselves that the INS has betterthings to do than go after some Lesbian from Bombay/Hong Kong/Chileliving in Trenton/D .C/L.A., but we also know the risk. We understandwhy some of us never march on the outside of Gay Pride contingents incase of cameras. Why many of us fear going to bars in case of a raid. Why
we only do radio interviews, never have our photographs taken, or get
married. Why I, the hard-line, radical separatist feminist lesbian seeks
the protection of my closet without apology while standing in a publicforum, talking about fighting homophobia, using another name.
I wonder how many lesbians realize that closets are not identical,
that different realities define our closets, and that the difference in ourclosets defines the ways in which we choose to Come Out. For instance,
non-immigrant lesbians do not only contend with the risks of antilesbian violence, housing or job discrimination, they also contend withimmigration -a reality that citizens" do not face by virtue of their legal
status in this country.
JI

64

it is a myth that there is only one closet and one way to come out when
what is safe for some/many lesbians is not necessarily safe for all. I stillgo through the obliteration from being in closets while finding imaginative ways of being out without being caught by the INS . I am constantly
aware of the identity games I play - Who am I supposed to be today when
I go to this conference, Who am I when I speak on that panel? For someone
who is an incest survivor, the secrecy feels horribly familiar, as does thethreat of exposure.
The question is, does the politics of coming out invalidate the politics
of a double identity? Do people actually think Lesbians and Gay men aregoing to be allowed to come and go across the borders just because somelaw got passed about letting in visitors for conferences on AIDS? As anonimmigrant, who is not free to cross borders openly as a Lesbian, the
new laws are simply a way for white men to feel good about their illusionof liberating "us."On the lighter side, pseudonyms take on their own life/humor - how
important it is to be able to laugh at this situation - when 1'm in a room
and I can be two persons at once talking about"each other" as if we areold friends/housemates/lovers. I survive by remembering that going inand out of closets is a strategy for working to remove the conditions thatmake my closets necessary in the first place.
RETURN VI
Lesbos ... Lesbian ... 19th century terminology ... european.
No wonder they think they've set me free, saved me fromdowry death, fifteen children, and heterosexual hell. Don't understand why I don't prefer tuxedo drag, Michigan women's music
festival, lesbian bar scene. Why they take me home like their
Benetton clothes, enter mine for a cultural thrill.
Tofu burgers, meditation tapes, RC religion, SM debate. I'mtrying to collapse distance, fight erasure, and go Home at the sametime. There's a real possibility that I may go mad from being invisible
as a Lesbian in South Asia, a South Asian in America, and a South
Asian Lesbian in both geographic locations, and you want me to unblock chakras and rediscover the goddess via catalogue spirituality?
Have I mentioned our stone sculptures along temple walls ofclit to clit, top to bottom, three in one and one for all, centuries oldhomoerotic love among South Asian women and Sou th Asian men

65

· .. Kali, Durga, spiritual representations of the feminine continuum ... "destroyer, warrior, poet, lover, creatrix"4 mother?
My questions are beyond finding the goddess. To talk about
MySelf/OurSelves is to keep you from making Us name-less.

JOURNAL NOTES:The question for South Asian Lesbians is what license does
homoeroticism give us to resist a male-centered universe and question
compulsory heterosexuality? How will we maintain the close female
friendships that homosocial spaces make available? To what extent can
we be silent to retain the progressive circles we move in? How will we asSouth Asian Lesbians leave the closet and remain out in South Asia
without being isolated, without leading double lives, without living in
self-imposed exile? What does it mean for us to live out our love for other
South Asian women in South Asia and in non-america diaspora?
How will I recover my Tamilian Lesbian voice, my language of love;de-exoticize, re-eroticize, un-stereotype the bond between two South
Asian women loving each other?
RETURNS - VII

Last night, as you flirted with me on the telephone, I sat,wrapped in la vender mists. Naked under a flickering candle.
Mouthing sweet mischief in your rapid Indian vowels, you
whispered language magic till I dissolved into silent wetness. Knees flung wide in heated water, I listened to yourhomegrown expressions of subtle seduction, drawing water
between my thighs, my skin settled back against the porcelain of a recreated womb chamber. And when you paused togather a thought, the symphony of ripples from hand cleaving water rose up to greet you across the wires, leaving you
speechless. And for one long moment, we shared only
silence and the quiet breathing of two women desiring eachother a one-hour plane ride apart.
VIII

South Asian Diaspora woman from hidden passages of unborn dreams, you come as a gift, from my goddesses who heard myquiet, quiet, unbelieving asking, behind lips and hearts and ribs.
66

Asking that only happened in my mind where I though desires
never materialized, goddesses do not reside. But when I saw you
and saw the Kali in your eyes, I knew I had met my home girl,
Tamilian half sister, the other Ganeshi - dark, brown, familiar.
And fearlessly, I let you take me and met your Kali with m ine,
completing the erotic exchange of triangular black energy:
goddess - woman woman - goddess womanwoman.
In you I come home.s

IX
Cheekbones lost, face without sides, breaths like whispers
between us. In the mid-afternoon heat, brown fire, brown dreams
linked beyond names, beyond places. I touch you like a sister, likemy self, the red candle melting inside black opaque and silence.

ENDNOTES:
1. Shivkumar Sharma is a classical Indian and folk musician. The
santoor is played like a dulcimer.
2. The system of immigration policies and quotas is in and of itself
exclusionary and, as in many countries like the United States, blatantly
racist. Recognizing "legitimate" marriage as a means of granting citizenship or permanent residence adds to the injustice because it reinforces thesystem's heterosexism. For the feminist lesbian, the "freedom" to corne
and go from the U.S. and the "right" to work and claim social benefits
hinge solely on the fact that she is now a citizen's/man's wife. Given her
rejection of marriage as an oppressive institution and her struggle against
sexism, if a lesbian opts for a paper marriage she ultimately experiences a
total mind fuck and devastation to her psyche, not to mention the vulnerability she now feels from the system and from her paper husband.
3. Throughout past and present history, governments have penalized lesbians and gays for being what they consider sexual deviants.
Flogging and stoning are still constitutionally approved penalties insome countries. Lesbians and Gay men were among those who were
hunted and killed by the Nazis.
4. In her prose poem, "Transl(iter)ation: Part 1 and 2," Sri Lankan
feminis t poet, Yasmin Tambiah, talks about the concept of decolonization
as it relates to critically sifting through the aspects of our lesbian/ sexual67

identi ties tha t were imposed on us, and the aspects tha t we synthesized/
re-created for ourselves. In her prose poem ... she says, "I don't think thewestern and particularly white feminist constructions of the Lesbian has
its spiritual connection. I think white women are still engaged in resurrecting their own Celtic and Scandinavian goddesses. We already haveour goddesses in images of Durga and Kali. And decolonizing ourselvesfrom our own patriarchies and from a western sexual discourse will
include claiming those Durga Kali energies."
5. This piece also appears in my essay, "Confluences: Margins,
Crossroads & Identities," in The Third Wave: Feminist Essays on Racism,
Kitchen Table Press, Forthcoming 1992.

Assata Shakur - Cuba, February 1992
Jean Weisinger

68

Josie Miranda

Uno a Uno
Sweat baptized my burning faceas I kneeled under the attentive noon day sunlistening carefully to a fieldleft to fallow.
Left to fallow
this poisoned soil from whichspinach and strawberries andtomatoes and grapes were born.
Born, lived and died wilting in
one hundred and ten degree heat, ordrowning in row after row of irrigation
ditch unless picked upon ripening,
uno a uno.
Hunched over fourteen hours a day
picking upon ripening,
uno a uno,
caked in mud from crown toheal when finallyburied by the Holy Eucharist,
uno a uno.
The reaping of each soul quietly mocked by a trellis
upon which yet another vine clings stubbornly,
marking the furrows into which they fell unripe,
uno a uno,
while picking in a field now left to fallow.
Left to fallow as if the passing seasons would somehow
conspire to silence the hurriedly whispered testimonies toyesterday's tilling of life andtomorrow's harvesting of us all,uno a uno,
uno a uno.
69

I rene Yazzie
90-year-old blind Dine Medicine Woman
Maya C. Valverde70Josefa Molina

Mestiza

A white man may have planted seeds

in the belly of my mother, but their roots
have not grown into my soul.
He may have robbed me of my name, but not my spirit.
He may have stripped me of my mother tongue
but not the words I hid in secret places.
He may have left me with no answers,
but he could never take away the questions
that stir me in the dark of night.
From the belly of my motherI was born a brown child of the desert
mixed of sand and clay and stone.
I have grown into a woman,still searching for my browness,mestiza, child of the desert,
I am not alone.
I choose not to be alone,
but to plant seeds in my own belly
and let them grow, let them root,
let them flower on their own.

71

Akiba Tiamaya

Just Give it to Me Baby ... I Love You!

H ow often have I fantasized of a time when I would be free of thechastity belt on myvagina-whenI could "flow" into the bed withthe womon of my choice uninhibited and fierce. And when this"flowing" was finished we'd somehow miraculously rise up andlive ha ppily ever after ... This was the the fantasy but the real story
went something like this: we no longer spoke to one another, we
couldn't look each other in the eye, a friendship was destroyed, one
or both of us were hurting, we started a relationship based on ourcompatibility in the bed - which didn't last. The scenarios go on
and on!
At some point in the quest for my sexual freedom I began torealize that this was not just about feeling good . lowed myself(which includes my body) a lot more love, respect and honoring
than I was giving. I realized that I did not develop any of my ideas
about sexuality in a vacuum but, they like everything else, werecreated from an array of experiences that began even before thetime of my birth. This reality led me to question more closely mynotions of power and my definitions of responsibility (both spiritually and emotionally) regarding my sexual encounters. Ultimately, it has forced me to seek a deeper understanding of themany ways in which the tremendous amount of sexual abuse that
I've experienced, and continue to experience, has affected me.
Many of us now, for the first time, are coming out of the closetwith our sexuality, not just in terms of same sex relationships, but
exploring together: how we gonna do it, taking giant risks, talking
about our sexual abuse and exploits (en masse), and even considering ways to practice safer sex.
The reality that wimin, and especially wimin of color, haveoften been the most sexually abused beings outside of children(and all of us were children at one time or another) means that wehave a lot of healing to do before we can come from a place of rightuse of power in terms of our sexuality. The fact that many of ourAfrican wimin ancestors were raped and bred during times of72

"legalized" slavery makes a huge statement about the depth ofguilt, shame and rage regarding our sexuality we may carry within
our psyches.
Everyday on TV, billboards, in the newspaper and movies you
will see the womon's body being used as the object. Even much of
the music now is about the conquest of the pussy! "Just give it tome baby ... I love you." On any given day walking down the street
you may be harassed and/ or assaulted, as a matter of course, justbecause of your femaleness. This type of abuse day after day with orwithout protection has taken a serious toll and been internalizedwe do not live in a vacuum. This "matter of course" abuse does nottake into account that every 60 seconds a womon is raped or that
2 out of 5 girls will be sexually assaulted by the time she is 13 andbetween the ages of 13 and 18 the statistics are even higher. How
many of us are survivors of incest? Who amongst us has beenspared and where are we stuffing our emotions?
What about our own "safe" Two Spirited (Lesbian) community? I've certainly been sexually harassed many times by wimin- in public places, in private places, on the job, in front of my loverand theirs. I've also done the same thing at one time or another. I
even know wimin who have bragged about raping other wimin.
Because this type of abuse is usually equated with maleness, often
I find that denial kicks in when I'm being sexualized by a womon,and my disbelief and pain gets in the way of my clarity. If I can't
trust my sisters who know then who can I trust?
Sexual abuse is the abuse of power with the intent to control.
With the type of historical and present day sexual violence that wehave been victims of, it seems imperative that we give close
examination to the play of power within our sexual interactions.
What are the intentions that we bring to the bed, to our flirtations
and to our encounters? Are we clear in the signals we send? Were
you coming on to her or just being friendly? What sense of
responsibility or no responsibility do we bring to our sexual acts?
This is not about being in love, but this is about love ... this is about
respect -love and respect of ourselves and, therefore, the love andrespect of others. This is about power - the acknowledgement of
it and the responsibility for it - whether it be from a so-called
passive or so-called aggressive stance, it is still power. This is about73control. Often, unfortunately, our way of feeling powerful is to be
the one in control of the situation even if it's at the expense ofanother. What about just being in control of ourselves and not
focusing on controlling anyone else?
People speak a lot today about SAFER sex but it's mostly froma physical perspective. Shouldn't we be equally concerned withemotional safety, not merely from the perspective of I am a survivor- we're all survivors. How are we surviving? Rarely do we speakof sexuality and power together unless it's defined as uS 1M" - thelatest thing. Well it's always been here but now separated from thewhole of our sexual experience and called SI M, it is blatantly
teaching us about dynamics of power which we don't really 'talkabout - except on the level of top and bottom or dominant andsubmissive. Within the sexual act we all have power and we all use
it - no matter which role or roles we are playing we are getting
something from it and making choices - that usomething" is ourpower. It's important to examine the choices we make to expedite
healing of the fragmented places within ourselves.
Quite often we act like we're powerless while wielding ourpower through the projection of our pain, frustration, rage andguilt onto whomever we lay with - as though we're the only
victims in town. Internalized sexual abuse is rampant. The mostobvious is a survivor of sexual assault assaulting someone else.
More subtle forms can be: putting your lover in the position ofalways having to be the one to ask you for sex, because you feelguilt or shame in relationship to your sexual needs; blaming yourpartner for not knowing what you want and for your not having
an orgasm. The way you feel about your body gets played out too.
Maybe you're the withholder, then again perhaps you're obsessedwith how often you cum - better still how often she cums.
And what do we want from those that we lay with? It could be
any number of things. She might be Uthe finest 'thang' you've everseen ... today" and you've just got to have her. How many of yoursisters did you step on or over to get her? I know - she's the butch
you're going to conquer or the mystery that you need to unfold.
Maybe you just want to do-it-to-her and don't want to be done, orvisa versa. You might not even like her - you just want to fuck her.
I wonder how much any of those reasons have to do with balance I74

giving and receiving? Probably not much. It' s empowering to give
just as it is empowering to receive. Perhaps you only want toexperience one and not the other, which by the way, probably hasvery little to do with your position in the bed, but more about yourposition of vulnerability to the person you are laying with - notyour mother, your father or last lovers.
What about the relationship to spirit in all of this? Female
sexuality is extremely powerful because the energy of it is connected to creation, our intuition, our psyche, our magic andultimately Spirit. During "war-times" we have used our bodies as
weapons to conquer the enemy and still within our wombs lie theability to nurture, support and bring forth life. Anyone who hasever been to a womon's gathering has probably experienced that
aliveness of spirit, the raw, uncensored, spontaneous energy, thekind that comes when we dance to the drum - that hotness.
Wimin's menstrual cycles even change when we come together.
Some of us "see" more than others (have developed more personal
power - able to conjure-up some magic), some of us are in college
and others of us are still in high school, what do we do with thatcharisma? Do we try to blow the other one's mind? Are weinterested in a mutually empowering experience? Are we willingto give it up like we want to get it - no matter what role or roles
we play? Do we tell the truth of our intentions - do we say why
we are there? Once again, are we there to honestly give and receiveor is it merely to get - to expand our egos ... at someone else's
expense?
Although sex is a word, the act is loaded with emotional, spiritualand psychic power, and even if we don't want it to be it is an extremely intimate experience - be we present or not! In our new
found explorations - while we're discovering, feeling freer andpointing fingers - shouldn't we, each and everyone of us, carefullyclean out our own pots remembering to scrutinize closely the
integrity of the ingredients we mix in the stew? One day it may be
the only food we have to eat!

