sinister wisdomon healinSinister Wisdom 57
Winter /Spring 1996
Publisher: Sinister Wisdom, Inc.
Editor: Akiba Onaaa-Sikwoia

Editorial Group for # 57: Akiba Onaaa-Sikwoia, A. Miriasiem Barnes, Elsa
E'der, Heidi Beeler, Marianne Hewitt
Poetry editor: Ekua Omosupe
Contributing editor: Gloria Anzaldua
Board of Directors: Gloria Anzaldua, Haley, Julia Youngblood, Lynn
Scott
Volunteer Coordinator: Susan Levinkind
Fulfilment: Cindy Mortlock
Proofreaders: Jessica Bucciarelli, Joan Annsfire, Susan Goldberg, Susan
Levinkind
Typist: Caryatis Cardea
Production and Layout support: Barbara Selfridge, Elana Dykewomon,
Ji Sung Kim, Marianne Hewitt
Thanks to Bobby Rothschild and Rebecca Kutlin of Tamed Technology
Mailing crew: Cathy Cade, Caryatis Cardea, Cindy Mortlock, .Elana
Dykewomon, Elizabeth Kristen, Hadas Weiss, Haley, Heidi Beeler, Jamie
Lee Evans, Kyos Featherdancing, Laura Munter-Orabona, Laura Stern,
Lea E. Arellano, Leslie Levy, Lynn Scott, Marianne Hewitt, Michelle
Nichols, Sarah Carroll
Cover art: Yvonne Kettels
Special thanks to Barbara Selfridge, Caryatis Cardea, Ji Sung Kim,
Marianne Hewitt, Susan Levinkind

SINISTER WISDOM, founded 1976
Former editors and publishers: Harriet Ellenberger (aka Desmoines)
and Catherine Nicholson (1976-81)
Michelle Cliff and Adrienne Rich (1981-83)
Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz (1983-87)
Caryatis Cardea (1991-94)
Elana Dykewomon (1987-94),

Copyrigh t © 1996 Sinister Wisdom, Inc. All rights reserved to individual artists and authors.
ISSN: 0196-1853. Printed in the U.s. on recycled paper.

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

Winter/Spring 1996

1_________________ Contents
5 Akiba Onaaa-Sikwola • Notes for a Magazine
7 A. Miriasiem Barnes • Notes for a Magazine
8 Elsa E'der • Notes for a Magazine
8 Marianne Hewitt • Notes for a Magazine
10 Upcoming issues
12 April Citizen Kane • I Will Not Be Broken
13 Chrystos • My Sleeve Wet
14 Cheryl Jones • My Dearest Sweetheart
16 Joan Annsfire • Insomnia
21 Rivka Mason and Jan Thomas • Leah's Passing
29 Elizabeth N. Evasdaughter • a Fortuna!
31 Mariah L. Richardson • blues siren
33 A. Miriasiem Barnes • It Had Nothing to do wth Being

Butch
34 Laura C. Luna • I Cry
39 Christina Springer • Today
40 Adrienne Y. Nelson • How to Throw Your Own

Birthday Party
42 Marianne Hewitt • On Birth
44 K. Linda Kivi • Furious
46 Debby Earthdaughter • My Healing is Unrecognizable

in Able-Bodied Terms
50 helen laurence • Mother Green, Mother Blue
52 Zelda Lockhart • The Same Jesus

Sinister Wisdom is a multicultural, multi-class, born-womon lesbian
space. We seek to open, consider and advance the exploration ofcommunity issues. Sinister Wisdom recognizes the power of language toreflect our diverse experiences and to enhance our ability to develop
critical awareness, as lesbians evaluating our communities and ourworld .

2

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

56 Morgan Ahern • I Rage.
58 A. Miriasiem Barnes • Somehow I Found My VOIce
62 Jeannie Witkin • Decided
63 Annalee Wade • Butch medicine
64 Ardena Shankar • The Waning Moon
72 Tzivia Gover • A Family Recipe
73 Tzivia Gover • First Born
75 Colleen Kelley • The Women Who Live in Me
76 Julia Youngblood • Untitled
86 T Malone • Rising Tide
88 Joanna Kadi • Coiled Tongues
91 Melanie Cockrell • Self Portrait, 1989
92 Rebecca Hall • Glass
94 Liliana Slomkowska • Hitler My Heart99 Melanie Cockrell • Asthmatic's Diary (a broken sonnet)
100 Ellen Bass • I enter myself
102 Victoria Lena Manyarrows • Silence is Deep
104 Joan Annsfire • Deserted Beaches
106 Gayle Bell • Brave Survivor
108 Jo Anne Reyes-Boitel • Untitled
110 Ellen Bass • Slowly, like archaeologists
112 T Malone • Happy Any Day There's Birth
113 Linnea • The Permanent Stain
114 K. Linda Kivi • Now is the time to bury our ghosts
116 Marie Cartier • I Want
117 Holly Iglesias • Supplicant
118 Mistinguette • Traditional Medicine
120 Contributors' Notes
125 Books Received
129 Announcements and Classified Ads
133 Letter from Aileen Wuornos Defense Committee§

Winter/Spring 1996

ART
cover Yvonne Kettels • "dancer"
4 Cathy Cade • Auction Block from Ise' Oluwa
15 Naomi Baran & Lily • Joanne "Jajo" Garrett
38 Yvonne Kettels • "Further and further"
49 Peni Hall • Untitled
55 Jackie Hill • Untitled
61 Adalia Selket • Girlfriends Forever
71 Adalia Selket • Untitled77-85 Julia Youngblood • Grief Spot
87 Jackie Hill • Untitled
93 Yvonne Kettels • "if you want to change your life"
98 Yvonne Kettels • "Wade in the waters"
107 Jackie Hill • Untitled
119 Yvonne Kettels • "if we are the beginning we will be
forever"3

4

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Auction Block from Ise' Oluwa
Cathy Cade

Winter/Spring 1996

5____________ Notes for a Magazine
Akiba Onaaa-Sikwoia

Witnessing, creating and holding a form for the body of work
contained between these pages has indeed been profound. I've
been constantly reminded of my need to transmute energies within
myself in order to face each day in my power.
. Each of us editors experienced deep transitions in our lives. I
was pushed through numerous doorways. It feels as though ages
have passed since this journey began. What is true, is the growth,
wisdom and compassion I've gained from this process have been
priceless.
Since June of last year, when we first began working on thisissue, seven important people, affecting my life - who haveinfluenced my survival, have died.
Due to the bankruptcy of Inland, our major book distributor,
Sinister Wisdom, too, almost died. This was indeed a very challenging time for myself and the board but our hard work andstruggle were equally matched by the daily support, love andcommitment to the survival of this publication, which came fromyou. Through your donations, so often accompanied by letters ofsuch inspiration, we raised over $10,000 in two months - themoney needed to pay our back printing bills and get this issue out.
Somehow, I even found the strength to write four grants, one ofwhich has been awarded, to buy a printer. All of us have been
greatly inspired by your support. Thank you.
Feminist publications and wimmin's bookstores are reallystruggling to survive. We urge your continued support.

•••
Recently, I learned of a museum which opened in honor of the
KKK, somewhere in the South - while hours and hours of
pontification and debate continue, as to whether or not racism"still" exists. One feature of this museum is a kind of memorabilia- pictures of dead black men, bodies charred from being burnt.
Some still hanging from trees - necks limp, eyes bulging, lips
swollen. It is said there were photos of black wimmin, too horrible
to show - their legs stretched apart and tied, the semen of their

6sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

white killer rapist still caked on their bleeding swollen thighs.
Pregnant wimmin hung - their stomachs slit so the fetus could
fall out. (Incidentally, much of this murder, beating and rape
occurred while our "familiar" were forced to bear witness.) This
story was not told in Roots. Nor will you hear about the museum
or any of the above on the evening news. The country will notorganize because 29 black churches - our institutions - havebeen burnt down throughout the South in the past year.
African Americans are survivors of the most horrific ritual
abuse/violence.
Equally horrific is that the violence has never stopped. It's
become more sophisticated, more subtle. The word racism rolls
off the lips of liberals so easily these days. Sometimes one canalmost forget it is a war and not just a word.
Meanwhile, we black folk are expected to, miraculously, rise
up with love in our hearts and teach (and be "sane," whole andgrateful) because laws have been passed - rhetoric has been
spoken. When we don't more jails are built - for us to die in. New
laws are invented. The constitution is changed. Our communities
are bombed. We're called savages and thugs, our children are
killed.
Besides the violence I experience as womon, as dyke I contend
daily with the violence of racism.
It is said, memory is stored in the bones. My ancestors are not
only African but Native American (who, of course have suffered
the same deadly experience as black people) and Scottish - theslave masters. Who will take my bones?

•••
These are unprecedented times as we approach critical massand the year 2000. Living here in the Bay Area, knowing the Earth.is going to start shaking at any time, preparing our earthquake
kits, looking at the way weather is changing all over the world;
watching the continued destruction Of land, water, air, people andall other forms of life; listening to the whispers of the ancestors,
experiencing the denial in most everyone, of the state of emergency we are in, while choosing to be conscious, is quite awesome.
Healing" is not the word at all for this issue. It should be titled"amazing." This issue is about unequivocal survival, courage,
creativity, vision, alchemy and, unfortunately, the systematicWinter/Spring 1996

7

matter-of-fact violence most girls and wimmin are born into.
The prevalence of stories of sexual violence and suffering at
the hands of others touched old scars inside of me and brought mycommitment to this work so close to home. Yet the courage thesewimmin found to speak, to continue living and loving has given
me so much strength to pull from. Inside these pages are thestories of Big Spirits: warriors and healers and lovers and mothersand dykes.