75

Loba

•

1 reach inslithering wrist
you unhinge
and take mewhole ispread my fingers
anchor your womb
my clutch
eye to your thundering
hips your torso
tosses my lathered mouth
from belly tothigh isearch frantic for the shoresof your pleasurecrest
foam itip and lunge
cannot hear
my own gasping beneath yourwhip and howl
my hair wet andtangled in your spray
my heart pounds backto your waves upon mybreasti ride you
work my sails to catch yourgaleturn us both toward
an unknown coast76

Ana Castanon

Deep-Seated Comfort

If there were some big soft lap

still and welcoming and sturdy
my head would be lying in it now
oh yes you'd find my head there
and my eyes would be shutand my air would be coming in deep and smoothand my cheek would be comforted bysome strong hand stroking my haircaressing me letting me know
it's okay not to moveit's okay to feel safe there
it's okay not to think there
my heart would be relieved
1'd be crying inside and out
hot wet tears melting from way down in me
somewhere neglected unnoticed hurting
God I'd stay there
if I could get there to begin with
if I ever found some soft fine lap
and a woman behind it wanting me in it77Edna Escamill

Black Orchid (Barrio Stories)

She went down there again the next day after school. A side street,
not many people passed by. The VFW was across the street, but it
could have been ten thousand miles away. The bar had no windows at all, a brick wall, with a solid door in it. The small sign up
above was faded, impossible to read.
She inched along the wall, looked both ways, saw no on~. So
she leaned against the wall right at the edge of the alley, ready to
run back. A young woman, lovely serious face, saddle shoes,
narrow blue skirt and grey sweater, dark intense eyes. She held herschool books locked against her chest. It was mid-afternoon; shewaited until she had to run home to keep from being late.
The next day, she came again. It was not a good time for people
to be coming to a bar, but it was the only time she had, and maybe... but no one came.
She waited, nervous, practicing to herself what she would say.
Maybe she wouldn't have to say anything. Maybe all she had to do
was see her, and the woman who dressed like a man would understand everything. But another day went by, and she didn't
come.
Then, it was Saturday. She came downtown with herTia to buy
some tela for her Home-Ec class, but her Tia forgot her purse. In a
hurry because the store on the other side would close, they cut
through the alley to get over to this side of town and jaywalk to thecorner. An Impala roared to a stop, and the woman Chula had been
waiting for all those days, got out right in front of them.
Chula sawall of her in one frozen instant: black eyes andmolded lips, wild hair across the tan cheek like a brush, breasts tautbehind a blue western shirt, levis with a silver chain hanging fromthe pocket. Y esas movidas, and that incredible energy. Chulahung there and her Tia tried to pull her one way, while she
stumbled another, and the woman who dressed like a man steadied her, and stood her on the curb again, saying, "Watch out," in a78

throaty, laughing voice. The air around them was drenched withthe hot smells of skin and cologne and Chula's feelings - paralyzed and burning, she stared into the woman's face with lips
trembling, and then her Tia jerked her away and across the street
as though a rabid dog were at their heels.
Chula started to turn around, catching a glimpse of the woman
standing next to the Impala, facing her. But her Tia hissed,"Pon te cara en frente! Don't look over there!"'Why not?" said Chula.
"Te agarra una de esas, y nun gun hombre te quiere de mujer.
One of those women gets her hands on you, and no man will marryyou." Who cares? thought Chula, making an effort to keep her facestraight. Her Tia didn't notice, s till talking with disgus t and venom
in her voice, "Una muchacha como ti son las que quieren. Te sigen
y te agarran. They run after young girls like you and ruin you.
Never go near that place." She kept her hand firmly on Chula'sarm, pulling her along.
The next Saturday, Chula got permission to go to the librarywith her cousins, Amalia and Tootsie, and then she told the girls
she had to go buy something in a flash. Already flirting with somecute boys, they hardly noticed her leave. Chula ran all the way
from the library to the back of the building, and ran up the alley.
It was almost time.
Chula peered around the corner, panting, but there was no
Impala. The late afternoon sun was hot and blistery on the pavement. She had waited as long as she dared, when she saw the black
Impala coming down the street. Before the woman who dressed
like a man could get out of the car, Chula opened the door andjumped in. The woman, startled, stared aghast at her.
'Will you take me some place?" said Chula. Disbelief, followed by amusement and then concern struggled in the woman's
face. She reached across Chula's breast, pushing her back gently
against the seat, and made sure the door was closed. She doubleclutched at the corner, saying, 'Where do you want to go?""I don't know," said Chula. Her throat got tighter and tighterand she swallowed, "I mean, I just want to be with you."
The woman didn't say anything, but drove down a side street
skirting the Barrio, and from there, along the edge of the South79

Side. When they came to a piece of desert, she pulled away from theroad and stopped the car. She left the engine running.
"You're the one who's been hanging around." Chula, afraid of
the anger in the woman's voice, said, "I've been waiting for you.""How old are you?" The woman reached out, as if to touch her,and pulled back. "Do you know wha t they'd do to me if they foundus together?" Chula heard her fear now.
" They'd cut off my hands, " the woman said.
"Take me some place," Chula pleaded.
"Take you where? For what? You have to wait until you're 18."
"When I'm 18, maybe I won't want this anymore."
The woman's voice was soft, "When you're 18, maybe you
won't want this anymore," she agreed.
"Please. I'll never bother you again ... "The woman dropped the car keys she had pulled out of theignition, found them, and put them back. Her face was pale.
"Come on kid, you'll get me into trouble.""There's no one I can talk to. There's nobody I can tell about
this," said Chula.
The woman put the car in gear, went out on Saguaro Road. She
drove with both hands on the steering wheel all the way. They got
off the road at a small ranchito. She passed the big house, vacant,windows broken, behind a stand of tamarack trees. Back there, was
her little casita with a pink door. There was a beautifully painted
black orchid on it.
The woman leaned against the car. Chula walked aroundlooking at the mountains turning purple, at the dancing tamaracksweet with the voices of birds. It was quiet, she could hear the bees
buzzing. The woman watched her, not saying anything, tense,
knowing she'd come back.
With a cry, Chula pressed herself against the woman's body.
The woman didn't move, turned her head aside. Chula forced herface against the other's face, put her hands around the hot skin of
her neck. The woman's breath quickened, but still she didn't lift
her arms, only her breast heaved up and down under Chula's
breast.
Chula's need was a pain filling her body, but not telling her
what to do, how to move. The sensations started in her legs where80they pressed against the woman's legs. Small, sharp bursts ofelectricity, the sensations came and went, over and over again, andstonger, and she trembled against the older woman's body. Untilat last, the woman's hands encircled her ass and pressed - that
was all - pressed her tighter and held her that way, without
moving. The burning turned liquid, flowing into Chula's thighs,
bursting between her legs. The woman's own breath came out ina moan of pleasure and despair. But she never moved her body.
They stayed like that until Chula stepped back by her own will.
Two years later on a Saturday evening, the day after her 18thbirthday, Chula went across the streetto the VFW, and stood inside
the shadow of the doorway. She waited for a long time before she
s~w the Impala come rumbling to a stop. It had new skirts andwhitewall tires. And a pink streamer was flying from the antena.
Chula ducked behind the door, and saw the strangely beautiful
woman: molded lips, shaggy black hair, strong, lean body in a blue
denim shirt, sleeves rolled up, new levis with a long silver chain
hanging from the watch pocket. Chula saw the woman reach forsomething behind the visor, lock the car doors, and step into thebar.
Chula left her hiding place, legs trembling, heart pumping andwalked slowly back the way she had come. She didn't see thewoman stand in the doorway of the bar, holding an orchid in her
hand, following Chula with her eyes for several long, breathholding, beats of the heart. Then the woman turned and went backinside.
Chula stood at the corner, staring at the traffic for a long time,and finally just walked away.
A few minutes later, eyes shining, she came back.

81

Katherine Smith (left) and Pauline Whitesinger (right)(Dine) Navajo activists leading the fightagainst relocation from Big Mountain.
Maya C. Valverde
82

Maya C. Valverde

Workers Are Falling Through the GapThe Free Trade Agreement

A gainst a backdrop of political election hype at home and economic intrigue in the world market, the Bush administration
quietly continues to pressure for passage of the North American
Free Trade Agreement (FT A) with Mexico. Promoted as the answer to economic woes on both sides of the border, evidence shows
instead that it threatens to lessen workers rights, speed up thedeterioration of the environment, and increase ownership andcontrol of wealth to transnational corporations while decreasing
wages and jobs both in the US. and Mexico.
Particularly affected would be unskilled or semi-skilled workers, whose jobs are being sent south to be replaced by low-costlabor. Thus women, people of color and laborers in the US. those with the least job security - are losing jobs as factories moveto the Mexico side ofthe border seeking cheaper labor and lax work
regulations. These maquiladoras, as the factories are called, employ 90% women who earn $3.50 to $7.50 a day performing
monotonous, and sometimes dangerous, assembly line jobs. Whata worker gets in the US. per hour, a Mexican worker receives in aday, taking home an average of $38 for a 48 hour week with
virtually no benefits. The median wage for a manufacture worker
in the US. is $400 a week. It is easy to see where the 1.5 million US.
jobs went to that were lost in manufacturing in the 1980's.
After 25 years of operation, 1800 maquiladoras have createdover half a million jobs for Mexicans but workers lives have notsubstantially improved . Margarita Cruz, representing the Mexican Electricians Union at tri-national meetings in the US. andCanada, said that union busting has become more prevalent
recently in Mexico. Participation of unions in negotiations at themaquiladoras has been seriously curbed and salaries of union
workers have also decreased . "Now it is being promoted that anindividual should negotiate her own salary and some non-union83workers earn more than union workers," Cruz said. "This way theworker feels grateful to the boss, to the company, because she hada salary increase for not being part of the union."
How is it that even without the formal passage of a free trade
agreement between the two countries, U.S. companies are being
allowed to freely set up businesses in Mexico? Companies based in
the U.S: are being given tax and tariff incentives, and access tocheap labor with the promise of exporting products back to the
U.S. and other developed countries. Mexican President Gotari deSalinas argues that foreign investment is necessary to bring the
Mexican economy up to those of the first world. Salinas has invited
U.S. and Canadian companies into Mexico in order to genera:te anexport economy to pay back a crushing $100 billion foreign debt.
While the U.S. ranks first and Mexico ranks third in national debt
owed to foreign sources, the effects are different in each country.
For Mexico and most developing countries, it is the primaryobstacle to entering the world market on equal footing with the big
players. So one by one, President Salinas is selling off Mexico's
resources in order to raise funds to payoff the International Money
Fund - attracting foreign investment with promises of cheap labor,
land and resources. Even state owned industries are up for sale.
Salinas is the first of Mexico's presidents to endorse
privatization, Cruz said, and many state-owned industries havebeen sold, industries started with money from what is now thenational debt. "The national debt has cost us a lot," she continued.
"The government is selling all [state-owned industries]. There are
few left, like oil and electrical. Right now they're announcing
railway transportation, city services and mail services to be sold."
Cruz said the money being used to buy these industries iscoming from foreign investment. Mexico's telecommunications
system was bought in February, 1991. Two-thirds was bought by
AT & T and one-third by a French company, she said. "Mexico isgiving all open doors to foreign investors - tax exemptions, lowsalaries, flexible foreign investment laws. Ten years ago these laws
were very restrictive."
Since the president's party is in power in congress it is very
easy to change the laws, Cruz said. Article 27, which gives community property to peasants, will be changed to open large tracts of84

land for private ownership and Article 123, the labor law, will limit
the unions. These are constitutional laws that were fought for andwon during the Mexican Revolution. Now laws are being rewritten that will allow for the land to be taken out of control of thepeasants, who depend on them for subsistence. They are beingbought by the upper middle class or corporate interest, with theaid of foreign investors. Likewise the once powerful unions that
protected workers rights are being legislated to take away control
from the workers. This will make it easier for corporations to offer
poor working conditions and low wages to the working class
population who must take these jobs in order to survive.
"All these law changes are changing the country. We wantthe
oil for Mexico. We want our unions to be strong, but Salinas wants
to take these possibilities from us in order to open our country toforeign investment," said Cruz. "He doesn't care for the small
industry. He's not protecting it. He doesn't care for our internal
Mexican market or to attend to our need for ed ucation and housing
and food . He's worried to give a good impression to Canada andthe U.S. so they think that Mexico is in the first world."
The U.S. and Canada, you can be sure, have their own agenda.
More specifically, multinational corporations in these two neighbors to the north are looking south to exploit workers and resources there, and with the help of conservative governments in
power, are pushing to change international law that would makeMexico and other Latin American countries economic colonies ofthese two giants. In the U.s., we have witnessed the loss of unions,de-regulation and cut-backs in personnel, wages and benefits.
Corporations argue that these restrictions are necessary to staycompetitive within the global marketplace. This same argument isbeing used as the world market players attempt to once again carveout their territory: Germany in the European market, Japan in the
Asian market, and the U.S. in the Americas.
The last roadblock to their inroads into underdeveloped countries is being removed through the Uruguay Rounds of talks of theGeneral Agreement on Tariffs and Trade now taking place. Since
1948 the GATT has been a regulations organization governinginternational commerce. Its development principle protects theslower economies of developing countries from take-over by85

countries with more powerful economies. The leaders of theseworld powers are lobbying for the removal of this principle thatgave certain exemptions or privileges to third-world countries toallow for equal trading with countries with highly developed
economies. These changes would allow transnational corporations to have open access to export, invest and set up corporationsin third world countries, literally putting control of their economy
into the hands of foreign interests.
Business leaders in the US. have formed the Multilateral Trade
Negotiations Coalition. The MTN includes businessmen from
American Express, General Motors, IBM, General Electric, Citicorp,
Cargill, Proctor and Gamble, the US Council for International
Business, American Business Conference, the National Association of Manufacturers, Coalition of Service Industries, International Investment Alliance and the Intellectual Property Committee. Intellectual property protection, services, investments andsubsidies is the real issue in the GAIT negotiations, former US
Trade Representative William Brock said at the Group of Seven
Summit in Houston in July, 1990. The G-7 countries are those
involved in the GATT negotiations. If intellectual property protections are removed from third-world countries they would be
obligated to grant patented rights and trademarks to trans nationals
in their countries. This would virtually create a dangerous worldwide monopoly system where powerful multinational corporations would control the use of technology and even ideas.
President Bush is pushing Latin American countries to adopt
his Enterprise for the Americas Initiative that would create freemarket, free-trade, export-oriented zones to attract US. dollars.
His reasoning is that by sending low-wage, low-skilled production
to Mexico, the market will be available to service these industries
with machinery and technology from the US. thereby creating
more high-tech, high-wage jobs for US. workers. So far that has
not been the case.
The garment industry is a good example. Since 1989, when
Salinas completely opened Mexico' s borders to investors, there
has been an anticipation that clothing factories from Asia and theUS. will relocate there. Many already have, e.g. Levis and Jordach.
EI Paso was known as the jeans capital of the world until many o(86these manufacturers moved across the border to Juarez. N ow thesesame maquiladoras have already relocated to Aguas Calientes,
near Mexico City, following even lower wages and more profit, notto mention getting further away from the bad publicity for plantclosures in nearby El Paso. But the manufacture of sewing, knitting
and weaving machines are no longer the domain of the u.s. as they
once were. Instead, German, Japan and Swiss companies supply
the world market with the necessary machinery for their factories
and the U.S. has been left to produce only replacement parts for oldmachinery from 30 years ago.
Wages and jobs have been lost in the U.S. as a result of a decrease in manufacturing and corporate flight. The top one-fifth ofincomes have gone up while the bottom three-fifths have gone
down. While state and local politicians speak out against corporate
flight, offering incentives to keep jobs and revenue in their tax area,
many of these same officials support the Free Trade Agreementthat would relocate jobs out of the country only to export thosesame products back to consumers in the U.S. who are left w ith lesspurchasing power. In Shawassee, Michigan, where unemployment is up to 12%, Electrowire displaced 500 workers when they
moved their facilities to Mexico. When Pillsbury's Green Giantfrozen-foods production moved from Watsonville, California to
Mexico in anticipation of the Free Trade Agreement, hundreds offarm and cannery workers lost their jobs and growers in the area
lost a market. Recently, American Airlines moved their maintenance facility from San Francisco Airport to the Tiajuana Airport.
Hundreds of jobs were lost. Interestingly American Airlines bought
Canadian Airlines and Mexicana Airlines was bought by private
investors.With no tariffs, few controls, lower wages, weaker environmental and safety regulations the FTA has already lost over 27,000
jobs to corporate flight south, according to the AFL-CIO.
In Canada the FTA passed legislation in 1988 and has been in
effect for the past two years. It has not met the promises given to
Canadians during its controversial passage. Sandra Sorenson,
Executive Director of the Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives
said that Canada was told that the FTA would bring 225,000 jobs.
Instead half a million jobs have been lost. Today a coalition of 3 to
4 million out of a population of 26 million is working to overturn87

the FT A in Canada this election year. She said women's groups,
trade unions, farms, churches and people of the first nations met ata tri-national meeting in 1991 to assure that the FTA once again
becomes an issue in 1992.
"It's happening all over the world," Sorenson said. With the
opening of the common market, European countries are negotiating to improve the quality of life there. "There is talk of an intranational parliament to include trade unions and environmentalists. Economics will assure a side charter of human rights thatguarantees the bottom moves up. Education and training is basedon a: realistic assessment that our best resource is human," she said.
And while the Pacific Rim is coming up with their own model thatwill be high-tech and highly efficient, Canada, the US. and Latin
America, with $500 trillion of debt between them, has been calleda coalition of losers, she added.
The environment and workers will be the big losers in a free
trade agreement in the Western Hemisphere. The La Paz Agreement signed in 1983 by the US. and Mexico requires that allcompanies ship back wastes to the country of origin. According to
the Environmental Protection Agency, fewer than one percent sent
back hazardous wastes to the US. in 1988. In a study conducted by
the National Toxic Campaign Fund in 1990, spot sampling takenfrom the border waterways of the Rio Grande River, the New
River, the Tiajuana River and the Nogales Wash showed a highdegree of toxins and carcinogens that were identical to ones being
produced in the corresponding maquiladoras close by. For example, the New River starts out as a small channel south of
Mexicali and widens as it passes through Mexicali and Calexico,
California through Southern California's Imperial Valley andempties into the Salton Sea, California's largest lake. According to
the study, over 100 toxic pollutants have been detected in the New
River, known as America's dirtiest river, including PCB's, vinyl
chloride and other carcinogens. Many of these come from theelectronic circuit board maquiladoras in Mexicali, as well as themunicipal dumps, many built along the New River drainage,
where hazardous wastes end up. If these same US. corporations
were on the US. side of the border, costs of toxic clean-up would
cut into their profits. The Mexican government looks the other way

88while maquiladoras dump hazardous wastes along the waterways, but the end result is that all of our water is being polluted.
Another tragic example of how Mexican authorities turned theirbacks on dangerous toxic dumping is the Guadalajara sewer
explosion this April that killed a now estimated one thousandpeople and destroyed hundreds of homes and businesses.
Workers also have no protection from safety hazards. Cruz
said there are minimum security conditions for workers, no gloves,no inhalation masks or eye protection for workers exposed toradioactive and chemical materials. An explosion at an RCA
factory in Matamoros in 1990 killed at least 10 people; many more
were injured. And since workers get no health or disability benefits, they must continue to work in order to survive even withinjuries or pain. Over half of Mexico's population of 85 million areminors. About 10% of them are working for lower than theminimum wage of $3.50 a day and, along with all workers, arebeing exposed to toxic fumes in Mexico's factories.
As workers become displaced and the environment and workers rights are exploited, coalitions springing up across the continent are working to bring attention to the problem of multinational
globalization ofthe economy. World watch Institute estimated thatin the developing countries over 100 million people belong tohundreds of these organizations to better the human condition.
Mujer a Mujer is one such organization of women across the U.S.
and Mexican borders. As Guille Quiroz of Mujer a Mujer said, thecrises of Latin America being technically underdeveloped are
inherited from colonization. The IMF, as one condition to a loan
made in 1977, told Mexico they could not develop their dairy
industry, said Quiroz. Now it is necessary to invite foreign investors to develop Mexico's agri-business, while peasants are losing
land and government subsidies, rights guaranteed as a result of the
Mexican Revolution. ''Third-world countries have political independence, but not economic independence," said Quiroz. "We
were colonies and now we are still under [foreign] economic
control."
It is ironic that in this year of 500 years of resistance to theconquest of native people on this continent, we are experiencing
another attempt at re-colonization, this time by multinational

89

corporations. "Native people have been going through this for 500
years," said Sorenson. ''We as white people are just now being
subjected to what they've been going through for 500 years."
George Watts, chief of the Nuu-Chah-Nulth Tribal Council
and Chair of the Economic Development Committee of the Assembly of First Nations, put it another way. "In 1992 a number ofcountries are going to celebrate that we were colonized. And I
don't see those issues as being any different than the Free Trade
Agreement," he said . "And who pays the price? Well I know who.
It's the people at the lowest end of the economic scale who bear all
the burden so that these guys can have their money." Short-term
solutions from the FTA are not acceptable to the way tribal people
have lived on this land for thousands of years. "I come from adifferent culture," he said. "I don't care what I own. I don't give adamn if I wake up tomorrow with one thing in my pocket. But I
care very much about my grandchildren and where they are going
to be. Think about where your grandchildren are going to be."Restructuring the world into the new order demands all of ourparticipation since ultimately it is our future generations that are
affected . History has shown that leaving it to wealthy businessinterest neither benefits our lives or the earth. It is a crucial issue
that deserves more attention than is possible in the space allowed
here. Maybe it's time to start examining what choices are being
offered, and which ones we'll want to create for ourselves.

90

imani p. ajaniku

for cora helen smith hadden
Should've known thenwhat it was like
i was too little too young
you changed your name from cora helen to helen
when your grandfather diedand you became coloredin south carolina
should've known thenthe voices in your silence
the pain of having to walk miles
for an ed ucation you knew you'd never use
while other kids feeling the same pain
hit you with rocks and sticks' cause you
looked different
and folks wonder and talking 'boutwhich one hopped the fence'cause your skin was colored cream
your eyes covered almonds
your hair straight black & longyour brothers like red earth
how many hopped the fence?
should've known thenthe benevolence in sweet creamthe spirits in your rocking
the agony of watching cowboys&indiansand silently willing the indians to win
just once
and when they did the shame of wishing they didn't
and feeling the devastation of your native sisters weeping
for their men with bullets in their guts
should've known then that you gave me
your gift of sight91

your own when you laughed
your body when mine wouldn't
and i wanted
gifts
the silence
all of my medicines
for the badlands
gifts
should've known theni was too little too young

92

Jamie Lee Evans

Why I'm Leaving the New College:
A Woman of Color Confronts
Feminist Psychology on its Racism
A couple of weeks ago I was looking through the San Francisco Guardian. In the back of the magazines, near the personals, I saw three ads for
Asian mail order brides. I wonder how on earth this practice of female
sexual slavery could still be happening? ! I am pained to imagine women,
my sisters, being bought and sold out of a catalogue. My culture is acommodity. My female sexuality a marketable item. A supposedly
progressive tabloid advertises it weekly.
Three months ago was the last time I talked to my white mother. In
our conversation I divulged that I had fallen in love with someone. Her
first reaction was, "is it a man or a woman?" Her second was, "1 hope
she's not a nigger!"
After my first two trimesters ofgraduate school, my grades reflected
5 A's and 3 B+'s. I am the only woman of color left in the only feminist
psychology program in the country. The program advertised itself as
diverse and multicultural. I attended because of this promise. One
evaluation I received read, "{Jamie] took the role of spokeswoman for
oppressed groups on many occasions. This tendency speaks to her sensitivity
to issues important in therapeutic settings and possibly her need to playa challenging role in a group ...her attitude was negative and angry."

1'm leaving the New College and feminist psychology because I
refuse to participate in the lies any longer. In my personal life I
expect to deal with the effects of racism in my political work, myjob and my family. However, in a graduate program, which I pay
thousands of dollars for, and which promotes itself as culturally
sensitive, it is unacceptable to be put in the constant position of
educator as well as the victim of direct racist attacks. The evaluation above is only one example of the attacks I endured at the New
College. I say attack because when you are invisible, ignored or93treated with condescension as a result of your race and yourabsolute refusal to let racist comments go by unnoticed, then you
are under attack.
I have struggled for several months as the only woman of color(there was another woman from China who was in the class, butwhose voice and opinion were silent, and who eventually droppedout),' the only Asian Lesbian, the only Asian Lesbian Radical
Cultural Feminist. I am isolated, alienated. I have no colleagues ofcolor to do a reality check with when a racist comment is made inclass. When I find myself in this situation, internalized racism has
an even better chance of making it inside my head . When there is
no opposition to a racist comment, it lays still in the air as truth.
I have had to rely on white professors for some understandingof my situation. I have opened myself up, even pleaded with acouple of teachers for some acknowledgement of the "set-up" I'min as the only woman of color in a nearly all white school. They
were not my first choice for allies, but my only choice. Eventually
each teacher I confided in betrayed my confidence and lacked theintegrity to examine their own racism before choosing to pathologizeme.

All of the professors have been white so far .
All of my professors have been white so far.
Eight of my eight professors have been white.
I am the only woman of color left in the program.
The only woman of color.
The only.
One professor considers me "negative and angry." She also
considers me a self-appointed "spokeswoman for oppressedgroups." If I were teaching a class and I thought a student was
taking on the role of spokeswoman for all oppressed people, I
would question the ethics of my own teaching. I would self-reflect.
I would look at my possible areas of failure. I would wonder if I
wasn't representing oppressed people enough or with respect. I
would ask that student why she took on that role. I wouldn't
assume, psychoanalyze and / or ignore this behavior. Similarly, if
a student had a negative and angry attitude, I would find thatbehavior disruptive and a deterrent to that student's learning andthe classes' . I would find a way to reach out to that student and I
94

would make it my job to assist her in expressing her anger in anempowering way, not a negative way. I would ask her why she wasso angry. If she was the only woman of color in a group of white
women, I would probably know why she was angry. I wouldn't
characterize that anger as negative, but as appropriate.
My experience at New College is not anything new for womenof color in psychology or in other fields of higher education for thatmatter. In fact in this period of backlash against feminism andmulticultural education, anything remotely resembling either isbashed. Although most schools aren't providing multicultural
education, many backlash guard dogs have their ears perked up
for the slightest mention of color. When color incidentally comesup, the lecturer is accused of being "overly PC" and reverse-racist.
In actuality, there was less multicultural awareness in my psychology classes than there were accusations of reverse racism.
Besides my personal disappointment with the inaccessiblity of
the New College, there are grave clinical implications for the
women who are currently being trained here and in other schools
who claim a similar progressive goal. The overwhelming majorityof what is currently being taught as "feminist" psychology is white
women's psychology (Brown, Green, 1990) adopted from whitemale psychology. Current feminist therapy theory is a reflection ofwhite scholarship, and exclusively white publishing with very few
exceptions. Laura Brown, a widely published white lesbian authorof feminist psychology writes:"To a large degree, this failure of feminist therapy theorists
to address the lives of all women, and its consequent difficulties
with the 'diversity and complexity' criterion can be traced to thetraining of feminist therapists in traditional systems." (Brown,1990).
As the only non-white woman in the only psychology program
which explicitly calls itself "feminist" in the country, it was apainful process to decide if I should stay and continue with thewhite women in this program. One of my early suggestions to thedirector of the program was to have an anti-racism (also known as
unlearning racism) workshop for the class in the first trimester.
What followed was a lot of talk about a lack of money and difficultyin planning and it wasn't until the second trimester that an extra

95

workshop was offered to the students of feminist psychology. By
then, it was too late for me. I had already decided to leave.
I had told the director that there was racist talk being targeted
at me, e.g., I was called a reverse-racist for not over-valuing thewhite heterosexual middle-class experience as per usual in mostcollege settings. I had complained that there should have been aworkshop in the beginning of the program. I was told this program
was still "in-process" and my information would be taken into
account.
Students of color come into graduate school in a very different
place than do white students. We go through a grueling process offinding our voice and claiming our right to be in schools that are
not built to educate us. We go through four years of ordinary
college stress compounded by the stresses of racism, classism andother white middle-class supremacy issues. We are seen as troublemakers if we open our mouths to speak our truths - we are
generally ignored unless an issue of our culture comes up, then weare supposed to sit up, smile a big grin and be happy to educate theclass about the "Asian or Black or Native or Latina Experience."
When Feminists of color enter graduate school we are alread y sickof being tokenized, misunderstood and ignored. We are tired ofstudying white male shit and having to argue about exclusion,
racist interpretations, etc. We are tired of hearing our "sister"
students ask us to "educate" them so that they can "understand us
better" or so that they can better serve our communities. We expectthat if we enter a feminist program there will be a general consciousness about race issues among the teachers and students. It's
inexcusable that an anti-racism workshop was not planned aheadof time for a program of 23 white women, two women of color. If
there is not awareness around racism for all students involved,
students of color end up with the responsibility of naming it.
When women of color are the only ones calling out racism weare seen as "negative and angry." Ifwe point out every time a racist
comment is made, or when only white able-bodied straight middle
class women are being considered in a study or a theory, then weare seen as taking on the spokesperson's role for all oppressedgroups. Once women of color are accepted into a white program,
we are expected to follow the same rules of colonization that our96