• ••This issue is dedicated to Terri L. Jewell, a black dyke, authorof Succulent Heretic, Opal Tortuga Press. I admired her for her
inspiration, words and commitment to support black and otherwimmin of color to write - she committed suicide late last year.
A. Miriasiem Barnes:
It has been an honor and a privilege to sit on the editorialcommittee of S W for a second time. Sorry to say I had to take aleave of absence. The reasons for this leave were multi-leveled
personal dramas. I was suddenly dealing with death and dying ina up-close and personal way. My circle of family and friends werereducing right before my eyes. We at S W were dealing with theissue on Healing. Yes, how appropriate. H.LY. -AIDS laid claim
to 4 relatives and 6 friends. My son was in a accident in which hisbest friend died. I was facing my own physical limitations as theykicked into full gear. What a ride!
I will miss my friends and family who have passed on. I know
their suffering has come to an end, for this I am thankful. My son
is on the road to recovery. I myself an getting stronger everyday.
As a lesbian it is often hard to weep with other lesbians whena male member of your circle is injured or lost. The love I've sharedwith these men does not negate the love I have for women. Thereis a saying which I have on my wall that I wrote for a friend years
ago. Never before had I really read those words or taken them toheart as I have through this time in my life. "Things never are as
they appear in just a glance, and yet when you look from the heart
they are just as they should be ... Trust your Heart."
During this time in my life I began to question life itself andask what was my meaning and purpose for living. Many of theanswers I already had . Those I did not have I found in other8sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

women's words, shared with SW
Once again I'd like to make an appeal to allIes bian visual artist
and writers - please continue to send your works to SW. I'd also
like to thank the women who have submitted their works.
If you have an interest in helping 5 W reach its full potential, if
you want to be a part of the planning and fundraising efforts,
please make contact. Your support is needed.
I would also like to thank everyone who so freely gave to SW
during our las t mailing. Because of your su pport 5 Wwill continue
to be available to lesbian communities.
SW can only survive with your continued love and support.

Elsa E'der:I believe that life may not always bring us what we want or
imagine we want, yet woven into the moments, hours, days andyears of struggle, gems of illumination and redemption haveactually, for me, been the most difficult to recognize and embrace.
My participation in SW's Healing issue was one such struggle.
Difficult as it was, the process chipped away at personal layers ofhardness and my own pain surfaced with a relentless need forattention and healing.
On the eve of this issue's publication, I nearly suffered abreakdown, and now with the help of therapy, strive to dismantle
my own demons and mean voices. Along the way, many friends
have held my hand, let me tell my story ... and cry. I hope thesepages will enable similar resolves to take that one more step
towards wholeness, and yes ... life itself in all its myriad faces. We
are not alone ...

Marianne Hewitt:
Prior to our first meeting, each participant in the editorialgroup had an opportunity to do a preliminary reading of submissions. Gathering together for the first time, each one of us remarked in some way upon the fact that most of the work we
received was abou t the experience of healing from sexual violence
and abuse.
This response was overwhelming, pointing as it does to theprevalence of sexual violence in the lives of women. The far
reaching effects - the drain on our health and energy - are aharsh reality to live with on a daily basis. It breaks the heart.

Winter/Spring '996

9

During the months spent in preparation of this issue, I experienced more than the usual upheaval in my own life. Two friends
OD'd on heroin. Another two died, after living with cancer. My
family life has been deeply troubled .
Over these same months, the nation obsessed on the media
spectacle of O .J. and Nicole; while Oakland said an emphatic"NO" to its teachers. Their call for healing in the lives of children
and those who love and care for them haunts me. (This is a lesbian
issue.)
Betrayal of children at the hands of those to whom they are
entrusted engenders deep despair. The wounds are lasting.
I have struggled throughout this editorial process with myown history. More to the point, I am struggling with the ways inwhich it is mirrored in my present. It is in this reflection that I
know I must change.
Birth is transformative. Creation moves the body, cracks open
the heart, changes the shape of things. So it is with the alchemy ofwords. I am grateful for these poems, stories and pictures which
speak not only of suffering - but of hope and endurance.
SW #57 is finally going to press! As I write these words, myshoulders drop a little. I exhale. It has been a long journey to thecompletion of this issue.
Akiba's call for art and writing on the subject of healing wasanswered by women of talent and courage. The strength andbeauty of their lives will be evident as you read further. The work
speaks for itself in these pages .

•••Please note: "love's acolyte" printed on page 94 of SW issue #56,
On Language did not belong to Elizabeth Luciano. It was, instead,
written by Elsa Gidlow and published in Sapphic Songs, Druid
Heights Books. Many thanks to the wimmin who brought this to
our attention.

10

sinister wisdom #57 On Hea ling

Upcoming Issues ______________#58 Open - 9ut in August#59 Sexuality - What does this term mean to us as lesbians,

dykes, two spirited and queer wimmin? Clearly there havebeen, within the pas t decade, new definitions of sexuality. Quite
often I've been angered by the ways in which my lesbianism isdefined only in terms of what someone thinks might be mysexuality. That which gets the most attention tends to be theway in which lesbian sexuality is defined . Many closeted issuesof the past that affect our notions about and experiences ofsexuality are now everyday topics such as sexual abuse, AIDS,
prostitution, bisexuality, trans sexuality, celibacy, S&M and soon.
At 53, I am very aware that my expectations as a sexual
being are quite different than they were at 32 and 22; what
about you? I would like to see serious discussion (not hateletters) about our beliefs and experiences and realities about
sexuality. Twenty years ago stores like Good Vibrations wereplaces where dirty old men went and dildos were pieces that
only butches carried and quietly bragged about. Today that isdifferent. There are generations of us that have grown up in this"sexual revolution" and others of us who have watched it
come. How are we bridging the gaps between realities? Whatkind of language are we creating to speak to one another about
our differences and abou t our experiences?
I experience great separation in our communities aroundthese issues; we all have our camps and our own good reasonsfor being there, but in my opinion we are not surviving; we are
becoming more and more isolated.
This is not an issue on Erotica although it could be.
Deadline June I, 1996 (we've not received many submissions for this issue - there is still time, don't miss out!)#60 Lesbian Violence - More and more writings are centeredaround lesbian violence. Sometimes, if you look hard enough,you can actually find a group addressing the issue of lesbianrape and battering, but most of us are in denial about this issue.

Winter/Spring 1996

11

Often we don't believe a womon can rape another womon.
While those victimized are left unsupported, experiencing
trauma, deep pain and betrayal.
Most often there is no community to support this pain andthe regaining of power and control. No one wants to get involved. Denial keeps us from holding the perpetrator accountable for her abuse. The perpetrator might be a best friend. Thus
her partner, the victim of the abuse, loses her support system
and is left unprotected and isolated because she has mirroreda dynamic no one wants to face. Does this sound familiar? Just
like the heterosexual community.
S W would like to provide a forum to discuss this traged yindeed it is tragic, the ways we treat one another sometimes. I
realize this is a very sensitive issue and one we might want
kept in the closet. However, silence will not protect us. Thisissue is not intended to "out" anyone. My intention is that it bea forum whereby we can talk about and identify the violence,
acknowledge it occurs while seeking ways to stop it. This issue
is not only to address the obvious such as battering and rape,
but likewise emotional abuse and betrayal.
Future Issues - Wimmin in prison. We are confident thisissue will happen and are seeking funding for it. There aredykes in the Bay Area who are willing to support this effort. We
need those of you in other areas to likewise give input andsupport.
Many of our subscribers are in prisons in the South. I'd liketo network with any of you working with wimmin in prison.
We've decided this issue will not include wimmin in mental
institutions - it will be too much to do for one issue. We
imagine it will take a year to pull this together, which means
submissions will probably be due by June I, 1997. We are seeking writing, poetry and visual art by dykes who have been
inside and wimmin who are inside now.

12

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

April Citizen Kane

I Will Not Be BrokenIwill not be broken.
Everyday I will wake up.
I will put on my face .
and I will say this.
I will find my own voice.
I will be true to myself.
I will live my own life.
in my own way.
I will not give up hope .
I will not let my heart
be cold and empty.
I will not be ruled by despair.
I will reach up.
look up . jump up .
laugh out loud.
I will be all that I can be.
I will sing my own song.
I will know my own needs.
and I will meet them.
I will not be broken.
I will not die here.
I will not give up hope .
I will carryon.
I will overcome.
I will achieve.
I will meet success head on.
and I will not be afraid of it.
I will say all the things .
that I need to say.
as soon as I need to say them.
and I will not be broken.
I will talk out loud .
laugh out loud.
be gay and loud about it.
I will not be broken.

Winter/Spring 1996

13

Chrystos

My Sleeve Wet
for Joanne 10/24/95
Love Chrystos
You died last night soon after I brought a salmon
home for my dinner sensing I'd needa powerful meal to hold me
I hid beside the fire of your spirit
warming my numb hands
before your laughter, cranky control of any kitchen
you passed throughI'll miss your cooking
Querida I'll go on
as you willed me tocarrying your fierceness & good heart
into this world you loved so passionately& I still fear
I'm painting big fish for your daughters
to help them smile
to hold them as you did
I'm sending your beloved woman
the pink roses you loved
I'll keep writing these books
you believed in until they cameThis pair of eagles who circle my garden
in the rain as I weep
lift my heart to yours

14

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Cheryl Jones-M y Dearest Sweetheart
An Excerpt from Joanne's Memorial 11/11/95

Thank you for your bottomless faith.
Thank you for living out the courage of your convictions, andnurturing that potential in me.
Thank you for your absolute and unequivocal honesty andkindness, for your unconditioned love.
Thank you for all the lessons you taught me, especially the ones
I didn't want to learn.
Thank you for enduring your disease long enough for me to get
ready for you to go.
Thank you for being with me every moment since you died.
Thank you for inspiring such love in so many people that I
cannot feel lonely.
Thank you for claiming me as your wife everywhere you wentand in every relationship and interaction of importance you had.
Thank you for your passion, and the million ways you let meknow I was it for you.
Thank you for our transcendant union.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Winter/Spring 1996

15

Joanne "Jajo" Garrett: January 25, 1950 to October 24, 1995.
In July 1987, Joanne received a multiple myeloma diagnosis, witha prognosis of 6 months to 2 years. From then until the time ofher death, she continued to live life to the fullest. She loved
fishing, Scrabble, food, friends, family, the kids in her life and herwife, not necessarily in that order.
Naomi Baran and Lily

16 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Joan Annsfire

Insomnia
It's three a.m. on a mid-November morning. The house is quiet
and still; even the neighbors' dogs seem to have drifted off tosleep.
Usually, when I am awake at this hour, I feel distraught,
tormented, worried about my lack of sleep and the workday
ahead of me. I have spent most of my life caught in the cycle ofwork and sleep and work again, trapped in the quicksand of
economic necessity that closes over my life.
Tonight the dark silence doesn' t seem either long or oppressive. The night is full of time, a precious commodity I haveoften wasted. Thoughts enter my head and I let them passthrough. My body' seems as light as air, without gravity holding me to earth. It's a dizzying kind of freedom.
It's hard to believe how much my life has been torn apart in
the small space of a few weeks. The pile of books beside my bed
reminds me that this ordeal has not been something invented
by my imagination. I glance at the book titles: "Cancer as a
Turning Point," "Who Dies," and "Charting the Journey: An
Almanac of Practical Resources for Cancer Survivors." Thebooks help me make sense of the world and of my situation.
Many of the people in these books underwent a total transformation of their lives after a cancer diagnosis . Because of thisturn-around some had miraculous recoveries and became disease-free. Others died eloquent and articulate deaths in which
they found meaning and beauty in the small details of leaving
this world . It makes sense to me that death must be a transcendent and powerful experience, involving more than just pain
and terror.
Not that I'm dying, necessarily. My various doctors all say
different things. The latest statistics come from the surgeon who
will operate on my leg. He says with a level four melanoma, there
is a forty percent chance I will still be alive in five years. And

Winter/Spring 1996

17

forty percent is a far better prognosis than for people who have
AIDS.
It's the books that caused my lover and partner, Cheryl, to
ask in a state of near-panic, "Why are you so focused on deathand dying? Have you given up on the hope of staying alive?""No, it's not that," I explained, "If it turns out that I am fine, I'll
have no difficulty adjusting to the prospect of staying alive. But
I need to be prepared for any eventuality, and that includes thepossibility of dying."
We have both been reaching to each other in our own ways.
Still, we keep floundering for lack of an adequate vocabulary to
express emotions so profound and intense that sometimes justtrying to speak at all seems redundant. At those times, we justcry.
The truth is that at forty years old, even though I've watchedso many of our gay male friends die of AIDS, I have neverbelieved the concept of mortality applied to me. I suppose I
simply assumed I would live forever.
On some level I seem to be coping. But many times during
the day, I experience panic attacks; my heart starts beating
rapidly and I have trouble breathing. These episodes leave me
weak and dizzy. After I regain some self-control, I usually haveto run to the bathroom to have a bout of terrible diarrhea.
Which is why I'm losing so much weight. Cheryl says I'm
starting to look like a "cancer patient."
Western medicine's treatment for melanoma is surgery. If
it's a deeper lesion, the treatment is more extensive surgery.
Cutting is a last resort remedy for a type of cancer that does not
respond to radiation treatment or chemotherapy. "A real all or
nothing type of cancer," Cheryl says. And it's true there are
only two possible outcomes of my situation. Either I will d ie ofa metastasis or I will be fine. There isn't a lot of middle ground .
I'm not supposed to go in for surgery for another two weeks .
Then they want me admitted to the hospital for at least a week.
They say I will have to remain completely immobilized in bed
for the entire time so the graft will "take." In spite of thecircumstances, I'm trying to think of the hospital stay as a time
when I can read, write and relax. I hope there won't be too

18sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

much pain; I'm worried that if I'm heavily drugged I won't beable to get much writing done.
I don't really think I'm writing the final chapter of my life.
I believe if I were really wrapping things up here on earth, I
would sense It at some deep level of my being. I would know
everything I was here to do had already been accomplished .
At odd moments I start to cry. Sometimes just driving downa familiar street will make me intensely sad. It's as though thefirst step in dealing with the possibility of death is beginning tomourn myself, my friends, my neighborhood, my life. When
my fear recedes, I feel as though I'm mourning another person.
The sadness comes when I think of all the things I've always
wanted to do but somehow never got around to doing. I think
about the way I'd given up writing for the last fifteen years . I
never believed in myself enough to seriously pursue something artistic. I'm sure now if I'm given the time after thisordeal, nothing will prevent me from taking all kinds of creative risks . If I survive I know I will be fearless, unstoppable .
There is a dream that keeps haunting me on the odd nights
when I actually do fall asleep . I am walking through a bombed,
burned-out wasteland that looks like the aftermath of a nuclear
war. I am alone, the last living creature. I roam the devastatedstreets calling out the names of all the people I miss, every
name I can remember. In the morning I am always relieved to
discover it was only a dream. But the relief only lasts up until
the point when I remember what is really happening. My waking nightmare still seems so unreal.
One of the strangest side effects of being in this altered stateis people look different to me now. When I see them on thestreet or riding on public transportation, I find myself weaving
stories about their jobs, the circumstances of their lives. The
weirdest part is I think I look different to them also. Strangers
start conversations with me wherever I happen to be. I wonder
if I'm giving off a new and different kind of energy, as if awareness of mortality creates a higher level of connectedness withother humans. Most of the time I just feel more deeply alive,
more attuned to what is happening in the present moment.
Yesterday, in the sauna at the gym, I was lying on my back,Winter/Spring'996

19

on the wooden planks, looking at the light on the ceiling imagining how it would fade and disappear if I died suddenly
in a massive earthquake or explosion. I kept trying to visualize
nothingness, descent into the void, returning to the place I
came from before I was born.
If I die from cancer it won't be like a gunshot or an explosion. There will be time to tie up loose ends, time to say goodbye. Still, it helps me to remember that planning and preparation aren't required for dying and often prove to be impossible.
Death is an unusual voyage. You don't know where you'regoing or when you're leaving. You don't even have to pack. It's
something that's perfectly natural and the ultimate challenge
since it involves the total relinquishing of control.
Tonight, I am lying in my bed in the pre-dawn silence.
Nothing has really changed. The terms of my existence remain
exactly the same; there are no guarantees. The only thing I canbe sure of is none of us will get out of this life alive. This
morning I am free of pain and fear. The clearest sound is myown heart beating. Each breath is regular and reassuring. I takecomfort in knowing, at this moment, there is nothing at all I
need to do. In a few hours the sun will rise once more. Chancesare, I will watch it happen.

20 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Leah Moussaioff
November 24,1955 to June 6,1995

Winter/Spring 1996

21

Rivka Mason and Jan Thomas

Leah's Passing
Leah Moussaioff, Rivka's 39-year old sister, died on June 6,1995. She
was diagnosed with breast cancer in October 1994 and was hospitalized
four times due to calcium poisoning caused by the cancer breaking down
her bones. During her last hospitalization, she suddenly removed the IV and said, "I want to go home." At that point a web of comm",,-nity came
together to help her through a period where she was less and less able tospeak of her own needs. The responsibility shifted to us, her loved ones,
to arrive at the decisions we thought she would have wanted.
Rivka: I received a message from Leah's son Danny that his
mother was going downhill fast - she might not make it throughthe night. I flew to Seattle immediately. Jan followed the next day.
As soon as I got to Leah's house, I peeked into her room andsaw two shaved-headed women, Leah and Val, asleep on the bed.
It shook me to see my sister so vulnerable. This really was happening! On some level it was hard to get until I was in her presence.
Talking on the phone every week, I imagined her more alive in her
being, but when I saw my sister's weathered body, I knew her timewith us would be short.
Jan: Leah's house was full of people and activity. The spirit oflesbian community was clearly a powerful force supporting her inthis journey. Although I had previously met only two of thewomen there, within a few days I felt I had known them all for
years.
Val looked different from the way I had remembered her, as
her hair was only a quarter inch long. When Leah was considering
treatment options, Val told Leah if she did chemotherapy she
would shave her head in solidarity. Leah's calcium eventuallywent out of control, so she did a round of chemotherapy to bringthe calcium level down. When Val walked in the hospital afterwards, Leah asked her if she remembered her promise. That's how
Val came to shave her head. "I would have done ANYTHING tomake Leah feel less alone in what she was going through - it wassuch a small thing."
Rivka: The focus of healing for a long time had been the special