·families are forced to follow in the larger structure. Any dissent
from that role is seen as out of line, unprofessional and "negative
and angryY We are pathologized for wanting an education ofanything but the white culture.
During our first class session covering cultural issues in feminist psychology, a white lesbian body worker said I was being"reverse-racist" by complaining about an all white reading list.
"My clients are all white and I need to know about white women,
I think it's 'reverse racist' of you to not see the value in that." My
reply was amazingly cordial as well as bitter, "oh, and there's
always been a lack of information about white women," I said. This
position was one so familiar to me I wanted to spit right there on
the carpet. Her real criticism of me was for feeling that I had theright to give input to a reading list. She was telling me that I could
educate her when she asked for it, but don't speak "out of line"
when she didn't! Her tone was one of "How dare you," or "Well, I
never!" She definitely let me know that I was disrupting the real
education . The racism became clear as day to me, most of these
women had not had an education in racism or feminism! They
were operating at a level I remembered from undergraduate years,
i.e., defensive and ignorant. I knew it would be an uphill battle. A
battle I wished to avoid in grad school, primarily why I chose the
New College.
My interest, and I suspect many other therapy students ofcolor, is in learning to empower women of color in my community.
This student that accused me of reverse racism was not interested
in what I wanted to learn. She wanted to learn what her white
supremacist forefather's had promised her. What shocked me
about her reaction to my challenges in class about racist assumptions, is her enormous sense of entitlement to education. This
entitlement comes from years of unnoticed privilege. Just as womenof color internalize oppression, so do white women internalize
entitlement. (Anzaldua, 1990). "Racism is especially rampant inplaces and people that produce knowledge," writes Gloria E.
Anzaldua.
It is imperative that future clinicians get a working knowledgeof racism, internalized racism and other oppressions as well inorder to be able to do work with clients of color and ethical work97with white people. Programs must be set up to train clinicians tobe able to dismantle the powerful weapon of racism. However,when programs are all white, curriculum is predominantly white,and students are all white, the likelihood of the dissemination andreceiving of such information is unlikely.
Although San Francisco is a city filled with thousands ofimmigrants from all over the world, in particular Asian immigrants, psychological consequences that arise from immigration
were not discussed. Information on Asian women's sexuality in
America (where Asian women are still bought and sold by whitemen) was not taught in our human sexuality class, though there isgreat work out on its subtle and damaging effects (Chan, 1988).
Identity issues of bi-racial clients were not discussed, though thisis an ever increasing population in the State of California andaround the country (Root, 1990). Clearly it is the white perspectivethat is valued. Like the body worker said, all her clients are white,they're the ones that are going to pay a private therapist for theirwork, it is their psychologies that are important. The message wegetinlearningaboutnon-whiteculturesonceina 12-weekclass, is thattheseculturesarel/12thasimportantaswhiteculture.Wealsogetthe
message that it is rare that one would work with these non-white
people. The clearest of all messages is that the curriculum at New
College is set up with the white student and white client in mind.
What this all adds up to is disempowerment and disengagement of women of color In feminism and psychology. It foreshadows even more culturally insensitive therapists that will hit thefield in a couple of years. There is nothing feminist about either ofthese conclusions, and asking the only woman of color left in the
program what to do about it is offensive, lazy and unfair. Until
programs of higher education begin to realize the necessity ofmulti-cultural educations, there will continue to be more whitegrad school graduates and more colored grad school drop outs.
The feminist therapy field will continue to suffer for this lack ofdiversity as will Immigrant, Refugee, Black, Asian, Native, Latina,
mono-lingual, etc. clients who are in need of trained help frompeople of their own culture.
This woman of color however, does not believe it is her
responsibility to spend her grad school education educating white98

- and straight women on their -isms. I leave the New College while
it strangles itself with false promises and lousy practitioners(with a few exceptions). I leave feeling negative and angry, (negative and angry!). I refuse to pay to be subjugated and marginalized
any longer.

Bibliography
Anzaldua, Gloria E. (1990). "Haciendo caras, una entrada." Making Face,
Making Soul:Hacienda Caras - Creative and Critical Perspectives by Womenof Color. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Foundation.
Brown, Laura S. (1990). "The Meaning of a Multicultural Perspective for
Theory-Building in Feminist Therapy." In Laura Brown and Maria P. P.
Root (Eds.), Diversity and Complexity in Feminist Therapy. New York:
Harrington Park Press.
Chan, Connie. (1988). "Asian-American Women: Psychological Responses to Sexual Exploitation and Cultural Stereotypes." The Politics ofRace and Gender in Therapy. Fulani, Lenora. Ed. New York: Haworth.
Root, Maria P.P. (1990) "Resolving "Other" Status: Identity Development of Biracial Individuals." In Laura Brown and Maria P. P. Root
(Eds.), Diversity and Complexity in Feminist Therapy. New York: Harrington
Park Press.

*** This paper is dedicated to Gloria Anzaldua for giving me thestrength to take actions in my life, and to Lisa M. Horan for her
patience and love during my experience at New College. ***99

Sapphire

poem for jennifer, marla, tawana & me
1.

S he brought it on herself .. .
it was her own fault .. .
she did it to herself .. .
Jennifer Levin was murdered by Robert Chambers inCentral Park. His attorney said Ms. Levin had
provoked her killer by violent sex play.
Marla Hanson, a model, refused to relate sexually to
her landlord and demanded that he return her
security deposit. He, a white man, responded byhiring a black to slash her face with a straightrazor. The black man's attorney asserted Marla
Hanson was a racist.
Tawana Brawley said she was abducted and raped by
six white men. She was found in a trash bag
smeared with dog shit, 'KKK' and 'nigger'
scrawled on her chest. Because she had a boyfriend in jail, liked to party and had an allegedly
abusive stepfather it was insinuated she madethe whole thing up to avoid being beaten by her
parents.
i am thinking about the scratches on Robert Chamber's face andhands. a witness would later testify he looked like he'd been in
an industrial accident. him sitting across the road on a wall
watching as her body was discovered.
her sister said, "Robert Chambers killed her once
and the press killed her all over again a second
time."
Marla Hanson, Tawana Brawley and Jennifer Levintwice victims
smeared and cut openby The Post, Daily N ews and New York Times
100

a woman must be a good girl, virgin, myth of a thing in order tobe raped; any other kind of woman brought it on herself, did it
do herself, it was her own fault, her own fault ...

2.
it was not her fault
it was not her fault
it was not

he was not titillated into killing her
he was not provoked into killing her
he did not slash her face as a social
protest against racism
he slashed her face because he'd been
reduced to the level of protoplasm, alivewith no purpose but to smear hate anddefeat like feces on a child's body
TawanaTawanaTawanaLisa Stienberg
Lisa Stienberg
you did not talk too loud
wet the bed too muchthere is nothing you did
it is not your karma
Myo ho re ge kyo
the cause is sexism
its effect is murder, rape and child abusebecause you have a boyfriend in jailbecause you are reactionary or even racist
because you like to fuckits not just cause for the life
to be choked out of you
for a razor to slice your faceto the bone
women, it could be you traveling home from your boyfriend's
apartment or jail cell
it could be you demanding your money back from a crooked landlord
it could be you wanting romance on a starry night in the park101

i've been raped. i am afraid of that happening again,
what could i do but be silent?
the first question they ask will be about my past
and what could i say?
I am that type of girl.
it is documented and known i have been withmany many men for many many reasons.
how could i be raped?
3.

go back for the bones of the Hillside Strangler's victims
those are my bones
bleaching white
under a California sun
a teenager on the run
go back for the arms of that 15 year old girl, hacked off, fallingon a motel room floor
her blood mingling with the bloodof blind prostitutes in Hong Kong
lined up in an alley full of feverand sightless eyes
go back for my bones, arms, eyes
years ago i sat next to a white woman
with blonde hair and she told me how six black men
picked her up, raped her, stuck a '38'
up her vagina and threatened to'shoot it off' in her.
i went home to write her story
because she couldn't.
but my pen froze on the pagei could not see clear to tell
the truth
because i wanted to protect'the victims' who were her perpetrators.
but now my pen flows with the ragefrom her blue eyes, the amputated scream of
Tawana's brown eyes and the blood of that
15 year old

102

girl armless in California.
i have no one to protect but women,
let these men keep clutching their balls
crying about how hard it is to be a man.
just give me a wash cloth so i can wash
Tawana Brawley's face,a pen so i can finally appease my goddess
who has been waiting 10 years
for me to write about the white woman
with blonde hair taken for a ride,a gun shoved up her vagina.
my bones scatter the earth
my tears are the blood of too may women
my teeth fall out my mouth when i don't speak
i know my bones.
i could recognize them
anywhere!
and they're there
bleaching white
under a California sun.
the victims were poor womenthe victims were black womenthe victims were prostitutes
no one missed themdogs discovered theirbones
bleachingwhiteunder thesun

4.
what do you think about when death approaches?
i just remember scratching the side of my leg
while hands tightened around my throat as i slid
down the wall of my father's house into darkness .

103

my sister's scream loosened the hands around my neckthen there was air, light, life.
i don't even remember the guy's name,he was just playing around he said,
wanted to see what it was like to choke someone,
didn't mean to hurt me, he said.
what 'could i say, do?
I wasn't supposed to be home anyway,
i was playing hookey from school,
i could hear my father's voice:what were you doing with a boy
in the house?
why weren't you in school?
who is he?
why'd you let him in?
if you hadn't of .. .
if you hadn't of .. .
if you hadn't of .. .
as far as i know those fingers that squeezed my throat 25 years ago
are still free, all the men who hurt me are still free, some arepoliticians now, famous singers ...
my first boyfriend slapped my head like a ping pong ball, hitting itback n forth, back n forth
could i tell my father? my father who also slapped my head like aping pong ball.
no, i couldn't tell him because in all the days of my life i havenever seen my father or either of my brothers strike another man.
never ever.
i remember my father saying 'yes suh', 'no suh', stressing the importanceof dressing correctly, finishing school, keeping the house clean anddisposing of sanitary napkins properly.
i knew he would not protect me and did not respect me. i was supposed
to be grateful he didn't kill me.
if i had told the police about the fingers choking me? would the fact
my father abused me invalidate my accusation?
because i fucked in cheap motels, back seats, bushes, beaches did i deserve to be bones?

104

5.

use my bones as spearswhittle, carve, sharpen.
let them be knives
thru the hearts,
razors chopping off testicles.
let them impale our killers
and gouge out their eyeballs.
and when the land bleeds cleanof them,
use my bones
to build a house
where we may heal
and unlearn the patriarchy.
a house where my father
cannot comeunless he comesfor forgiveness .

105

Suzanne

Don't Say Grace - A Movement
Don't say Grace
Tonight
In the memory of a People
Denied.
Some say that Grace is the legacy of my ancestors
Stolen from home fires far away, murdered,
Torn from loved ones, raped
Of human dignities, their ancient tongues
BeatenInto silence; enduring brutalities they did not understand,To see their ways disintegrate until they became only pieces
In a mosaic of untouchable distant memories
Of Home.
It was with Grace that I sat in school,

Forced to read aloud the passage
By an "anthropologist" who claimed
A parcel left untouched in the center of an African village
Proved that my relatives were too savage
To know they could steal,
Too untrainable to understand the concept ofPossession.
That they knew no human
Could truly possess
Another,Must have been so insignificant
As to escape official record.
Don't say Grace
Because it is a tool of oppression
Used to suppress the right to feel robbed; to deny anger -106

As if by this Grace
We should not revolt
But remain silent witness to the double standard
That allows one people to write a history of their whims
While another is bound
By Grace.
They say we exhibit Grace An infinite ability to forgive all grievous sins As if we are ignorant
Of our right to demand
Accounts be settled
Now.
With all future generations in heart and mind,
In memory of a People
Don't say Grace
Tonight.

107

Stop AIDS
Laura Irene Wayne
108/

Victoria Lena Manyarrows

Making Magic ...
m.aking magic with words
i'm toldsoothes anger
opens doorways
allows mountains to move
soft hands brushing away hurt
holding and caressing
pressing into the aching
moving away earth ·so soft, so unbroken
like wet clay,
red is the earth of your bodyshining and soft in the sunlike clay so smooth and maroon
you are indian, and like me
red and dark from the sun, we're often told
it's because we're indians, "red-skins"a miracle the skin color shows thru
after all these years
yes a few of us are left
and we are multiplying
preparing for another day
when we'll be mesmerized by dreams
dreams becoming reality
our longing never forgotten.

109

Melanie Hope Nelson

The Weaver
She sits graced with a mane of woven hairSending her hands zipping in a trance throughThe perfectly bound string cage of the loom
Working in rhythm with a subtle moon.
Tuesday she often keeps for mending, orUntangling webs. Sunday is always rest.
She schedules each day of work in patterns
Hidden in her solitary cocoon.
Alone every night she retreats to
her dim room that flickers in shadows of
Candle flames. She then strokes the waiting life
Trapped, watchful, and eager between her legs.
Her fingers guiding pleasure with the same
Soft rhythmic skill as weaving on her loom.

110

Terri L. JewellMoving In

Just say y-e-s
and I will comelive with you
bringing only
84 houseplants needingan eastern exposurea 30-piece weightlifting set
5 sets of South African liberation
sheets with matching curtains
9 pairs of lavendersneakers with orange laces
23 stuffed armadillos
147 unmatched earrings
1178 Lesbian Feminist buttons
on-a-rope
12 crates of myunfinished novel
4 six-foot ceramic breast
plates from Oregon
65 blues 78's fromthe 1930's
750 pounds of native quartz
crystal from Kentucky caves
a 30-inch by 51-inch stained
glass profile of Whoopi Goldberg
my cat Kiku and her hand-knitted
mouse collection from southern France
2 reams of patchouli-scented
stationery111

a trunk of silk panties
in your favorite flavors
every note, letter, card, songand pressed flower you've sent me
and all the collard greens,cornbread, red beans and chitlins
you could possibly everwant to eat!

AlyKim112

Kyna Taylor

When It Was Broken

C ora Danby had a voice that made a body believe in sin. It was liketidewater in the summer, hidden and murky and surprisingly deep,
buzzing and lazy-making, discovered in a strange twist of a muddy
river. It slid over the mind like velvet and muffled the movement there.
It made promises. Anything you want, it said. Anything you need.
Her voice was as naughty, as needed, as certain fingers on
certain thighs, the glowing end of a cigarette in half-light gone bluein a small, close room at the top of a staircase. There was the feel ofsilk on the tongue, the taste of lipstick, the soft sound of a throat
closing in the middle of a whispered name. When Cora sat on astool with a microphone before her and a band behind her, with thesmoke in the air and the smoke in her lungs and voice, it felt likethe meaning of things could be found in slow, undulating movements in warm close spaces. Everyone loved Cora's voice.
Cora felt that it was a gift from some ancient someone in her
family, or maybe not - maybe from some god or from Satan himself(most likely, actually) or maybe not; it suited her fine. It wasn't likesome of the other women's voices, the ones that charged out of wide
mouths and chests that worked as hard as a blacksmith's bellows. The
gospel and blues voices. That wasn't her voice. Cora needed a
microphone. Cora needed something to hold on to, a stool to sit
down on and soft piano behind her. Because when she sang, shethought about the women half-seen from where she sat under thelights. She sang for the surprised and slightly smirking look they
wore when they found themselves under her eyes and knew what
they saw, when they knew that they were the ones Cora was courtingand how funny it was to see the men believe what men needed tobelieve about a woman who made sex out of sound. And if no woman
considered the invitation in the voice like a tidewater, did it matter,really, when everyone, man and woman, stumbled into a Houston
night feeling like they've had a taste of something very sweet?
Not even to Cora did it matter. Not when she could sing andfeel her knees grow weak. She performed three sets on the weekends, two on every other night but Monday.