22 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

diet which we so hoped could restore Leah's health. Now Leah
could no longer eat solid foods. As I viewed the remnants ofefforts to feed her, scattered around the kitchen, I was remindedagain of how hard Leah had been working to stay alive.
Being Leah's medicinal cook was my entry point - the way I
could contribute concretely to her healing process. I took a handful of root vegetables and made a broth, hoping to get somenutrition in her to ground and strengthen her. When the broth wasdone, I put it in a large ceramic bowl to cool. Cradling the bowl in
my hands, I moved toward the window that looks out from the
kitchen onto her garden. As I raised the bowl to bless it, I prayedto the elements - the strength of the mountains, the healing
rivers, the sacred sky, and the powers of the winds - to come into
this bowl, to cast healing magic into the broth, to nurture and heal
her. My body shook as tears welled up - a few dripped into thebowl. I put some broth in a jar with a straw and took it to Leah. She
was "sleeping" most of the time but at this point she was receiving
her pills. It was a good time to let her know I was there.
I looked at her body, so thin from illness: high cheekbones
stuck out of her drawn face; collarbones protruded from hershoulders; bony fingers drew up close to her head. As if to convince myself I thought, "This is my sister - this is Leah." Alongside my sadness in knowing she was on her way out, I was full oflove for her and happy to be in her presence.
"Sleeping" doesn't quite describe the place Leah was in. Mostly
in her own world, when someone interacted with her she would
slowly open her eyes and acknowledge their presence. I said toher, "Leah, it's me, Rivka." She turned her head,looked at me andsaid, "Wow ,.. Ri vka ... you're here ... " Her eyes had an otherworldly
look to them. Then with a hint of a smile, she slipped back to that
other place.
Jan: Women were mingling inside and outside the house. The
phone rang constantly. Word was getting out Leah had taken a fast
dive downhill. In the living room, people were sweeping, clearing
and rearranging things. Sue came to say they were moving Leah's
bed outside to the garden. Leah, just like Rivka, never passed up
any opportunity to be out in the sun. She was conscious of being
lifted. Any movement seemed to cause pain, so four womenplaced her on a chair and carried her - one holding her head up,
the others supporting her on all sides. Holding court from bed inWinter/Spring 199623

her garden temple, she looked like a high priestess. This was aplace where, no matter how many women were around her, there
was enough space to accommodate and absorb all the energy thatwas coming toward her from the people who loved her.
Rivka: Leah could no longer tell us what she needed, so a few ofus gathered to discuss what was to be done. Keeping in mind
everything we knew about Leah's intentions, we considered theoptions. Do we allow her body to take its natural course in letting
go? Do we try again to intervene with Western medicine and keep
her alive as long as possible? Would this cause pointless suffering?
Leah didn't want to die. She had worked hard to stay alive. Now
her body was giving way, inviting her to accept the dying process.
This was simply the truth of what was happening to her.
For Leah, being alive meant being able to get around and do
the basic simple things of life. She had no interest in lying in bed,
unable to do anything for herself, without the realistic possibilityof things turning around. With this in mind, we decided to intervene one last time with an I-V flush to try to reduce her calcium
level. We hoped this would restore her faculties enough for her tobe part of the decision-making process in the choices we now
faced.
Sunday morning after the I-V drugs had taken effect, I wasstartled to find Leah sitting upright in her chair with her eyes
open, asking for broth. No one could quite face asking her thequestions that were hanging in the air: "What if it doesn't workand things don't turn around?" "Where do we go from here?"(Later I found out she had told Val she only wanted to go to thehospital if she broke a bone.) In her will she specifically said she
didn't want to be kept alive by artificial measures. The important
thing which she had stressed all along was she wanted to be painfree and comfortable. This became our obsession - the focus of all
our activities.
Ultimately, it became too much of an effort for Leah to suckliquid through a straw. How would she continue to get her pain
pills? How could she receive fluids? What was the next step?
Monday morning Leah's hospice nurse Margo came by. We all
felt relieved to be able to tell her what was going on and ask thehard questions. We thought that Margo would suggest an I-Vas a
way to get pain medication in Leah, but she helped us think it
through further. There were other ways to relieve her pain. An I-V

24 sinister wisdom #57 O n Hea ling

wouldn't necessarily be the kindest thing we could do. Herinability to take in nourishment was a signal that her body had
actively begun the process of shutting down. If we gave Leah an
I-V, her lungs would be more likely to fill up with fluid, worsening
her breathing problems and increasing her suffering. An alternative would be to make a paste of pain medication and water which
could be absorbed directly through her gums, adding to the effectof the pain medication she was alread y receiving through her skinfrom patches on her chest.
This was a wrenching moment and a definitive turning point.
Leah was moving toward death. We made a collective decision
not to interrupt this process. We felt that drawing things out andoverriding what her body was trying to do was pointless andwould only add to her suffering. We all felt she would havewanted it this way.
J an: Life continued to go on around Leah. At one point her friend
Tina appeared with a plunger to help unclog the pipes. Several
other women sat talking, laughing and crying in a corner. Homecooked food appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, brought overby friends. Meanwhile people did the laundry, talked with themany friends of hers who called or came by, sat quietly by her
bedside, burned sage to clear the energy field, made occasional calls
to the hospice nurse, had deep talks with one another, ran errands,
looked at pictures, cried, told stories about Leah, and ... waited .
Rivka: I was crying on and off throughout the day, but I kept
feeling the need to let it all out in a bigger way. So I headed off toLake Washington with Jan and my cousin Miriam, just as it began
to rain. We dashed from the car and got under the protective
canopy of a tree. Feeling the support of these two close women by
my side, within seconds I began wailing. My grief poured out ofme just as a crash of thunder filled the sky. I felt that the heavens
were answering me. After this much-needed release, we headed
home, as none of us wanted to be away very long.
Jan: Back at the house, the loud sounds of Leah's laborious
breathing filled the room. It was hard to hear because we worried
that she was suffering. Fai called Margo the nurse to tell her about
the breathing change. It was a relief to hear Margo explain that
because Leah was already losing awareness of her body's activities, it was probably harder for us to hear than for her to experience.

Winter/Spring 1996

25

Attending a loved one who is dying can bring up primal personal
issues and feelings. It has its times of illumination and its momentsof panic. Everything feels tinged with depth and meaning.
Rivka: That evening the atmosphere of the house took on a new
feeling, as meditative music and candlelight kept watch with us.
The veils between the worlds felt thinner than usual. I placed two
pictures of our mother Rena Mae by Leah's bed, lit by flickering
candles, to bring her close by and help them find each other.
Later I took off my jewelry pieces and slipped them, together
with a few crystals and sacred objects, under her pillow to charge
them with the energy. In another room Effie did emotional-bodywork with various members of the support family when we were
upset. She helped us re-center ourselves so we could be morepresent to ourselves and Leah.
Two of the women were able to see and sense energies not
visible to the naked eye. "Oh, did you see that? The energy is
spiraling out from her head ... " "1 see energy lines converging
around her heart ... " These observations added to our understanding of what was happening to Leah, beyond what we could
see with our usual means of perception.
At one point we were amazed to see that Leah, althoughseemingly "unconscious," had clasped her hands in a prayer
position over her heart. She remained that way for hours.
Jan: Around midnight Diana mentioned that in her Native
tradition something of the dying person is placed outside to help
the spirits find her. So I went through Leah's house and chose ascarf and a particularly joyful picture of her. Outside the window where she lay, I draped the scarf across a rose bush andplaced her picture in the center.
Tuesday morning we all milled around with varying degrees
of sleep and non-sleep. Three women had shared the night watch
sprawled on mattresses by Leah's bed. Leah lay draped in a
beautiful shawl, covered with flower petals and sacred objects.
Although it was hard to believe, her heart was racing even fasterthan the day before. At one point we counted 160 heartbeats per
minute. It was unsettling to hear her struggle for each breath.
When Margo came by to examine Leah, her blood pressure
was barely detectable. We all gathered in the kitchen to discuss
what to expect next. Margo told us she was glad to see Leah's26 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

fingernails were turning blue, indicating she wasn't getting enoughoxygen, because oxygen deprivation tends to produce euphoria.
After hearing this we were relieved to be able to envision Leah
going out peacefully.
I sensed Leah's breathing was shifting. Occasionally there
were gaps, so I stayed close by. I very much hoped we could all
surround Leah in love at the moment of her passing. A couple ofbig gaps in her breath signaled to me it was time to gather the
women scattered throughout the house. First, I found Rivka in the
kitchen. Leia and Effie were in the massage room. When I asked
them if they wanted to come, they misunderstood me, asking,"Where are you going?""It's Leah who's going," I replied.
Seven of us gathered around her and took one another's hands.
Her breath had become quite irregular. Val said, "We're all herewith you," as she went around the circle and said each of ournames. It couldn't have been more than twenty seconds later that
Leah took her last breath. The sound of her breathing had filled thehouse for two days. But finally, all breath left her. She went inpeace.
We stood silently for a time, passing the Kleenex around, eachpresent with our own experience of w ha t had jus t ha ppened. Then
Rivka and Miriam sang the Shma, a Hebrew prayer of blessing:"Listen Israel, the Source of all our being, that Source is One ... " Chants
and rounds followed. Loose petals from flowers throughout thehouse were collected and scattered across her body. More sacredobjects were placed on her. One woman cradled her head andothers caressed her hands and face. At a certain point the circle
opened up and we drifted off, each full in our own experience, as
if a part of Leah' s spirit had come into each of us. None of us would
ever be quite the same again.
Leah had said whatever happened after she died would be up
to the people who were left. She had arranged for cremation but
beyond that we were on our own. This gave us tremendous freedom. Spontaneously we evolved a creative collective response to
her passing. First we circled to discuss plans for her memorialactivities. "Let's open the circle to include Leah," someone suggested, so we reformed ourselves by her bed. As we made decisions, someone piped up, "I half expect her to sit up in bed and say,
'I don't know if I agree with that...' " We all chuckled at theWinter/Spring 1996