113

Until her voice broke. Some of the singers at the joint said that
she never took enough honey and lemon and bourbon in her tea.
Others decided that a voice like hers couldn't handle the strain ofthat many performances a day, a week. It was a Tuesday night, alight crowd, drizzling outside. Cora was in the middle of her
second set, only Ben behind her, whispering on the bass keys of the
piano. Her voice was in its lowest register, husking at the hazeleyes just left of center staring back. Cora went from low and jagged
to flute-smooth, trying to inch over the skin of her fan, knees
trembling as the eyes responded, becoming heavy-lidded andsliding, slowly closed as Cora's voice became more and moresoothing. Then it happened. Cora felt it, a giving way, like a fiddle
string strung too tight for too long just under the bow. A tightness
so sharp and sudden in her throat that she imagined a cloth tearing.
And she was so good, so perfect a singer that she stopped, midnote, knowing what it was, knowing that that night, alone in her
bed, would be the longest night she would ever have, and waved
Ben silent behind her. She left one perfectly pure, unfinished note
floating in the air. She stood under the stage lights, still, watching
Hazel Eyes, watching the vague shapes that were her audience.
She was not tall, not pretty, but medium height and very
brown, dark brown, with eyes the same shade as her skin, lit up
and glowing. She looked well-taken care of, the kind of look thatappeals because it suggests that this woman could take care ofsomeone very well. Cora said, "Thank you," and remained standing. She listened with the audience to her new, broken voice but
didn't sigh the way her audience did when it heard the rasp, thegravel in her throat. She waited one moment more, then left thestage. She was halfway to her dressing room when she heard thefirst clapping. She was staring into her mirror when the applausereally started. It fell on her ears like a shattering window. The
audience wasn't sure what had happened. What it did know wasthat no one could leave the stage the way Cora could, all grace andrefined swagger. Noone would ever leave the stage the wa y Cora
did that night.
Cora got a job at an insurance company for Negro longshoremen. The salary was excellent and the hours were good. She
worked in an office. When she spent nearly every night for the firsttwo weeks pulling the sequins out of her club dresses and lowering
hems or sewing them on, turning them into day job numbers, she114

reminded herself that it was her voice, her ruined voice, that got
her the job. Her employer, a rotund high-yellow from New Orleans,heard that voice and forgot about her dark browness, the hardness. in her eyes, the frizz in her hair. He forgot she couldn't type. He
imagined investors hearing that voice and thinking about corner
clinches and close dancing and strange beds. Sex one could indulge in harmlessly. But Cora knew that there would certainly be
no more singing. She tried to in the shower once but the soundreminded her of the squawk a sailor made at the joint one night
after taking a punch in the throat. No, she would never sing again.
But she could talk some trash now, with the tatters of her vocal
cords rasping like a temptation. She could answer a phone like noone could. The stage she missed. And the women. But she didn't
let herself think about that.
She never went to the clubs. Too many people knew her. She
moved to a different ward in the city once she got her paycheck.
She went home alone. She didn't play her records. She bought asecondhand typewriter (with her second and third paychecks),
and spent evenings teaching herself how to type. She became very
good . She only dreamed of Hazel Eyes once. She dreamed thatHazel had been waiting for her outside the club the night her voice
had broken and that she held Cora's face in her hands and begged
to be spoken to until Cora did and didn't stop even when Hazel
started to kiss her under a street lamp that sputtered into darkness .
Cora stood in the shower down the hall from her apartment when
she woke from that dream, feeling beaten and tired and lost,
knowing that had Hazel Eyes really asked, she would have remained silent.
Mr. Mason, her employer, was pleased with hernew typing skills.
He often asked her to type listings and ads for the Negro papers in his
private realty business. She took this work home since Mr. Viscombe,
Mason's senior insurance partner, made it clear that while Cora's freetime was her own, her business day belonged to the insurancecompany exclusively. Cora and Mason often met on Saturdays towrite letters, print ledgers and keep the deeds in order. Cora liked
Mason well enough. Mason though Cora was quaint and wasinterested only in her voice and her typing speed. They got along.
On such a Saturday in June, two months after she left the club,Cora opened the office, piled the day's business into three neatstacks, and waited for Mason's heavy footsteps in the hall outside.
115

After twenty minutes, Cora began to pace, then stopped when she
remembered how she hadn't managed to sit still these days andhow much that annoyed her. She used to be very calm, and very
poised. Cora leaned against her desk, lit a cigarette, and stared out
the window at the summer rain. It was as dark as night at ten thirty
in the morning. She blew smoke rings at the pane on her second
cigarette. Still no Mason.
An hour later, Cora sat down at her desk and rifled through thestacks of paper to see if she could manage to get something doneon her own. There was nothing. Mason had planned to dictate
responses to the latest correspondence. She could do nothing
without him. Shewasn' t good at writing letters alone. But then, shewasn't good at sitting still either so she put a sheet of paper in thetypewriter and started to type.
My name is Cora Danby but I was born Cora Mae Johnson of
Little Rock, Arkansas, 1971. I broke my voice singing to thegirls at Bobbie's. I don't sing to anybody now, not even to me.
It hurts so bad. It hurts so bad. Nothing's the same. Everything is just dead now. I wish I was dead.
Cora stood and went to the window. She put her head in her
hands and made low moaning sounds as she cried. It didn't lastlong. Ten minutes. Then she went back to the desk.

I cried just now. I haven't cried in twelve years. The last time
I cried was when Sonny, my cousin that lived with us, died.
The sheriff and some other white men took him out of the field
at dusk and I saw them. They put him in the back of the pickup
and they drove towards the crick and I saw Sonny cry when
my brother Lucas grabbed my arm so hard and pulled me into
the tool shed. I knew what they did to him because I could
smell the burning while we hid low in the shed and that ants
crawled all over my arms . We came out at night and Joseph
Brown and Zeke Forsher went and cut Sonny down. My
daddy put Sonny in some sacking so me and my momma andSusannah and Lucas wouldn't see what was left. The sacking
smelled like gasoline. It all went like clockwork. That's how
bad it was then. It's not good now.
Cora read the new part out loud and felt tight in her chest. She
pulled out that sheet and put in another.

116

I'm gonna get me that hazel-eyed girl if it's the last thing I dowith myself. I'm gonna find her and whisper in her ear
because I know I can talk some nonsense with this voice ofmine. Won't know what hit her; she won't know at all. First
I'll tell her some story, then ask her what she means to do withthat cherry in her fingers - like I don't know what she wasup to. If she's got some other girl or some boy ... It won't
matter. What I've got is better than what they've got, eventhough all I've got is broken .
The phone rang. It was Mason. Problem with the wife. Schedule
conflict. Cora didn't bother to give him her usual mild-manneredscoldingforhisabsent-mindedness.Heofferedtopayherforthethreehours she'd been waiting. She accepted and politely got him off thephone. She got up to lock the door, then sat back down.
I'll tell her that I saw her eyes from the stage. That's true. And
I'll tell her that eyes aren't any softer than hers and lids don'tclose any softer than hers do. I'll tell her that I like the size ofher knuckles and the white half moons on her fingernails andthe shape of her chin. I'll press my lips against her and sing
without so much as a single note. She'll never feel what's
broken in me as broken. She'll want to hear my voice.
Cora felt tired. She rolled the two sheets with the neat black
letters and put them in the pocket of her blazer, under her raincoat.
She went home, put a sheet of paper into her typewriter and stared
at it. Her mind felt empty. She spent the day feeling tired andempty and strange as the rain turned into a thunderstorm.

117

Mi Ok Bruining

Not Just Another One ofThose Identity Poems
For Lanuola

Who AmI?
lama Woman
Whose Korean given name translates
into "Beautiful Jade" a polished, translucent stone.
I was born in Tae Han Min Guk
the Land of the Morning Calm,
somewhere
south of Pon Mun Jom,in my native tongue the 38th Parallel, to you.
I became the human versionof an imported productstamped "MADE IN KOREA."
Who AmI?

I am adopted - a Paper Daughter,
exported at the age of five
under "Alien" immigration status
to the U.S., as the 1,OOOthadopted Korean child,during the first of four wavesof the international adoption industry
to a suburban, upper middle class
Wonder bread white family.
I was given a new Anglo first nameand given all of the white washed,privileged trappingsand social conditioning,which choked and gagged me
into silence
for twenty years.
118

Who AmI?

I am a woman, a woman of color - bornin the Year of the Rat,
but I celebrate a fictitious birthday,
whose date is unknown,
with a birth name and a family namewhose origins are unknown scrawled on incomplete, faded,
undocumented records.
But they are all
I have to call my own.
Who AmI?

I am a lesbian - strong,
angry and powerful
who struggles
in the heterosexist, misogynist
and homphobic trenches
against queer-bashing,separatism, stereotyping,the" Asian Model Minority" myth,
the plexi-glass ceiling,
the mail order bride industry,
exotica erotic,
sexploitation and fear.
Who AmI?

I am an artist and wanna-be writer
who believes writing is a political act
where words are power
and power is knowledge
and knowledge is the weapon
to battle for political change
and social change.
Who AmI?

I am the youngest of four children of a family
who will never know
my secrets, my pride, my strength,119

my pain, my struggles
and my power.
Sticks and stones haven't broken
my bones,
but names have always hurt me.
I am one who has experienced
maternal separation, profound loss,
cultural displacement,
emotional trauma and transformation.
I fight every day for survival.
Who AmI?
I am the small child you see
with the haunting lookin my eyes of longing and aching
to belong to myself.
I am also the adopted Korean
lesbian womanist,
who is doing it for myself
through working, writing and speaking
through process, growth and celebration.

Pacal Barraza
120

Charlene NoBears O'Rourke

Sun Dance, AIM, and
Wolves came dancing.
It was not good thing to

say you were Lakota, so
off to boarding school
your Ina and Daddy sent.
You don spek like you com
off the Rez now or you
won't be heard gez notherswat I said shit in front ofthat nun gez just wanted
to use the English
language, shoulda said
chesly, gez wouda gat aswat any way.
Gez now everyone eventhat ole fly on a horse
Usake of a nun want to be
Lakota.
Gez jus don get it even thehorse has to swat it self.
Gez jus glad J don have to
make a choice.

121

Mara Galvez-Bret6n

cuentos invertidos
1.

TiO Lazaro was a quiet, timid man. Dad used to say he was not a
Real Man, and I think only I understood what that meant even
then: he dressed mostly in pastels and, unlike the other uncles,
never brought a woman to our New Year's Eve parties, neverfinished his 12 grapes, never gulped his cidra. Dad, needless to say,clarifies that Lazaro never quite gulped anything at all, always
only most gently sipping his coffees ("y, si 10 dejas, decafeinado"),refusing beer or hard liquor and, to top it all off, allergic to cigars.
Thus I comprehend why no one ever spoke of my cousin Luna,
why her only displayed photograph was the one taken soon after
her "quinces," her hair artificially curled like Shirley Temple's,
blouse and skirt exaggeratedly silky grey, while the others boyish haircut, beautifully muscular face looking down as if there
was something to be ashamed of - were hidden at the bottom ofthe "memories" drawer next to her letters from Philadelphia, New
Jersey, New York pleading for money, never answered .
Where are you now, cousin Luna? Where are you now who are
more than a cousin, a sister? Now, after Mariel: hope in America
land of the sexually free of the pursuit of happiness common
welfare alleged domestic tranquility: are we something our adopted
fathers, mothers did not foresee? that statute of liberty with arms open
to political refugees and U-turn signals signs for Lesbians?
Prima, we are doubly exiled.
I have read, however, some ofus are threatening we can rea ppropriate
this landlessness make it self-empowering? claim ourselves infinitely nomadic, for instance-like Amazonic wanderers:
post-national, incorrigible
unterritorializable

122

2.
For his Catholic mother's sake we call it liver disease and send
him GET WELL cards assuring - with patience, prayer and effort- improvement: he'll be out fishing on that pier in no time; papi
can't wait to savor another of his incomparable pargos. But Tio
Lazaro is Dying of AIDS. And the viejita is starting to worry, wants
to know the connection between eating and cooking utensils andliver problems, why his doctor has forbidden use of aluminum, forinstance, or prescribes hypoallergenic detergents, pillows, why his
clothing needs to be washed separately, his dishes, why the brainis scanned and daily B12 injections and monthly routine bloodwork.
What is the connection between that liver and her muchacho's
sudden incoordination, moments of memory loss, headaches that
respond to no pills, herbs or needles? He has never had muchalcohol.
Mami, the unofficial family Doctorcita (because of her alleged
degree in biology, because of her command of the Spanish language, rhetoric - can sound to everyone [but me, apparently] likean expert on any/everything) can only answer "Mi Viejita, thedoctors know what they are doing," cannot even confabulate
something about the role of the liver in detoxification: that thedoctors are trying to minimize the amount of work his organ has
to do by reducing the numbers of toxins it has to deal with, forexample. Can only say, hanging up, what a good son he has been"no 10 merece," has never brought men into the house he lives inwith his mother. No one, in fact, has ever seen him with a man. So
discrete. So dedicated to his viejita.

"Cuentos Invertidos" is excerpted from a collection of prose pieces I am
currently working on about the Cuban/ american/lesbian experience ofmultifold alienation/ displacement/ exile.
123

Irene D R

Freedom to Travel
Whose land is it anyway? The control borders to the Western"greats" get tough, tough, and tougher. This may include travel
into Europe, Canada, Australia, The USA, New Zealand (and often
those African, Asian, North and South American nations controlled by either of the "greats").
There is little rhyme or reason for the actions of locking one out ofa country. Or out of one's own country. Or the humiliating property
and body searches that arbitrarily take place. Yet it happens.
Is it that I am Indian? ...African? ... Black? ...Non-European?
.. .That I may be a great example maker to deter others" of my kind"from travel? ... That I may wish to "overstay"? It is all discretionary, based on immigration laws and on the officers' subjective
views: interpretation of the laws, own prejudices and/or boredom. The reasons given (if any) are often rather absurd. It happens
daily and can happen to anyone of us.
Immigration control is based on racist, nationalist, imperialist,
and capitalist ideologies, and participation in higher cost travel
packets is no real security against blatant racist, inhumane acts.
SPEAK OUT! Share tales of horror that sisters and brothers encounter each day. Immigration control is war on our bodies, oursouls and our spirits.
Did You Know ...
• Until recent years, women from the Indian subcontinent
were routinely subjected to vaginal inspections at Heathrow airport, London England . This was to test for "virginity" and wasrationalized as a need to assure that the women were unmarried.
Active campaigning has challenged this brutal dehumanizing andillegal policy though this practice is still reported to occur .
• Black women traveling to the "Decade of Women Conference" (1985) in Nairobi, Kenya have shocking horrors: One woman
was mistaken for Islamic and kidnapped; women were denied
entry into England and Kenya though bearing forward travel
airline tickets; women were subjected to cruel and humiliating124

searches (including vaginal searches) on return to the USA. Yes,
US born and with US passports.
• Immigration bans exist in some countries (including the USA)on those with HIV / AIDS. In some countries those suspected ofhaving AIDS are subject to harassment, including testing at boarders.
In the UK, Black women have recently been named as a target group.
• There are holding facilities near most port of entry airports.
Persons may be taken there for day,s weeks or longer when denied
entry and may be denied the right to notify someone of their
whereabouts. One may then be transferred to mental or prison
facilities for indefinite periods. Often the air carrier may be required to reboard the passenger and take her forward to its next
destination or to return her to the original place of board.
Once one has passed the immigration control of the country, there
is customs control. Living in the United States, one understands
customs control to be of search and seizure of illegal items such asmeats, fruits, drugs, plants and money (big bucks of $10,000 or more).
In reality it is another brutal control mechanism often used to systematically harass Black travelers returning from abroad.
One scenario of a recent welcome home via customs: An
African-American woman of about forty deplaned from a sevenhour journey (London-JFK in NY) to a rather swift pass throughimmigration as a US passport holder (lines were longer for non-US
passport holders) .
She encountered the routine questions - How long were you
away? What was the nature of your journey? What is your occupation?
Are you returning from India? Her replies were: "Six weeks,""Conferences," "Health Worker," "No, from London, England,"
respectively. The immigration officer, a young Black man, continued his set questions. Did you travel to India? have you every traveled
to India? "No. Though I'd like to."She was aboard Air India and her ticket clearly showed that sheboarded the flight in London. "Thank you and welcome home" said
the immigration officer.
On approaching the stationary customs officer who generally
inquires as to whether one is carrying food, she was swiftlyintercepted by a young woman customs inspector, who might
identify as a "woman of color."
125

The inspector asked questions that one expects to be asked at
immigration control. What is your occupation? What is your monthly
salary? How can you afford to travel on that salary? Are you traveling withsomeone? Are you the only person your organization sends to conferences? Who are you traveling with? Where did you travel besides London?
How long were you in India? Do you have excess of $10,000 on you? Who
are you traveling with? How much money do you have on you?
These questions were being fired at the woman as the inspector
took every stitch of the woman's belongs from her bags. The
inspector occasionally queried, Where did you buy these? She madecomments of "everything but the kitchen sink," "more trinkets andpapers than clothes."Leaving the contents of the woman's luggage exposed, ·theinspector requested the woman to bring the bag containing her
money, and to follow her to a room for further inspection. Inside
the room the woman was told to spread eagle. She questioned theinspector as to whether this was a strip search. The inspector
replied "No, it's a pat down" and patted the woman up and down,
including the crotch. The inspector then demanded that the woman
drop her pants (trousers and underwear) so that she could see
under the sanitary napkin. The woman further queried as to thereason for the search and was told that some people hid money (?)
in different places.
The woman was then told to remove one shoe for inspection.
Humiliated and violated, the woman removed both shoes. She
was then told by the customs inspector that she only needed to
examine one shoe. One shoe?
She stated her feelings of humiliation, woman to woman,indicating that she found these actions degrading and was embarrassed to expose her bloods on demand . The inspector told her thatwomen travelers entering the US are subjected to this treatment
daily. She concluding, "It is done routinely as part of my job."
The customs inspector thanked the woman for being "socooperative" and said that she hoped the woman would soon feelbetter. The inspector filled in the white form and returned thewoman's ticket and passport.
A young energetic semi-human customs officer ... A woman
with a job ... A woman with a job of humiliating other women ...

126

. The traveling woman is a seasoned traveler .. .a human rights
activist generally prepared for the worst encounter. Yet, thisinhumane treatment had never happened to her in all her travels.
She recalls this experience with bitterness, anger BUT refuses to besilenced.
What then is the strategy for passing through their "goldengates" as an individual traveler and keeping one's dignity andsanity?
Be prepared (whether traveling in a group or alone) to answer
routine questions: How long to you plan to stay? What is the nature ofyour visit (business or pleasure)? Where will you stay? With relatives?
What is your occupation? If you are traveling with a mate or partner,
the immigration officer may interrogate you separately and lookfor discrepancies in your stories, no matter how minor. It is
important that you and your traveling partner are consistent inyour travel objectives.
Is there someone meeting you? Make sure there is - it is a safety
net, if you are held. You seem to travel a lot (an unwritten, thoughtightly enforced crime for a Black person, especially a woman).
Why don't you just stay in one place? This implies illegal activity
rather than acknowledging individual rights to mobility.
A FEW DO's
• Prepare for your journey by reviewing the laws, i.e. entry
requirements, money, food, residence restrictions, etc.
• Review and understand Conditions of Agreement forms ofcharter, tours, and / or courier companies before signing and paying monies.
• Keep travel documents secure and together. Review for datesof expiration, etc.
• Have a name and contact number for legal assistance or havesupport. Agree in advance that they will accept a collect call.
• Carry a letter from your employer clearing indicating yourrequired / expected return to work da te or the nature of your workrelated travel.
Above all else, stay calm. Place blue before you and walk withyour spirit guide(s)- with head held high and answer questions
put to you confidently.

127

Ruth Farmer

Subway Scenes

A sister sermonizes on the number 3 train.
Her"demons have chased her away from herself
To Jesus.
He is her lover man.
"I don't care if you think I'm crazy!"(Maybe she really isn't.)"I know Jesus loves me!"
We listen,
An unwilling congregation,
feigning indifference.
Nobody moves away.
The brother boxes,
Flitting in and out of the corners of our eyes,
Shaking himself loosely from the shoulders,
Wrenching his neck round and round.
Shadow
BoxingShuffling like Ali,
Smiling, grimacing at what he sees
Reflected in the window of the moving train.
We ease slowly away.
Afraid to attract his attention
With any sudden movements.
A man discusses Danielle Steele
With himself,
Pounding his chest, waving his book,Yelling unintelligible literary criticism.
he cries and shakes his head.
"What a terrible thing life is,"His gestures say.
We wonder: What does he have in that paper bag?
We move to the end of the car.

128

At 14th Street, tall, loose-limbed teens
Swagger in, looking left and right.
Loud and filled with themselves,
They banter, tease, curse each other,
Grabbing at their meager cocks.
They are boys.
Big boys
Who travel in crowds out of fear.
Who can tell what might happen to a lone Black boy
Marked for play,
Marked for death.
If harmed, the only response would be:'What was he doing there?"
They might look back.
'Cause boys will be boys
Or something else.
A young man excuses himself for the 100th time.
Clicking tongues, sucking teeth,
Sighs and vacant stares greet his request.
We have no change to spare.
A woman old with loss,
Caked .in poverty,
Clutching a used paper cup,
Reaches out with grubby hands.
She has no food today,
Can we help her?
Purses are opened
Hands reach into pockets.
(What would it takeFor our mothers to beg like this?)
Leaving the train, we scramble like rats
From a rising tide,
Trying to get away,
Get away before we drown,
Before the waves
Tuck us beneath their murky armpits
And smother us to death.

129

Maria Cora

To Provoke a Change

I bring a message from the dykes
from the darker ones and our allies
I have news for the presidents and dictators
for the boys
definitely aimed at all white supremacists
and most corporations
I come loaded and charged
my back protected by the living
and the blessed deadThe truth of my testimony
springs from the scars of my sisters
from our survival songs
What I have to say is wrapped inearthquakes and hurricanes
daily corning out stories
and the Puerto Rican flag
It will reach out to them

my wayand it is fully intended
to provoke a change
I will not ask if they can handle it
We know they have not
We know
We know the undeclared and declared
war they have waged on us
We know the greed and the cruelty
The pesticides in the air
the oil spills
planetary time bombs ticking away
for molested girls
grape pickers .
and apartheid dismantlers
130I want to dialogue
in circular termswith all who believe the news of television
numbing life with credit cards and liquor
accomplices to the American crime
We the lesbians of all lands
bring you a wake up chant
We model a waythat has brought us to now
In groups we uncoveredthat which simmers behind the silencecollectively encouraged the outbursts
ritualized the pain in ocean pilgrimages
marched it in prideful outrage
remembered all those disappeared
fought backand loved ourselves
Each one taught manyeach one held one
We the lesbians just to survive
We miss our deadand cherish all our living
We want the return of our land
and all profits reaped from her
We weave spells guided by visionsof the sacred love among womenof universal harmony
We build the changed future131Yen Moi Lu
AlyKim132

Shirley O. Steele

Ruby
We used to have so much fun together, my mom and me. It started
from the minute I woke up. She used to sing as she opened thedoor, "Ruby you're like a dream," then she would say 'Wake up,
get up, you sleepy head." Then she'd fall on the bed and tickle me
to death. She used to make me a big breakfast and fix my hair, tying
ribbons on my braids. She had a big bag of ribbons that she used
to keep in the junk drawer beside the sink. Only they weren't junk;they were all such pretty colors.
My favorite color is red and I wanted to wear red ribbons every
day to school. But each day, she pulled out the ribbon that matched
my clothes. I didn't care about matching - I really, really LOVE
red. She hugged me real tight and kissed both cheeks and stood at
the window until I got on the bus. Sometimes, I really missed her
at school, especially when the other girls teased me about my socks
which didn't stay up on my legs. They said my legs were skinny.
My mom used to say they were just long and lean. Sometimes I
wanted to cry and go home but the teacher wouldn't let me.
Every once in a while, mom came and got me out of school.
When I asked her why, she said she missed me. Then, we went
home and made delicious sandwiches of bologna and cheese or
peanut butter (with nuts) and jelly. We would just sit there at thetable, making faces at each other and sounds like "Umm-a, urn
ummm." Then she'd go and get my coloring book and cut out apicture. She knew I hated ragged edges so she'd cut it neatly withher big scissors. She'd get out my crayons and I'd color the
pictures, staying within the lines. Sometimes, my hand would slip
and the color flew outside the lines. When that happened, shewould say, "Take it easy, Ruby, nothing good comes fast." Shealways hung the finished picture on the refrigerator so that my dad
and my sister,N ana, and brother, Danny, could see it. When daddy
came home, he'd smile and nod his head in approval. We were sovery happy then.

133

Then one day, when I came home from school, she wasdifferent.
.
She sat at the kitchen table, looking at the cabinets. When I went
to kiss her, she didn't kiss me back. When I hugged her, she didn't
hug back. She just sat there looking real funny. Not ha-ha funny,
the other kind. Strange-like. She started talking funny, as ifI wasn't
there but someone I couldn't see was. And she started laughing toherself. She got up, pushing the chair back against the wall andwent to wash her hands . She turned on the water so hard that it
splashed all over me and when I asked her what was wrong, shestarted to hum real loud and made the water hotter. She didn't
answer me. I felt as if I were in a dark cold place - real scared, realalone. I ran upstairs to ask Nana. She replied, "Shut up, stupid.".
"Maybe she doesn't feel like talking to you creep, you ask too manyquestions anyway." What a drip! I thought to myself as I went tofind Danny. But he had already gone out to play. I couldn't ask
anyone. I kept getting little shivers in my stomach, so I went to bed
and waited for Daddy to come home. When he did, she wasn't any
different. Daddy said she was tired but I didn't think so. He took
mom upstairs to rest and then made our dinner. His face lookedsad. Like he wanted to cry. Like he was alone, too.
After dinner, he gathered us together in his den and spoke ina very quiet voice, "Your mother isn't feeling very well; you will all
have to help out as much as possible until she fells better." I went
to bed early and prayed that she would be well in the morning. But
she wasn't. Nana snatched my head as she combed it and the
ribbons sat at cockeyed angles to my head. Danny ran around thehouse like a car about to crash looking for his socks. Mama just sat
there in her robe and slippers, twisting her hands in her lap,
making and remaking fists . She was talking to herself, again. We
left for school and when I looked back she wasn't at the window.
I got on the bus anyway. When I got to school, I couldn't hear theteacher at ali, just my mother's voice whispering to herself. Seeing
the teacher's mouth move, and hearing my mother. I could not
wait to get home to her but, when I did there was no change. I felt
my lips hard behind my lips as I grinned at her. She didn't grin oreven smile. Just swayed in the chair as she talked to herself.
I went to my room and turned on my radio as loud as I could134to drown out her voice. But still I could hear her voice. I got under
the 'covers and mashed the radio to my ear. Finally, I didn't hear
her. The last song I heard was "Ruby, You're Like a Dream," buthe didn't sing it like mama. I fell asleep on that song.
She remained that way, day after day and we tried to stay awayfrom home. Out of reach of that voice. We would all take our bikes
and travel long distances. Stayed out all day. When I asked mybrother and sister about mama, they just cut their eyes and sucked
their teeth, so I didn't ask any more.
One day we came home and found a crowd in front of our door.
Daddy ran out of the door and mama ran after him, with a great big
knife in her ha.n ds. She wasn't talking then, just running as hard as
she could. Rocks banged together in my stomach as I saw this.
Danny immediately ran away in another direction. Nana and me
sat on the curb, helpless. I started to cry as I saw the grown up
people looking down at us so sad and shaking their heads . They
took me to my aunt Lucille's house and N ana and Danny went toanother aunt's house. When I asked about mama, aunt Lucille justlooked at her husband and they shook their heads. My cousin Carojust said, "She's crazy, that's all." "Just crazy, crazy, crazy!"
But I know my mother isn't crazy. She's just tired . And when
she rests up, she'll come home. I can't wait. I need another coloringbook. I painted every picture in myoId book with my black crayon.
I covered all those happy faces and all those smiling mouths withmy black colors. I don't want to see those phony happy faces . I justwant her to come back good as new. So we can be together again;
put red, red ribbons in my hair and in the morning I can hear her
sing again, "Ruby, You're Like a DREAMMMMMMMM."

135

R. Erica Doyle

Yanki Vini
Bring me some of dat too,She says. I go out to the streetdown the drive way, across the yard.
Most people here have a field or a hillin front of their house This is an imported style of domicile
Chile, we ain't so behine all you
YankisDon' jus live in de bush
In Trinidad, you know.
At the streetside market, piles ofmango and hands of banana
lounge in the afternoon hazeof the rainy season.
On a wall across the street
Graffiti blisters "Cuban pigs go home"
and the Shopkeeper looks Chinese to me("Chinee" to my also Chinee aunt)
and speaks like my grandmother
What I get you nuh hear
Visitin in Maraval?
Her keen eyes have categorized me
How they know I don't know
I look like them
My clothes borrowed from my cousin Marina
It must be my refrigerated eyes.
At the house, Auntie Meiling thanks me
and thinks I'm crazy or maybe eventutulbe for walking aroundin this heathummingbirds avoid.

136

I know only that I am afraid
I came to visit the placethose forty years away call "home"and yet I stand on sandthat seems to vibrate beneath my feetand threaten to shift.
After a week of eating dollars and roti and mango
and stewpeas and homemade won tons and bakeand buljahl and bacalao,
of watching the horse races on the Savannahand listening to Uncle Victor's speeches
about the bloody bastards from the World Bankand just about coming every time
I hear Marina's husky voicecoming from her perfectly coral lips,
we drive to San Fernando
to see the Pitch Lake
A tar pit.
The roads on the way are warped
and keening and Mitsubishi
swerves madly.
The Pitch Lake, explains Uncle Victor in his
Cambridge accent,draws the tar back into itself for miles around
The Pitch Lake
does not have the obsidian face
I imagined
Water reflects the sky
and underneath, to the dismay
of no one knows how many
ancient creatures,
including my sneakers,
lies the pitch,drawing stolen sustenance backinto its heart.

137

S. Jacqueline Miranda

Caribbean Waters
That island haunts me.
Won't leave me alone - keeps rounding every corner
to catch up and pull me to her, seduce with the desire
and need to reconnect. I carry my severed cordfrom her like a ship waiting to moor. The "Key to the Carribean"
has been my lock and my escape. I love a land
I can scarcely remember, a people I lost decades ago.
She carries my childhood, my spirits - she is
the key - to a realm of the unconsciousof unfathomable depth. I feel the pressure build
in and around my lungs ... I've risen too fastfrom her waters, my chest will explode ...
I left her much too soon.

Cristy Chung
138

Charlene NoBears O'Rourke

Crossing Over
Passing to Spirit
Phil Tingley, Kowa/Gourd
Society
We will miss you relative
We will celebrate for you
relative
To take flight free, free ofthe physical prison
You have left us withtools to help our people.
Your strong and effective
quiet manner teaching
those willing to see.
Yes Two-Spirited relative
Your give away was big.
Good Journey
Tunkashilas Guidance139

Alma Villanueva

The Continuance
What's the rush? Not knowing.
It's ok not to know; ride it through.
Take your time. Each day will bring its answers.
The answers come slowly. If you move to fast, you might past them by.
Be still. Be quiet.
If you find their pace, you might blend in with them.
You could focus yourself closer into them.
Your outline will fit into their outline and you will become one
with the answer.
The answer comes into you and becomes a part of you.
The answer is not a person but a person might carry an answer
inside them that they might share with you.
What's the uncertainty? Because everything is new.
My thoughts are new. They have 360 degrees of angles.
So many ways of looking at the same thing.
I want to flow into the thought.
I want to glide into the thought.
I want to be graceful.
There is no hurry. I make my own hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
A hurry causes me to be anxious. In the land of Graceful,hurry cannot exist.
What's the stall? Because I am emptying my mind of old worn out
blueprints and maps that have led me astray.
I'm walking slowly because I am making new pathways which
require thought.
The thoughts will put new lines to fill my new maps and blueprints.
My empty mind is light. My empty mind is open.
My pathway has led me to a vast open field .
My pathway was in the forest and I could see the path clearlyahead of me.
But when I came upon the open field, the trees were no longer
there to outline my pathway.
My pathway blended into the grass and mixed into the field.
140

I stopped. I stopped to look. ,I feel lighter in the open field.
The sky is bigger. The breeze blows swifter.
Space to think. Space to see. Space to look around.
I will rest in the open field.
Let the sun shine on me and warm my skin.
I will rest with my open mind .
My thoughts are lighter in my open mind.
An open field has room. Herds of deer can visit in the field .
And there will still be plenty of room for me.
The open field is accommodating; hospitable.
Makes me feel welcomed.
My open mind is accommodating; hospitable.
It has room for you.
It has room for you and your thoughts.
Where has my pathway gone now that it's in the field?
To the edge of the field where the other trees are standing?
To some more forests? I think so.
Because the pathway is living and living goes on, follow
through the continuance.
The lifeline goes on and on.
And so my thoughts go on and on.
Follow through.
The continuance.