27

thought. So much love filled the room. Miriam summed up the
feeling of trust that had built among us over the course of the last few
days: "This is a group of women I could climb Mount Everest with."
Rivka: Fai found out we could keep Leah's body with us for 24hours. We were surprised to learn tha t if we wan ted, we could takeher to the crematorium ourselves. This appealed to us. Then Fai
asked me, "Would you like to build a box for Leah?"
One of the many things Leah and I had in common was
carpentry. We had gone through carpentry school together in theearly '80' s, back when I was first coming out. I felt grateful to havethe opportunity to be close to Leah in this way: to be in her
workroom, using her tools, making use of her recycled mahogany
and channeling my feelings into useful action to honor her. I asked
Irenia, also a carpenter, to help make the box. As we talked,
laughed, and shared stories of Leah, all that energy went into themaking of the box - like the love of cooks pouring into a finemeal. It was finished in only an hour. Throughout the evening andon into the night, friends and family decorated the "body box"
using a wood-burning tool and colored markers. Flower pictures
which had been taped to the ceiling over her bed were placed
inside the box. In a visible, tangible way, loving energy would
surround her and send her off.
Meanwhile, Leah's body remained inside the house withcandles burning nearby. We continued to speak to her and include
her from time to time, as some of us believed that her spirit
remained nearby for some time after the actual point of death.
Rivka and Jan: Preparations continued the next morning. Whilesome women padded the box with soft, colorful cloths, others
made a garden altar from the many flowers and other sacredobjects in the house. A fire was lit in her outdoor fire pit; people
wrote messages to Leah and offered them to the fire. Her boombox, set under the body box, poured out some of her favorite
tunes. Bowls of scented water were put by the altar. Finally when
all was ready, we gently carried her body outside to the garden
and placed her underneath the same tree where she had lain in bed
just three days ago. Surrounding her in a circle, we undressed her
and began to wash and anoint her. The water we used to wash hersoaked into the earth. We anointed her with her own homemade
salve, made from herbs grown in her garden. No one said much.
Rivka found a dress in Leah's closet which Leah had gotten in28 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

the Old City in Jerusalem when she was a teenager. She had loved
it and had worn it for years, so it seemed like the perfect thing todress her in. After it was placed on her, we carried her to the box
and set her inside. Then with several women on each side of her,the box was loaded into the flatbed of Leah's truck for her last ride.
Someone asked, "Do you think we need a lid?" (Yikes, a lid it might be a little weird to drive around town with a body in a box
and no lid!) Miraculously, an old wooden door found in Leah's
garage fit her box as if it had been made for it. It was put on loosely
so we could remove it and be with her body one last time at thefuneral home.
Off we went with two women leading the wa yon a motorcyclewith flashing lights. The women in the back of the truck held
hands across the top of the box as we traveled slowly through thearboretum and alongside Lake Washington, two of Leah's favorite places. Her Chinese herb pot, in which so many batches ofhealing herbs had been prepared, rode with us in front - it would
hold her ashes after the cremation. Midway there, Rivka turnedon the car radio and punched buttons for the stations Leah had
liked. We found some great soft jazz and cranked up the sound so
the women in the back could hear it. On a gloriously blue-skied
Seattle day, after what seemed like a longer ride than it really was,
we finally reached the funeral home.
With all of us standing around Leah in the viewing room justbefore we left her for the last time, Debra and Rivka said Mourners' Kaddish, which praises and reaffirms one's belief in Sourceand Spirit in the face of loss.

The great essence will flower in our lives and expand throughout theworld. May we learn to let it shine through, so we can augment its
glory.

Winter/Spring 1996

29

Elizabeth N. Evasdaughtero Fortuna!
Dedicated to my lover of twenty-four years

Through weeping,desires areclearest known.
Without the fencesof Never,I would nothave discovered the path.
Refusal and enmity
have laid me low;
they have notstopped my labor,
not dimmed my love.
The Wheel of Changeturns in every life.
The play of Chanceis always at work.
Influence, prosperity,
health and honor
must pass;as certainly,
they must return,to us or our successors.
Shall we stareat loss till
we miss what comes?
The wind in autumn
strips the treesof all that has died.
Should we wall inthe trees, to save them?

30 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Should we refreeze
the river in Spring?
Should we repair the past,or build a present city?
Blues may be sungin the dark of the moon;
what shall we singin its crescent, its half,
its fullness, its kindness?

Winter/Spring 1996

31

Mariah L. Richardson

blues sirenagut-bucket
blues-faced woman
rattled with demons
that shook my faith
to the coresnatched my heartflung it full force
into the slop
jar the floor withmy shaking and tremblingtears drip drip drippingin time witha dry clock ticking
no time kept
only the aching
I wished to give
her melodies andsweet serenades
but with no ears
she could only hear
the low bass and moansof pains long gonelocked in a suitcase
she always dragged aroundmade my burden heavier
I needed more light
locked doors of
hidden rooms
drums beating out
which way?
this way?

32 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

which way?
this way?
she wouldn't takesang songs onlyof fears and fireanger and bayou snakes
dark houses andleft alone abandoned
me left wanting
but God helps thosesing praises
who help themselves
for strength comessing praises
from the one
inside yourself

Winter/Spring'996

33

A. Miriasiem Barnes

It had Nothing to do with Being Butch

I wanted her inside of me
I did not know how to ask
FUCK meant something else
I wanted all of her
as she had taken me inside of her
many times before
and soared
I wanted to fly
I did not know how to ask
FUCK meant something else
I wanted to give myself completely
to be open ... opened
I wanted so much
I knew so little
I did not know how to ask
more I begged
more please
I lost it right there
she knewno more to be said
she took me and he came out
there was nothing left for him to steal
she had taken it all
and the tears still stain my face.

34

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Laura C. Luna

I Cry

I will no longer bleed for you,blood of anguish, blood of rage
blood spurting, flowing, gurgling,
dripping down my arm
soothing my twisted cries
keeping the silence
to protect you,from harmfrom judgment,from the white man,whom you professed was my enemy.
But it was you, father,with whom I lived
you too, became my enemy.
You used me,
heaped your years of fury,
disgust, revenge, anguish,
impotence between my legs
shoved it down my throat
burning, bleeding, scarring me
My warm blood turned icy cold,
coagulated,encased in the sheathof my mummified being.
My love has dried up
refuses to come out,
even under the gentle caressthe sweet la pping kissesof the woman I loved.
The stirring of a memoryWinter/Spring 1996of the body I never knew,
terrorized and trapped
into aberration, silencedissipated into fragments.
I pick up the razorslice open the skin to feelwarm blood tricklingalong the smooth brown surface
soothing my desperation,
quieting my thoughts,
allowing shallow breath to tap
deep beneath my rib cageand gently lull out my exhale,
I sigh in relief.
I cry, when I see
what I have done to myself,what I was trained to do.
While I sat on the edge of the bathtub,
my blood dripping onto the floor,
like an old leaky faucet
my face a hateful, mangled caricatureof you father,
your deity singed into my mind .
I remember my mother opening the door
she screamed, "Oh my God, what have you done?"
I cry for the twelve year old child,
who hated her mother for not protecting her
I cry for the two year old baby
left with her father's parents
who, tired of her cries for mama,
yanked her up to the stoveburned her hands and feetthe child screams into silence,seeks refuge in the ash.
I cry

35

36 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

for the child's mother
whose faith in god
couldn't save us from damnation.
I cry for the little girlwith the bleeding headtugging a strand of her matted hair.
She skips and beckons me
in her sing song voice,"Touch my hair.
Do you think I'm pretty?"
then,skips away into the crevicesof my mind, before I cantouch her.
I cry for the little girlwhose crazed look was bornout of the torture and lives onin the belief that her sole purpose in life
is to be bound and sodomized.
I cry for the child who clings to her dogs and begs
"Please don't let them kill my doggies!"
I am locked in that time
so long ago.
I cry for the ten-year-old child
who took an overdose of aspirin
hoping the doctor would see her pain,
and rescue her.
I cry for the girl turning 13,
locked up, tied down, shot up
with tranquilizers and anti psychotics
raped again and again
Psychiatrists gave her father immunity from his crimes
They labeled her
psycho tic-schizo-h ys terical-mad .
I cry for the teenager

Winter/Spring 1996

who refused to spread her legs
for the father's son.
She was beaten into submission
under his rallying cry,
"DYKE! BITCH!"
I cry
for the lack of memory of an unscarred bodyfor the word food, synonymous with rapefor the loss of taste and sense of smell.
I cry for the woman who lives
in isolation,
believes love means hate
hate means love,
who thinks trust is trickery
and to be tricked is a treat.
I cry, even though
you threatened me into silence.
My life in your hands,
you pulverized my being
spitting, hissing,"Crybaby-stupid-worthless-ugly-piece of shitcrazy-hysterical-bitch!"
I will never again
shed a drop of my precious bloodin your namefor your religion
or your being
No.
Instead father,aching and throbbing for life.
I cry!

37

38

sinister wisdom #57 On HealingWinter/Spring 1996

39

Christina Springer

Today

Today, I thought
about getting the ice pickout of the closet& hacking away
at myself.
& looking at my reflection

I took in my bodyparts finding nothing
I'd particularly
want to be rid of.
& so, I turned inside
read y to do damage there& looked at the teeth of my thoughts
the pursed mouth of my ideas
the kinky hair on my spirit
the iguana eyes of my soulthe broad sphinx nose of my world
the firm dimpled chin of my mind
& disappointed,
not really,
put the ice pickback where it belongs.

40

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Adrienne Y. Nelson

How To Throw Your Own Birthday Party

To blow up balloons, Fear must learn
to savor oxygen and let the good life
rush from her lungs at the rightspeed. Celebration only comes througheffort. The big lips of Anger can make a dark
blue balloon expand easily within her hands.
She fixes the end the way she wants it, and hands
hot air to Fear. After the party, Fear must learn
to release the steam. They're in a darkroom, waiting for my arrival. It' s my life
they're celebrating. No one ever threw
me any parties or took me to the rightsoirees. Anger and Fear are hidden rightin my living room, behind the couch on their hands
and knees . Fear ducks when I enter. Anger throws
the bouquet of balloons. A surprise I've learned
to catch. Anger always pops into my life
whenever Fear makes living seem too easy. The darkroom becomes bright. Fear rises slowly. My darkskin is open to them both. Anger sees my rightleg creep backwards. She shoves Fear down so my life
can be free again. Anger yanks my handand draws me into the party. She wants me to learn
to make a grand entrance. If I don't, she's throughwith teaching . Anger slants a pen, following throughwith cursive on parchment paper. The dark
ink begins to bleed. Anger wants me to learn
to write my own invitations . She shows me the rightwords. Fear snatches the pen from Anger's hand,proving that she too, can re-create her life.

Winter/Spring 1996

Fear teaches me the rhythm of healing. My life
is the record that keeps spinning througha song no one wants to dance to. Fear takes my hand,
becomes my partner. We slowdance in the dark
until Anger cuts in. She screams the steps, "Right,
left, right, left," until, by stumbling, I learn
to take charge of my life. Now, I can get througha dark crowd of people with my own two hands
guiding the right way with everything I've learned.

41

42 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Marianne Hewitt

On Birthwith gratitude, for Jesse Hewitt
Legs and arms spread wide across the bed,
my girl child takes more room in sleeping
than two grown women.
The Night Monster visits her rarely
and seldom stays long
looking, from what I gather,like a puppy smashed in traffic .
I sleep alone in the smallest possible spaceor curled tight into my loverleaving no room between us
for the monsters we both remember.
Sleep will never find me on my back,lips parted, and smiling some child's rhyme .
Sleep holds danger is inevitable.
I remember cold hands
tearing away the bedclothes
muffling my screams
I remember surpriseas the trickster masks of father, husband, lover
fell away.
Then, finding myself staring into the faceof rapist, demon, betrayer.
I remember sounds of pain
this urge to escape the clutches of isolation
disappearing into the night.
Heard by no one
Not even Mama.
I remember later on, and older
lying beneath those who paidWinter/Spring 1996

to carryon the masquerade
their sweat and semen pounding.
I remember wearing the maskof child, wife, whore.
My lips whispering lies of seduction
knowing this would bring him back another time
bearing roses or bills to fold
and tuck inside my stocking.
I have seen myself smile sweetly
mind busy with the calculationof bills still due, and tricks unturned.
Sleep will never find me on my back!
Lips parted and smiling some child's rhyme.
At the core of me, raw and bleeding,my cervix forms a fist clenched tight.
I marvel that this body could be a vehicle into life
Two days of labor
and resistance, learned young from Daddy
became the source of new painand deeper.
My cervix opened, but not happily
even for the love of her.
Starting from the inside,
she forced an opening
in a way that I could accept
from no other.
From the walls of my uterus
where pain and silent screams still echo
She began.
My cervix,
a clenched fist
Shut up, tightand angry
Her first window into the world.

43

44

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

K. Linda Kivi

Furious1.

I was born in a bad mood,a bad, bad mood
I tell myself this now because
I have never known anything
but this sting of red on my tongue.
2.

Six: report card reads Linda is bright but has a chipon her shoulder I cannot see it and don't
know, not then, to ask why
John gets to run, endlessly
while all Jane does is watch.
3.
Eight: back pressed against
the kitchen's louvered doors
when I should be dusting the baseboards
to the buzz of my brother's lawn mowing
serves me right for eavesdropping Mamma's
hard hands on the black receiver
her words have stayed with me - Linda has bad
character she tells a friend . Why
does no one recognize pissed off
when they see it and even I begin
to wonder about my furor for justice.
4.

Eleven: yes it was around then that I foundmy dumb weapon, still flat chested- and teased for· it - I began to sprout a few
shameful hairs in my armpits
learned not to raise my whole arm, justa timid hand, easily overlookedWinter/Spring 1996

when I wanted to speak, the rage of silencealready in my small breast.
5.
Fourteen: the year they showed The Holocaust
on tv and I understood that stupidity
and hate lived before I did, thrived richly among
the keepers of power, I had not been singled out
just lumped in and my outrage grew bigger for those
who I had never known, than it ever could
for just me. Just me.
6.

Sixteen: fury gathered my hair into a tightbun at the nape of my neck, I never let
it down, uttered not a word about carpet burns
on my ass and the one meaning of the wordNO!
7.
Twenty-one: I stamped the streets for freedom
in South Africa, reproductive rights now, end
all aggression against Nicaragua, eat no Chilean grapes
kick him in the nuts, back away as I say
1'm sorry 1'm sorry 1'm didn't mean to hurt anyone
before I turn and run for my life.
8.
Twenty-three: walk to work at the battered women's
shelter, my volunteer shift on the rape crisis
line, I vow with each step that never, never again
my fists clenched, even more than before, neverto let them unfurl, but I cannot help but reachup and prod the long blue bruises on my neck.
9.
Thirty-something: in a house I built with my own
hands pounding so many nails that I had toreach some heart of some matter, home:
finally safe: at lastand finding myself not in a bad mood at all
but furious

45

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Debby Earthdaughter

My Healing is Unrecognizable in AbleBodied Terms
One day in the food co-op, I ran into an able-bodied woman I
hadn't seen in a long time. I smiled and said, "Hi."With disgust in her voice she said, "Oh you're wearing a masknow?"
The smile goes out of my eyes, as I feel her repulsion, and I say,"Yes, I'm really glad I found the mask, it helps me live better."She sees the mask only as a mark, a sign of my unhealed ness.
For me, the mask is a gift, which helps me function betterin the world.
Products in the store will still make me sick - floor cleaner,
incense and scen ts peop Ie wear. The mask gives me more room, byfiltering out some level of the toxins. It affords me another moment to find the burdock and a few more minutes to search out theelusive light bulbs. It means, if there's a back-up in the cashier'sline, maybe I can stay without getting so sick I have to leave thestore. The mask isn't a substitute for more environmentally accessible spaces. For me, it's a little less throwing-up, a bit less dizziness and fewer sinus infections over the course of the year. It's
more evenings where I actually get to cook some of the food I
bought for dinner, instead of being too exhausted to get out of bed.
Her idea of healing is really a small one. She sees healing only
in able-bodied terms. To her, achieving any healing means I would
be more able-bodied, less sick and less chemically sensitive. Her
idea fits with my old notion of healing/growth. Back then, I
would set some goal and work as hard as I could to achieve it.
N ow, my idea of healing is being closer to my true self. Doing
what's there for me to do - without needing to know exactly
where I'm going. I'm working to clear the clutter and avoid distractions so I can be more of myself.
Freer of distress and blocks, I take better care of myself, but notwith the expectations of specific results. 'Cause I've sure tried theif-I-just-eat-this-way, try-these-vitamins, do-these-exercises, thenI'm gonna be more able-bodied process. Inevitably, the crash anddisappointments came when I didn't achieve my expected results.
My new way is different. I take better care of myself. I do whateverWinter/Spring 1996

47

I am doing, for the sake of doing it, while knowing I can't control
the results. Because of this I'm living more in harmony with mycommunity and environment.
One big block in my life used to be the desire to be invisible an issue which, in the past, would prevent me from wearing amask, because of the curiosity it brought.
When I was a kid invisibility was one of the strategies I employed to shield the abuse. Occasionally this worked but for themost part it was an illusion of control. With the ritual abuse I
experienced, I don't believe trying to blend into the woodwork or
anything, for that matter, could have stopped what these people
did to me. Much of the abuse I experienced was targeted specifically at me because of the ways I was different. My difference wassomething I could hide.
Today, it's not worth it to hold on to the invisibility strategy
because I'll always be living in reaction. Trying to prevent what .
people might do .
lt's difficult though, wearing a mask to be less invisible, to be
noticeable, to have a visible sign of disability. While the maskdoesn't bring the kind of abuse I experienced as a child, it doesbring a lot of hard stuff from able-bodied people. Whenever there's
a sign of disability you're getting ableism. Wearing a mask forMultiple Chemical Sensitivity (MCS) is something strange thatpeople don't understand yet. Those who use a wheelchair experience ableism, but at least now everyone knows what a wheelchair is. With more of us wearing masks for things like MCS,
maybe more folks will get it, but we're not there yet.
Strangers often stare and come up to me asking all kinds ofquestions about why I wear a mask. I wish they knew what it was.
I'd just like to get through what I'm doing. Any place I'm inwearing a mask is toxic so I don't want to hang out there and givethis big education. I just wanna get my stuff and get out as quickly
as possible. Another thing that's strange is people's fear about
why I wear the mask. I remember once when I was in a publicbathroom and came out of a stall the woman next in line didn't
want to go into the part of the bathroom I'd been in. I guess she wasafraid I had a contagious disease. She didn't know I wear thismask to keep the stuff she wears out.
N arrow definitions of healing and what's acceptable are partof the biggest obstacle to creating accessibility. When able-bodied
people don't see us as acceptable, the way we are, their attitudes

48

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

can often be like, "Go to your room and come out when you're
healed." This may work when you have a cold or flu for a couple
of weeks but it doesn't work when it's your entire life.
Those of us with disabilities try and do things which will bringphysical healing if possible. We monitor our diets and our exercise. We change our environment if we're chemically sensitive. I
think the greater healing comes from learning to care for ourselves
even though we know we can't control the results. You learn overtime to do the things you hope are gonna be nurturing, just for thesake of giving goodness to yourself, even if you don't know what
the results will be. This teaches a lot about acceptance and livingin the moment.
Before Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome(CFIDS), my approach to life was one of plans and goals. I would
experience enjoyment in the moment but even that was framed
within my idea of what my life was becoming. All of this changed
as I became disabled.
You plan for the things you can. Then, sometimes you suddenly change from being able-bodied to disabled because of something unforeseen like a car accident. Or, you may have a more
gradual experience, as I did . I suffered with lots of allergies as akid; developed CFIDS in my 20's; now I have MCS as well.
My process has been about learning how unpredictable life is,
so I do what I can in the moment. Living with CFIDS, in particular,
has taught me a lot about getting clear on priorities. I've always
had multiple interests. Often, in the past, I could get distracted,
dissipating my energy, losing focus due to my enthusiasm. Experiencing a lot of fatigue has taught me to sort out the excess examine what's before me. If I don't have much energy I ask,
"What do I really want to do in this hour, in this day?" MCS is a
big wake-up call to everyone on the planet. If those of us who are
more "sensitive" are getting sick then these same toxins are affecting others, even if they don't feel it yet.
I wonder when things will change? When everybod y is very sick?
There are some efforts towards using less toxic products. Still, it's
frustrating when I hear people talk about creating environmental
access as though it's this horrible burden, versus something which
will benefit everyone, even if they're not chemically sensitive.
Sometimes people do get the big picture, which is really gratifying. A friend of mine, who did access work in her community,
was thanked and told the work she'd done resulted in the workplace being more healthful for everyone.