141

Celebrating Womyn
Laura Irene Wayne142

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Contributors' Notes
See Editors Notes for editors who contributed to this issue.
Deborah M. Aguayo-Delgado is a 26 year old Puerto Rican Lesbian
New Yorker, who among other labels, is a City College creative
writing student, nanny and everyday activist. This is the first time she
has dared to send out her work for publication.
Imani P. Ajaniku: I am an artist. With the flick of my wrist I spin
woven images with a pen. I play puppeteer to my imaginings using
colored fabrics. From the voices in my mind I stitch, chain, lace andknot rhythms from the temples of my life. I ama lesbian of African and
Native American descent living in Oakland, California.
V. K. Aruna: I am a nonimmigrant Black Feminist Lesbian of dual
Tamil heritage, born and raised in Malaysia, currently living in the
Washington, D.C. area. I write and speak on issues of crossracialhostility, domestic violence, and the concept of community for South
Asian Lesbians living in exile outside and within their geographical"homes."Pacal Barraza is of Apache/Mexican heritage, was born and raisednear downtown Los Angeles and is in her 4th year of wommins
sundance pledge.
Margarita Benitez was born and raised in Puerto Rico. She is an afro /boricua bilingual lesbian very proud of her ancestry. She works as ahealth consultant for the last two years, taught elementary school for
7 years in New York City. She has a background in law and ispresently living in Oakland.
Toni P. Brown: I am an African-American Lesbian writer of poetry
and short fiction. My work has been published in Sinister Wisdom andCommon Lives/Lesbian Lives . One of my poems will be included in The
Poetry of Sex: Lesbians Write the Erotic. A short story will appear in ananthology of Black Lesbian Writing edited by Terri Jewell. I live inWestern Massachusetts with my son and two red eared sliders,(they're turtles!).
Mi Ok Bruining is thrilled to be included in this issue along with hersisters of color. She is currently co-editing a U.S. and Canada Asian
Pacific Lesbian anthology with Sharon Lim-Hing.
Ana Castanon: I am Mexican, non-Spanish speaking (and without
guilt) . I'm a sober dyke from Long Beach, CA.
Charlene No Bears O'Rourke (Koskalaka): Two-spirited artist, writer,
activist, 36 year old Oglala Lakota from Pine Ridge Agency, SD. I am
currently working with Native American wimin and children against143alcoholism in Arizona. I've been networking in the US and Canada
with other Native American two-spirited wimin and men to create
solidarity so once again it can be remembered our roles as twospirited peoples within our nations.
Maria Cora is a Puerto Rican cultural worker of African heritage,living in the San Francisco Bay area since 1981. Poet, vocalist, educatorand community activist and a founding member of the Palabras
Atrevidas writers' collective. Winner of the 1990 Prisma Award forAchievement in. Performing Arts. Equally prolific in Spanish andEnglish, her poems appear in the recently published lesbian of colour
anthology, Piece of My Heart.
Irene D R is a freelance writer, orator and Afra-centric spirituality
rooted activist.
Dajenya: I am a 38 year old African-American/Jewish lesbian poet/writer. I reside currently in Richmond, CA with my two sons, andstudy clinical psychology at San Francisco State University. I've beena vegetarian for 12 years.
Terri de la Pefia: I am a Chicana lesbian feminist fiction writer, thedaughter of a Mexican immigrant mother and a fourth-generation
Californian father. In my short stories and in my novel, Margins, I explore
the lives and struggles of Chicanas, especially Chicana lesbians. My work
appears in The Coming Out Stories; The One You Call Sister; Chicana
Lesbians: The Girls Our Mothers Warned Us About; and in the Chicana issue
of Frontiers: A Journal of Women's Studies.
R. Erica Doyle: I am US born of Trinidadian parents, and am of
African, Carib, Irish, Indian, and French ancestry. Originally fromNew York, am in IX with dog and cat, in love and in the Diva*nation
Writer's Collective. Trying to get together with all the other beautiful
lesbian artists of color (in) this city, and BLOW IT UP!
Edna Escamilllives in Santa Cruz, California. She grew up in southwestern Arizona and Baja. She is the author of Daughter of theMountain by Aunt Lute Books.
Ana Bantigue Fajardo is a Pinay dyke living in Santa Cruz.A teacher /journalist/poet/ athlete. One day I want to live in the P.1. A special
thanks to Margaret for her friendship and support.
Ruth Farmer: I am an African American poet, novelist, short story
writer, Lesbian, resident of Crown Heights, Brooklyn.
Mara Galvez-Breton: In addition to being a Cuban exile and since(being) lesbian-feminist, an exile from/of dominant sexuality andideology, I have recently defected from the University of California,
Irvine's doctoral program in Comparative Literature to pursue "my144

own writing". My previous publications include a poem in the Iowa
Review and an essay in Splintering Darkness: Latin American Women
Writers in Search of Themselves (LALRP).
Terri Jewell: I'm 36, a Black Lesbian poet/writer. My work has
recently appeared in Riding Desire, Outlines, Lambda Book Report,
Matrix, Outweek, and Way Station.
Heidi Li: I am a 26 year-old Chinese American lesbian who writes
poetry and fiction. My writing reflects my continuing desire tocontribute to the increasing efforts of Asian and Pacific lesbians togive the creative voice(s) to our own sexuality, life experiences,
politics, and spirituality. To date, I have been published in Common
Lives/Lesbian Lives, and The Poetry of Sex: Lesbians Write the Erotic .
Loba is a Latina lesbian currently living in Arizona.
Victoria Lena Manyarrows: I amN ative/ mestiza (Eastern Cherokee)
and lesbian. My goal as a writer and artist is to use written and visual
images to convey a positive and forward-looking Native world-view.... a view that is generally ignored and overlooked by the dominant
Eurocentric society and culture.
S. Jacqueline Miranda: Some of my other poems are in Wanting
Women: Erotic Lesbian Poetry and The Poetics of Sex. My parents, sisterand I immigrated to the U.S. from Cuba when I was 11. That one 30minute flight has shadowed and changed my life profoundly for thelast 30 years.
Josie Miranda is a 28 year old California-born Puerto Rican dyke. She
lives in Sacramento with her partner, April, and their three cats.
Josefa Molina: I am a 32 year old Latina/Chicana mixed-heritagelesbian psychothera pis t. My fa ther' s family is originally from Sonora,
Mexico and has Yaqui and mestizo roots. I am of the third-generation
born in Tucson, Arizona. Much of my poetic inspiration comes out of
the beauty and harshness of the desert, even when it is only in mydistant thoughts.
Melanie Hope Nelson: I am an African-North American poet, playwright, and tomboy turned lesbian whose most immediate ancestors
carne from Guyana and Nevis.
Ekua Omosupe is a PhD. candidate at the University of California,
Santa Cruz where she teaches writing, women's studies and literature. She is a mother for three teens, a grandmother and a poet. She iscurrently working on her dissertation "The Politics of Const~uctingBlack Lesbian Identities in the United States among LesbIans ofAfrican Descent." She welcomes contributions, in all genres, fromBlack lesbians.

145

Dawn A. Rudd: I am a 29 year old artist, activist, poet and healing
warrior woman, committed to truth and integrity. I believe women
are the healers and saviors of this planet, with the power to transform
our lives and the lives of others through vision, love and determination. I am proud to be a woman, proud to be of African and Native
American descent and determined to share all that I am with mycommunities. My creativity is a celebration of my love, my spirit andmy diversity.
Irare Sabasu: Lesbian feminist pagan, poet, artist. Transplanted
tropical Taurean. Taking it a day at a time in New York, NY.
Sapphire is an African-American poet, short story writer and novelist. She is the author of a self-published book of poetry, M editations on
the Rainbow, available from the Inland Book Company, P.O.B. 120261,
East Haven, CT 06512.
Yasmin A. Sayyed is a child of Africa-in-diaspora, a visual artist,
writer, art therapist, teacher, mother of two young-adult men, loveron the path, survivor of whispered traumas ... who writes and paints,
tells and screams, wails, laughs and traces her truth through a mazeof refracting lens of perception. She lives in San Francisco, where she
works in a community mental health program for adolescents.
Lynn Scott: I am a 47 year old Lesbian of African, Native Americanand European heritage. I have lived in the California Bay Area all of
my life, and currently teach kindergarten children with special needs.
I am just beginning to feel comfortable calling myself "a writer," andgive praise and thanks to Big Mama, Zora, and Akiba for theirencouragement with this piece.
Granate Sosnoff: I am just your average mixed heritage, Korean,
Russian Jewish Lesbian living in Oakland.
Shirley O. Steele: womanist/ grandmother /healer-poet/ urban shaman, living in Brooklyn, N.Y. Afro-American/Native American/
Scotch-Irish? /Russian? descent. Her work has been published in Gap
Tooth Girlfriends: An Anthology; Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology; The Village Voice; Ache'; NY Native.
Suzanne: I am a strength-identified African-american currently writing, painting, embracing the Struggle, fighting the System and living,in the Cass Corridor of Detroit, Michigan. I love the color blue, to see
people Open Their Eyes, my cats - Ferlinghetti and Arlo, traditionalarts, insurrection, and Jack Daniels. I still hope to see Peace and Love,through Truth and Understanding.
Donna Tanigawa: I am a 25-year old local-style yonsei (fourth generation) dyke of Japanese ancestry who is from the sugar mill town of146

Waipahu, Hawai'i. I am almos' pau with my graduate work in
American Studies at the University of Hawai'i at Manoa where I haveto speak Standard English. Otherwise, it's Pidgin for us dyke-folks
here in the islands. Pidgin is a local Hawaiian dialect influenced by a
mixture of ethnic languages. I enjoy working with ethnic fabric andhand-dyed textiles.
Kyna Taylor: I am an African American woman and a native of
Washington, D.C. I am a graduate student in English at Cornell
University. I have an MFA in fiction and I wish I could spend moretime with my writing. I have stories published in Word of Mouth 2:
Short-short Stories by 100 Women Writers, and Writers and Their Craft:
Short Stories and Essays on the Narrative.
Alma Villanueva: I was born in San Diego, CA February 10, 1959. My
family and I moved to Colorado in 1970 and lived there for sevenyears. It was there where I began writing poetry . My mother was bornin Tijuana, Baja California. Her mother is from San BIas, Sinaloa. My
great grandmother was a Tepehuano Indian from Chihuahua. My
mother'S father, a descendent of the Verdugo family of California,
was from San Ignacio, Baja California . My father is from West
Virginia. His father was from the state of Michoacan, Mexico. His
mother was Black mixed with English and local Indian from themountains of North Carolina.
Laura Irene Wayne is a painter, printmaker, graphic artist, poet,writer and illustrator. For the past twelve years she has exhibited
locally, nationally and internationally. Her works have appeared inperiodicals, including Matrix, Hot Wire, OutLook, San Diego LesbianPress, The Black Scholar, Ache, Black Lace, Spare Rib and Poetry of Sex:
Lesbians Write the Erotic. Recently Laura won the Pat Parker Memorial
Poetry Contest. She lives in San Diego where she owns and operates
an art company called Womyn Work.
Jean Weisinger is currently working on a black and white photography book of portraits of women around the world, with essay andpoetry. What Does Community Mean toMe. Her travel has taken her toGermany, London, East Coast, Cuba, Australia, New Zealand andBali. Later in the year she will travel to Zimbabwe, South Africa andthe Virgin Islands.

147

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 (al though all books from one press are lis ted together),with an emphasis on lesbian-owned presses. If I've read all or part of abook I may add subjective qualifiers like "read this." While the presenceof adjectives can be interpreted as editorial endorsement, the absence ofthem only means I'm going by the publisher's press release - Elana.
Look Me in the Eye: Old Women, Aging and Ageism, an expanded edition
with four new essays and preface make this excellent work indispensable; by Barbara Macdonald with Cynthia Rich. 1992, $8.95, Spinsters,
POB 410687, SF, CA 9414l.
Riverfinger Women - a reprint with new afterword of the 1974 lesbian .
classic by Elana Dykewomon. 1992, $8.95, Naiad, POB 10543, Tallahassee, FL 32302.
A Flight of Angels -lesbian intrigue & romance in McCarthy-era Washington, D.C. by Sarah Aldridge. 1992, $9.95, Naiad.
A Certain Discontent - a unique coterie of lesbians, by Cleve Boutell.
1992, $9.95, Naiad.
Grassy Flats -lesbians triumph over discrimination in depression-era,
small-town Idaho, by Penny Hayes, 1992, $9.95, Naiad.
Under the Southern Cross - a romance set in Australia from mystery
writer Claire McNab. 1992, $9.95, Naiad.
A Singular Spy - the 3rd Madison McGuire murder mystery, set inEurope & the U.S., by Amanda Kyle Williams. 1992, $8.95, Naiad.
The End of April, a Victoria Cross Mystery set in England by Penny
Summer. 1992, $8.95, Naiad.
Houston Tawn, a Hollis Carpenter mystery set in the '30s by Deborah
Powell. 1992, $8.95, Naiad.
Lesbian (Ou t) Law: Survival Under the Rule of Law - important, accessible
lesbian legal theory that asks: How can lesbians use the law without
being used by it? by Ruthann Robson. 1992, $9.95, Firebrand Books, 141
The Commons, Ithaca, NY 14850.
Dykes to Watch Out For: The Sequel - if you haven't read Alison Bechdel's
comics, start now; if you have, enjoy the new collection. 1992, $8.95, FIrebrand.
Free Ride -lesbian working life and road romance by Marilyn Gayle.
1992, $9.95, Firebrand.
The Worry Girl: stories from a childhood, autobiographical fiction in stories
of an assimilated Jewish childhood by Andrea Freud Loewenstein. 1992,$8.95, Firebrand.
Legal Tender - action-filled lesbian mystery set in Canada by Marion
Foster. 1992, $9.95, Firebrand.