Winter/Spring 1996

49

I think able-bodied women still view women with disabilities
as some kind of burden. If they're gonna create access it's like,"0h, we need to do this for political reasons." Or, maybe there's
some individual women they like and want to be involved inwhat's happening; still their attitude is like there's this tremendous work they're doing for "those" women.
I'd like to see the kind of change where able-bodied women
wantto create access. They understand ha ving an accessible space
so disabled women are able to participate is not charity work but
something which benefits all. I'd like to see the time come whenable-bodied women recognize women with disabilities bring useful knowledge, which comes out of disability consciousness thatthe able-bodied community can really use.

Peni Hall

50 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

helen laurence

Mother Green, Mother Blue
When Libby in ringlets built wild designs
using wooden tiles that gleamed a royal blue and green,
Mother passed by, judged "Blue and green don't go together."
The girl was 6. She argued"What about sky and leaves? lakes and grass?"
Age 11 came with hidden love and panty stains.
Mother was nervous, proclaimed "You should
be like Caroline and Sharon - they have personalities."
Protest increased the steel wool scrape of words but"What is a personality? How get one or build it?"
Then Mother lay in bed accepting bedpans,baths, soup from cans, while cancer altered roles.
When a blue glass fell from numb hands at 2 a.m. and broke
Libby rose, poured more green medicine, tried
brushing black tangles while mother murmured "Sorry."
Libby was 14. She wanted to kill her strange smileat the cemetery where deep green crossed the rural fence.
Cows grazed the winter-damp grass, shallow eyes moist,
but her eyes, blue like Mother's had been, were dry,tears long since traded for steel and pretense.
Year after year, nightmares pinched her life.
She'd wake terrified Mother was still alive, large blue veins
still flowing. In her hard bed she forced herself from dreams.
How did one tiny person rule a vast prison?
Could one crippled inmate shape escape to trees?
Libby grew older, took wool that gleamed to weave a blanket,
orange rays held by many greens and bluejay sheen
while baking bread yelled wheat and rye, sunflower seeds
and home through the laughing cries of children.
In dreams, tidal waves were tamed to wading pools.

Winter/Spring 1996

Now before work Libby looks in a new mirror,
winks at wrinkles, selects a bracelet of turquoise
quite green and richly wed to her lapis ring,and recalls suddenly her sleep last night ... Mother ...
and for the first time Libby loved her in a dream.

Sl

52

sinister wisdom #5 7 On Hea ling

Zelda Lockhart

The Same Jesus
At nineI used to sit and concentrate so hardon praying and faiththinkingthat my mother would stop getting beaten
by her husband
that my oldest sister would stop lying in the dark
listening to Frankie Beverly and MAZE albu ms
and crying
thinking m y friend Bernetta and her sisters would get a toilet
and heat and doors
and screened windows
thinking somebody
would believe my best friend Tina
believe that her uncle had raped her
and made her pregnantthat Tina w ould become pretty again
and stop prostitutingthat all the dirty kids
w ho smelled like syrup
w hen the school' s free breakfast was pancakes
w ould smell like soap and department storesthat the empty potato chip bags
w ould stop blowingthat the cars w ould stop looking old
soundi ng loud and graying up the air
on m y side of St. Louisthat e erything that had alw a s been me
an around meWinter/Spring 1996

would be clean
and changed
and wholelike God promised
if I believed in his Son.
Now I let my mind run wild
without boundaries
without faithin phantom white men with long hair,
blue eyes and ever lasting love.
Reverend Reynolds used to preacha sermon called "The 'Same Jesus."
When I was baptized it fired up my hypocrite Aunt Lucy
who said my ten year old head
was nappy and bald in back,who called me four eyed and named me "eyes."
Reverend Reynolds said it was the same Jesus
who walked upon the waters
who made Aunt Ruby shout,and who changed one loaf to many loaves of bread.
And last night Ruby called because her back is badand her cancer is eating her stomachand she is the same Ruby
and I told her to leave me alone
because I learned how to duckand don't call my house looking for redemption
and she said I was the same selfish disrespectful child.
And when the pastor dunked
me he did three times,
one in the name of the father,
one in the name of the son,and one for the holy ghost
and that night my ten year old baptized body was clean
until my father came and raped it.
And two weeks before my wedding

53

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sinister wisdom #57 On Hea ling

(to a man just like my father)
Reverend Reynolds diedand I criedbecause I thought when he married me
I would be clean again.
And that day I found out
I was pregnant.
And the day before the wedding
I called my mother,started to tell herthat I must say "no!"to wedding my father's prodigy
but she cut me off
with a sharp "SHUT UP!"
which protected her image of son in law
but slashed my throat
and made me cover my crotch when I knew
she would not protect it.
That night I changed
my underwear three times
because I felt dirty
and ten.
I used to steal food stamps when I was nineand stop at Johnson's Grocery
buy Fritos and Now & Laters
then I'd throwaway the due bill
not caring how much change I was supposed to get.
And my mother knew I stole from her
but never said a word until
I stole from big brotherthen she whipped mewith a switch and I was glad
to be visible enough to be hit.
And at big brother's funeral Reverend Jefferson preachedthat "The Same Jesus"that raised Lazarus' lesioned body from the dead

Winter/Spring 1996

would carry my hero brother on to glory.
And my mother fell down crying
under the power of these words
and all her weight(that could have saved big brother)fell to the floor,
and I never realized how heavy she wasuntil I tried to lift her
from the coffin to the pew.

Jackie HillSS

56 sinister wisdom #57 On Hea ling

Morgan Ahern

I Rage

I was raised in an environment of manipulation and indifference. I do not heal from this. I rage.
I was born Romani, a Gypsy, to an inner city Vitsa* where
survival was the greatest goal, love and solidarity the strongest
tools.
The giorgios** attacked and broke my family. They took thechildren and placed us in the institutions, and later the homes,of Catholics . Missionary spirit in the heart of colonized New
York. Saved from my heathen family. Every means was tried to
exorcise the Gypsy demon thief from my soul. Victim of thevilest behavior modification techniques, I was right handed by
9, emptied of tears by 11, cast aside by 12 and electroshocked
by 17. I do not heal from this. I rage.
I talk with my grandmother, Jenerose, daily. She would be
100 years old this year had she not died of a broken spirit. She
was a Drabarni: a story teller, a healer. It calms me to speak withher. Much of her image I construct from childhood memories .
I have no picture of her though I once did. Gypsies are not fondof photographs or cameras or anything which freezes our spirit.
Jenerose and her entire Vitsa were photographed, fingerprinted,
measured and regis tered in 1921 German y. (The perpetual third
reich). She saved her children by escaping to the United States,
only to have her children's children stolen from her. Gypsies
are called child thieves, yet it is always our children who arestolen. For our own good, of course.
I have no pictures of my grandmother, though I once did; aphoto mounted on the back of a lady's bejeweled pocket mirror. A 40 year old woman, solemn and strong, stared boldly at
the photographer, her thick, long hair held back with a bandanna;
three bracelets on each wrists; hands on her hips. A daughter of
those burned as witches, their fires shone from her eyes. For years
I hid that photograph fearing it would be destroyed for being aWinter/Spring 1996

57

bad influence on me; a lure from a life to be forgotten - language, rituals and all. I had that picture of Jenerose once, but I
hocked it when I was strung out, penniless and pregnant. I do
not heal from this. I rage.
I want to believe in healing. I wear red for protection and eat
garlic and pepper against pollution. But when the external
forces are murderous, health becomes a mirage.
Our health is determined by the political forces and economic realities which shape our lives. Our capacity to maintainhealth - emotional and physical- is determined by our race,
gender and class status. Access to all society's resources is basedon privilege.
Poverty is the greatest cause of stress, high blood pressure,infant mortality, decaying teeth, wounded spirits .... Schizophrenia is a label used primarily against the poor. We do notheal from this. We rage.
We are attacked, murdered or locked up in prisons and mental
hospitals to kill our rage and silence our truth. It is our rage whichkeeps us fighting. To hear the truth, do not talk to therapists or
doctors or politicians. Speak with the psychiatrized, the imprisoned, the impoverished and the disenfranchised.
To begin to heal, we must first become enraged.

'Vitsa: family""*giorgios: non Gypsies

58

sinister wisdom #57 On Hea ling

A. Miriasiem Barnes

Somehow I Found My VoiceI am 1 of 21
from 1 mana black son of a slave
day onetheylaid meamong youwe brown skinned new born babies
all to one side of the nursery
2-3-4-5elders spoke-speak"don't fight among yourselves,
you're all you got, all you'll ever have,"

I did not fight thenwe did not fight thenwe shared
food, clothing, shelter, beating, laughtertears
we even shared stories
big onespossibly secrets
then and now
you silence me
as I yell for you
freedom
our freedom
my freedom
go away
we don't want you here
where must I go

Winter/Spring 1996

how can I standmy legs were built on tradition
now
broken by tradition
how must I standdid my love
my choiceto love you as an equal
to wipe away your tears
stand by you
when you feared for your very life.
He stood over you masturbating
you were only ten I was twelve
I wiped his semen from your facewith my blood stained gown,
stained from his visit to me
just moments before
that night I held you
knew I could never hurtanyonethe way he hurt you
the way he hurt me.
Today you tell me he ismisunderstood
he is the son of a slave
he is a black man in a white world
unemployed
he had a rightto vent his anger
his rage on little children
we must march in white dresses
veiled faces
protect his manliness
you tell me I've stolen
his jobs, his women, his land

S9

60

sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

he is a man
I ama woman
I should step backback in time
to chains and varicose veins
over shitty diaper filled buckets.
What happened?
we slept two or morein one bed
ate from the same table
read the same books
played the same games
cornrowed each others hair
we ran crying, kicking and pleadingat the sight of the straightening comb.
Now you my sistermake it very clear
I am alone
I was not alone on the civil rights marches with Martin
hearing the words of Malcolm
I was not alone in Soweto
I was not alone in the cry for the release of
Nelson Mandela
Yet I, the black lesbian, stands
alone on each page waiting silently
to be given a voice in black women's literature.
Is my hair not nappy enoughmy skin no longer dark enough ...
am I not a black woman?