148

Speaking Dreams-a presdentlesbianslave in the retrograde future changes
balance of galactic power by Severna Park. 1992, $9.95, Firebrand.
Anxiety Attack - funny, angry, intense, wonderful short and short-shortstories by Lorrie Sprecher, the first book from new Violet Ink Press. 1992,$5, Violet Ink, 307 W. State St., Ithaca, NY 14850.
Black Candle - Poems about Women from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh,moving and feminist, by Chitra Divakaruni. 1991, $8.85, Calyx, POB B,
Corvallis, OR 97339.
Bushfire: Stories of Lesbian Desire -16 lesbians conspire to arouse us, ed. by
Karen Barber. 1991,$8.95,Lace/ Alyson,40PlymptonSt., Boston, MA 02118.
Journey to Zelindar: The Personal Account of Sair of Semasi -young woman
finds happiness with a band of psychic lesbians, by Diana Rivers. 1992
(reprint), $9.95, Lace/ Alyson.
A Woman's Story - Annie Ernaux starts with her working-class mother's
death to weave her biography. 1992, $8, Ballantine.
.
Feminine Ingenuity: Women and Invention in America - both the difficulties women face and our achievements,1809-1991, by Anne L. Macdonald.
1992, $22.50 (cloth), Ballantine.
Sisters: Lives of Devotion and Defiance chronicles the lives and choices offour progressive, activist nuns, by Julia Lieblich. 1992, $20 (cloth),Ballantine.
In Her Prime: New Views of Middle-Aged Women,ascholarly,international
approach that omits lesbians from the index (but includes witches), by
Virginia Kerms and Judith K. Brown. 1992, $15.95, Univ. of Illinois Press,
54 E. Gregory Dr., Champaign, IL 61820.

The Dictionary of Bias-Free Usage: A Guide to Nondiscriminatory Language
takes itself very seriously, which is what makes it useful; by Rosalie
Maggio. 1991, Oryx Press, 4041 N. Central, Phoenix, AZ 85012.
Directory of Women's Studies Programs & Library Resources, large format
reference by Beth Stafford. 1990, Oryx Press.
Statistical Handbook on Women in America, large format charts and tables
gleaned from five sources, indispensable for proving your point if you
know how to use statistics, compiled and ed. by Cynthia Taeuber. 1991,
Oryx Press.
Wiles of Girlhood, poems from a working-class Canadian childhood by
Joanne Arnot. 1991, Press Gang, 603 Powell St., Vancouver, B.C., Canada
V6A 1H2.
Rumors from the Cauldron: Selected Essays, Reviews, and Reportage - a
retrospective view by veteran feminist novelist and writer Valerie Miner.
1991, $13.95, Univ. of Michigan, POB 1104, Ann Arbor, MI 48106.
Gertrude and Alice - a new, tender, engaging and amusing biography(with photos), focusing on theirrela tionship as lesbians by Diana Souharni.
1992, $26 (cloth), Pandora/HarperCollins, 151 Union St., SF, CA 94111.

149Announcements and Classified Ads _ _ _ _ __PUBLICATIONSESTO NO TIENE NOMBRE, revista de lesbianas latinas en miami, isa 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.
MAIZE, A Lesbian Country Magazine. $10 per year (4 issues).
Single issue $3.50. New address: MAIZE, POB 130, Serafina, NM
87569.
WOMEN FIGHT BACK - monthly national newsletter to "tell it .
like it is" - wants personal statements of discrimination as well as
subscriptions ($36 for 12). POB 161775, Cupertino, CA 95016.
FRONTIERS: A JOURNAL OF WOMEN'S STUDIES has changed
its address to: Room 2142, Mesa Vista Hall, Univ. of New Mexico,
Albuquerque, NM 87131
SHORT FICTION BY WOMEN #1 is available for $6 from Box 1276
Stuyvesant Station, NYC, NY 10009.
AT THE CROSSROADS is a new feminist magazine exploring
reality, esp. the spiritual reality western culture so often denies.
Women- and earth-affirming writing, women of color and lesbians
encouraged. Info: Jeanne Neath, POB 112, St. Paul, AR 72760.
WIRE - Women's International Resource Exchange distributes
inexpensive but invaluable short papers & booklets on the struggles
of women in the Third World. Send $1 (post. & handling) for acatalog to: 122 W. 27th St., 10th Floor, NYC, NY 10001-6202.
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 We Are Here) from: 2215 Market St., #479, SF, CA 94114.
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!
TUESDAY NIGHT: Poetry and Fiction by Valley Lesbian Writers
Group (the Connecticut Valley of Mass.) - special prepublication
price: $6 pp (checks to: Sally Bellerose). VLWG, clo Stinson, 49 1/2
Union St. #9, Easthampton, MA 01047.

150

CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONBLAcK LESBIAN CULTURE: PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE- Black
lesbian writer seeks material: Putting all "correctness" aside,let's
be honest and claim ALL we are, have been and will be for centuries! All and every form {photos, bios, herstory, songs, jokes,
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.
MULTICULTURAL LESBIAN RELATIONSHIPS anthology. Firstperson, cassettes, interviews O.K. Topics are: racism within andoutside relationships, having I raising children; socializing I friendships; language differences, etc. For guidelines, info: SASE to Rene
Dawson &Terri Jewell, PO Box 23154, Lansing, MI 48909.
ARAB FEMINISTS: Arab-American, Arab-Canadian, Arabi
Middle Eastern women now living in the U.S. or Canada sought
for an anthology to be pub. by Kitchen Table: Women of Color
Press, in order to promote visibility, provide a forum and sustain
political activists. All forms . For more info, SASE to: J. Kadi, POB
7556, Minneapolis, MN 55407.
EATING OUT - fiction, erotic fantasy, true-to-life experiences,
poetry, essays, recipes - the fun stuff - for lesbian anthology on"eating out" while dining in. Women of color, big, physically challenged and fun women encouraged to apply. Send SASE to: N .
Landers, 3717W. Cermak Rd., Chicago, IL 60623 for guidelines, info.
BY AND ABOUT WOMEN WITH FACIAL HAIR - all forms
sought by bearded lesbian, interested in: presenting ourselves,pridel shame, self acceptance, interactions, how class, family, age,
race, sexual identity affect our decisions, writing by women of all
choices (bleach, shave, trim, grow, remove, etc.). Send with SASE
to: Lyn Staack, POB 239, Hartford, VT 05047.
BROTHER-SISTER INCEST - any form of work on paper on ourbrothers' inability to keep their hands and organs away from us.
Pseudonyms can be used. Send with SASE to: Risa Shaw, POB
5723, Takoma Park, MD 20913-0723.
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.

151

LIKE WRITING ABOUT WOMEN? We need your stories! LAVENDAR LIFE, 215 Cleveland Ave., Endicott, NY 13760.
WOMAN OF POWER no longer accepts unsolicited poetry andfiction, but is looking for other forms for #25 "Overcoming Prejudice, Celebrating Difference, Cultivating Diversity" (deadline Dec.
1,1992) and #26 "Language" (deadline March I, 1992). Query: POB
2785, Orleans, MA 02653.
TAKE BACK THE NIGHT, a multicultural lunar calendar seeks
women visual artists & writers for 1993 calendar. Full Womoon
Productions, POB 1205, Santa Cruz, CA 95061 for guidelines.
HISTORY OF CHILDLESSNESS - personal stories wanted fromwomen and men. For info: Elaine Tyler May, American Studies,lO4 Scott Hall, Univ. of Minn., Minneapolis, MN 55455.
GAY / LESBIAN /QUEERPRISON ANTHOLOGY, ColdIron,seeking work on every topic from every kind of queer prisoner, with a
special interest in collaborations between prisoners and nonprisoners. For more info: Cold Iron, c/o John Fall, 1457B 22nd Ave.,
Seattle, WA 98122.
CONFERENCESJUDAISM, FEMINISM AND PSYCHOLOGY: Creating a Shelterin the Wilderness. International, interdisciplinary - welcomespeople from all religious and ethnic backgrounds, spons. by the
Jewish Women's Caucus of the Assoc. for Women in Psychology.
Oct.29-Nov. l,Seattle. For info: Kayla Weiner,600 IstAve.,Ste350,
Seattle, WA 98lO4.
THE INCLUSIVE CURRICULUM: SETTING OUR OWNAGENDA - a call for papers for a National Conference on Transforming the Curriculum to ReflectIssues of Gender, Race / Ethnicity,
Class, Sexuality and Multiculturalism. Deadline Sept. 15 for April'93 conf., 3 copies or query to: The New Jersey Project, Room 315,
White Hall, William Paterson College, Wayne, NJ 07470.
CONTESTS

FIRST ANNUAL LESBIAN PLAYWRITING COMPETITION full length, one-acts, small musicals with all-women roles (or roles
which may be cross-dressed). Winner receives $200 and production of the play. Script and resume by Nov. 1 to: Tiana Lee, Tribad
Prod., POB 1745, Guerneville, CA 95446.
152

(AD)VENTURESSALLIE & EILEEN'S PLACE, vacation cabins for women. A safe,
comfortable place for women in the woods, three miles from thebeautiful Northern California coast. Box 409 Mendocino, CA
95460. (707)937-2028.
LESBIAN PARADISE! With 20 charming rooms, 100 mountainacres, pool, hot tub, hiking/skiing trails, spectacular fall colors,
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.
WOMEN'S COMPUTER LITERACY CENTER - computer competence in 2 days! Write or call them for class schedules: WCLC,
870 Market St. #751, S.F., CA 94102 (415) 641-7007.
SUPPORT

SHE - Sister Homelands on Earth has purchased its first two acres- Saguaro Sisterland - to primarily provide accessible space forlesbians with mobility / or allergy / chemical sensitivity disabilities
and low-income wimmin. Money and support services are criticalto SHE's survival- write to SHE at POB 5285, Tucson, AZ 85703,
inc. SASE for reply.
EILEEN MYLES, LESBIAN POET, FOR PRESIDENT. A workingclass, out, independent, pro-choice, pro-health care write-in candidate (reg. with the NY State Board of Elections). "My campaign
is about representation - you might want some." Curious? Write
in Myles, POB 20741, Tompkins Sq. Sta., NYC, NY 10009.

AD RATESClassified: 35¢ a word, $5 min.
Display: $200 whole page, $100 half, $75 third, $50 quarter, $35 2x2,
for camera ready copy. Write for deadlines & size sheet.

153

BLACK WOMEN'SSTUDIESa special issue

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sinister wisdom
Some Current & Back Issues#46/ Dyke Lives. New fiction and poetry from Russia, Canada, France, Australia,
Germany and the U.S. on topics from Palestinian identity to Lesbian weddings.
• Krause, Kadi, Sprecher, Lim-Hing, Duncker, Freespirit, Hawthorne, Schaffer.
#45/ Lesbians and Class. The first issue edited entirely by poor and working classdykes includes analysis, personal narrative, challenge, poetry, fiction & a graffiti wall.
• Cardea, Blue, Dashu, Marah, Elliott, Lauby, Sorella, Platt, Courtot, Caspers •#43/44-The 15th Anniversary Retrospective. 368 pages, over 90 lesbians' work fromthe second wave. An amazing source collection-inspiring and thought-provoking.
#42/ Lesbian Voices. Our first intentional all-lesbian issue, with work on legal theory,
racism, Israel, hair, surgery, the effects of rape on relationships, much more.
• Bogus, Warland, Parks-Satterfield, Negron-Muntaner, Seta, Sapphire, Robson •#411Italian-American Women's Issue. Guest edited by Denise Leto & Janet Capone.
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#40/Special Focus on Friendship. Essays, fiction, editorial discussion transcript.
• de la Pena, Hardy, Svirsky, Gray, Stinson, Dambroff, Mi Ok Bruining, Hauptman •#37/Emphasis on Lesbian Theory. With work on consumerism, spirituality, politicaltheory, children, racism, anti-Semitism, lesbians in prison.
• Lee, Tallen, Evans, Pratt, Robson, Quinlan, Livia, Hardy, Gray, Green, Justicz •#36/Special Focus on Surviving Psychiatric Assault/Creating Emotional Well Being
in our Communities. Includes testimony, prose, poetry and essays.
• Hope, Aal, Caicedo, thundercloud, Robson, Sien, Moran, Ward, NiHera, Willcox •#34/ Special Focus on Lesbian Visions, Fantasy, SciFi. Includes work on Disability,
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• Katz, Ortiz Taylor, Hoagland, Allegra, Livia, Louise, Rios, Danaan, Marah •#33/Special Focus on Wisdom. Lesbians of Color, Non-violence, War Stories, Incest,
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• Maia, Allegra, Sears, McDonald, Waters, Hansell, Rosenblum, Butler, Stinson •#31/Special Focus on Sex and Fiction, Coming out in the South, Found Goddesses.
• Smukler, Blackwomon, Romano, Davenport, Dykewomon, McNaron •#28/ Special Focus on Women & Work; Body Image, Size & Eating.
• Klepfisz, Clarke, Heather, Sturgis, Gould, Boucher, Gomez, Sardella, Moran •#27/Special Focus on Girlhood, Sexuality and Violence, Office Work, Navy Dykes,
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• Allen, Cotrell, Root, Stecenko, Love, Paz, Smukler, Hall, Lipstadt, Brant •#211 Separatism Revisited, Jewish Survival & Defiance, Black Lesbian Writing, Photos
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IUpcoming Issues _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __#48 Resistance will be out in early December.
#49 The Lesbian Body: We want to explore the territory, from hair
to toes. We want to know why our heads get disconnected fromour bellies and vaginas. We want to travel to the sources of shameand fear. We want to know how/if to create new standards ofbeauty. There's been a tremendous backlash to the work lesbians
have done on looksism, and everything that contributes to it:
racism, anti-semitism, ageism, fatphobia, classism, disablism,
heterosexism. We experience it at events, festivals, concerts, in thelesbian personals ("Gay white adrogenous femme, 26, seeks same.
Must be slim, stable, employed, able to hike Yosemite and still look
like a lady. No PC types or dykes, please!"). What's going on here?
What forces us to keep internalizing/externalizing the dominantvalues: worth =body image =social power (or the lack of it) . If you
find yourself saying: ''Not that P.c. stuff, who I'm attracted to is amatter of personal choice, if you have a problem with that, it's yourproblem, get therapy," you probably won't contribute to this issue
but we sure hope you'll read it. For those who are troubled by thesetrends, the deadline is Oct. 1,1992.
#50 Lesbian Ethics: What are our ethics? What does an ethical lesbian
look/ act like etc.? Is there a lesbian code of behavior? How do wetreat each other as lesbians? What is our responsiblity to lesbiancommunities? How do we handle abuse within the lesbian community? Is there a lesbian politic? How do we deal with judgement? What about ostracism, shunning and trashing? How do we
impose judgement? What is the difference between influence andimposition? How does racial, ethnic or class identity effect yourethical outlook? What specific ethical challenges do you facebecause of your lesbianism, politics, etc.? How do you meet thesechallenges? What principles (if any) would you like lesbians toagree on for a system of ethics and in what ways are thoseprinciples specifically lesbian? Can you be ethical and have fun /be sexual? Deadline is February 1, 1993.

160

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Should ALL be sent to: Sinister Wisdom, POB 3252, Berkeley, CA 94703.
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All written work should be mailed flat (not folded) and SUBMITIED IN
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may return longer submissions.We prefer you type (or send your workon Macintosh discs with 2 printouts). Legible handwritten work accepted, tapes accepted from print-impaired womyn. All submissions
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details on upcoming issues. We are open to suggestions for new themes.

BOOK ORDERS: SINISTER WISDOM BOOKS HAS CLOSED• All orders for The Tribe of Dina: A Jewish Women's Anthology, edited by
Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz and Irena Klepfisz, should be sent to Beacon
Press,25 Beacon St., Boston, MA 02108. This is a new, expanded editionof Dina, retailing for $12.95 .
• All orders for A Gathering of Spirit: Writing and Art by North American
Indian Women, edited by Beth Brant ($9.95), should be sent to FirebrandBooks, 141 The Commons, Ithaca, NY 14850 .
• Irena Klepfisz' collected essays and poetry have been reissued in two
beautiful volumes by 8th Mountain Press,624 SE 29th Ave., Portland, OR
97214-3026.