Winter/Spring 1996

Girlfriends Forever
Adalia Selket

61

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Jeannie Witkin

DecidedTall golden bridge blue sky bright light
You stride along legs strong hands free
Beams up road across water below
Options possibilities decisions
Upward upward those beams arch
With strength touch the sky
You look away reject that choice
Did you decide last year?
Onward onward the road goes everOn and on more of the same
Too hard too much no more you cry
Did you decide last week?
Downward downward sheer drop beckons
Water calls tempts with simplicity
You look look twice entranced
Did you decide last minute?
No upward striving
No onward pacing
Down you leap silent and swiftYour last decision

In memory of Dawn Williamson

Winter/Spring'996

63

Annalee Wade

Butch medicine
There had always been that part of me I hid from her, the partthat wanted to be held .
One night after much mescal I hit her face. Stung flesh
shocked us both. Like a frightened rabbit I ran into the desert
and buried my solid silver belt buckle, a favored possession,
deep in the sand, then smoothed over the surface so I could
never find it again. As I walked back I wondered if she would
leave the way I left after my husband hit me .
We ate silence for two days until my son came home fromthe army. Medical discharge. But I knew he was a drunk. "Thatpoison is killing you," I said. Was it a little rabbit I saw skitter
across his gray eyes?
"I need a healing ceremony, mama. Smoke, prayers, dreams.
Leaving food on our ancestors' graves. Offering corn meal to
the slain deer before we eat them. Our old ways, our power. Do
you remember?" I did not. We were half breeds. Pale Indians.
I couldn't even make proper Indian tea . I felt useless. I wanted.
to drink. She grabbed my arm. Her fingernails made tiny crescent moons in my skin. "No," she said, "we must help our son."That night a new ceremony began with her on top. For the
first time she possessed my body and controlled our movements. Her long hair enveloped me like wings of a black bird.
Up, up we flew and I knew she wouldn't let go of me until I was
ready to fall weak and tired. I recalled an ancient Yaqui heavenof flowers and dancing skeletons and wondered if this is how
it felt to die . I gasped with relief. In that moment we both knew

64sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Ardena Shankar

The Waning Moon
The first time I heard a woman speak of menopause was in theearly 60's, I was twenty-two and a young mother. Thoughts ofmenopause had never entered my mind. During that time I sangin the women's choir at the church I attended. The choir rehearsals
were special for me because it was the one day of the week I was
free of child care responsibilities. I had two hours of women only
time.
There were approximately seventy-five women in the choir.
The women ranged in age from their early twenties, up to our eldest
member, Mother Breckenridge; whose actual age was beyond myimagination. She was obviously long past childbearing years.
The women's choir was one of ten singing groups in this verylarge church, considered to be one of the finest and most popular.
Learning music was the main focus; visiting among members
occurred before or after our work was done. Choir rehearsal was
not a social event.
When Sister Willa Mae suddenly squealed, and squirmed,
and cried out "Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy! Hot flashes!
Hot flashes!" We were all startled. Everything stopped. Our choir
director lost control of the rehearsal. We all turned to face the backrow where Sister Willa Mae sat. All of our attention was focusedon her, who in discomfort bounced her full bottom on the polished
oak pew. We were embarrassed by her passionate, almost sensual
outburst.
Sister Willa Mae tugged at the collar of her floral print dress
and wiped her glistening face with a white, lace bordered, handkerchief. She tried to cool herself with quick, snappy movementsof one of the paper-board fans donated to the church by one of thelocal funeral parlors. She continued to cry out, "Lord have mercy!
Lord have mercy! Hot flashes!"
Many of the sisters in the choir were younger than Sister Willa
Mae and simply did not understand . Those who were old enoughto understand revealed nothing. They lowered their eyes, hid theirmouths behind their hands, and laughed quietly. They offered no
support.

Winter/Spring'996

65

Mother Breckenridge seemed to be both embarrassed andannoyed. She turned to Sister Willa Mae and gave her a look as if
to scold her, as if to say "Be quiet and make the best of it! Stop
drawing attention to yourself."
I sat beside Sister Willa Mae in the row with the other alto
singers, and like the rest of the women I turned to look at her. Her
face was a rich, brown, copper color, with gleaming dark eyes. She
had crisp white curls among the darker strands of hair that framed
her face. Her large breasts moved up and down as she breathed inand out. The heat she was experiencing seemed to radiate fromher. She must have been beautiful when she was younger because
she was beautiful still.
Sister Willa Mae was very much alone as she sat among us in
her own "private summer." I was no help to her. I did not understand.
After a few minutes the choir director regained her control of
the group and called for the women to return their attention to thebusiness of gospel music. There was no discussion of the disturbance. I heard only a few quietly spoken comments after rehearsal
about something called the Change of Life. It was said that whensome women reached middle age they became emotionally unstable and their behavior became unpredictable. It was not discussed further. Neither my mother nor my aunt, the elder womenof my family and members of the choir, said a word about it.
There was very little information available to the women who
preceded me in age and life experience. It was deemed, by them,
to be inappropriate to discuss such things, even with other women.
Nearly twenty-five years later, when I reached middle-age
and was experiencing undeniable indications that I was menopausal, 1 asked women who were post-menopausal to share theirexperiences with me. 1 was told by more than one of my elders,
including my mother, "I don't remember." As far as they wereconcerned, menopause remained mysterious.
Even though there is more information available now than in
Sister Willa Mae's time, 1 was just as unprepared for the journey.
The transition from childbearing years to Cronage was rarely
discussed among my peers. Fearing menopause means the end of
the vitality of our lives, that we will become undesirable andinvisible, in a culture which reveres youthful beauty. Some women
I spoke with seemed to be in total denial about menopause. They

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

hoped it would go away if they just ignored it. A few women I
talked with would admit to being of the age to be experiencing
physical or emotional indicators associated with menopause. Somewere embarrassed when I introduced the subject into the conversation and were unwilling to discuss it at all. They seemed to thinkmenopause is shameful. "I'm not that old!" they told me. To some,menopause is basically a myth and women who speak of menopausal symptoms are simply weak. These people have no interestor compassion for the subject because they know little or nothing
about it.
Menopause is the process of the reduction, to the eventual
cessation of female hormone production. This is an important lifetransition, the most significant indicator since the beginning of awoman's menstrual cycle, that her body is changing. Anothersacred passage.
According to what I was able to discover from the few books
available at the local library, symptoms of menopause can begin
as early as the mid-to-Iate thirties for some women, and continue
for years after her last period. On the average it begins between
the ages of forty-two and fifty-two. 10 to 15 percent of women will
experience little or no discomfort during this time. Another 10 to
15 percent will have a definite sensitivity to this intensive hormonal shift and experience a severe response to the change oflevels of estrogen and progesterone in their bodies. The remaining
60 to 70 percent will fit somewhere between the two extremes.
Symptoms of menopause may include bloating, aching joints,
fatigue, headache, insomnia, flatulence, indigestion, incontinence,night sweats, hot flashes, anxiety or panic attacks, wiry chin whiskers and other discomforts which include hormonally induced
depression.
Various books on the subject indicate that a woman's experience with menopause can be influenced by genetics, smoking
tobacco, drinking alcohol, lack of or little physical activity and awoman's dietary habits. Most women will encounter menopause
while functioning in a fast-paced, unsympathetic world. Chances
are she won't have a clue, at the beginning of this process, what it
is exactly she's going through.
In my late thirties to early forties I began to have extremely
difficult menstrual cycles. Fatigue, lower back pain and painfulhemorrhoidal swelling, accompanied my usual menstrualWinter/Spring 1996

67

irritability and malaise. At that time information was beginning
to appear in the mainstream medium, TV, and women's magazines about a condition called pre-menstrual syndrome (PMS) .
Some of the descriptions of PMS symptoms were similar to what
I was experiencing. This was the first time that I received any
information about what had become my personal struggle. It wasa relief to know there was a label for what I was experiencing. A
friend and I discovered that we shared similar symptoms. My
friend shared material she had on the subject of vitamin-mineral
supplements and an herbal tincture called Vitex or Chasteberry.
All of these things were very helpful.
By my late forties what I had come to believe was PMS accelerated. I began to experience debilitating fatigue around the timeof my cycle. Painful hemorrhoidal swelling increased and lower
back pain became more intense. I became weepy and bloated.
Unpredictable mood swings meant that my nerves were constantly
on edge. I was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. Sometimes I
felt confused and had trouble making simple decisions. During thetwo weeks before my period was due, I was often in a state ofextreme low-energy and had to spend most of a day in bed. This
was a significant change and I began to lose trust in what I could
expect of my body. I was uncertain as to what was going on. Going
to the doctor's office didn't help. They ran many tests and foundnothing. Iron supplements and antidepressants were prescribed.
By the time I reached the age of fifty, night sweats, hot flashes,aching joints, and heavy periods which required the changing of .
super Tampax Plus every hour as well as the additional use ofMaxi-Pads, had become the norm. After doing a bit of research on
my own it was finally clear to me that I was in menopause not
PMS. I was in the 10 to 15 percent group who had a severe
response to the change in estrogen levels. Neither denial nor
thinking positive thoughts would offset this inevitable passage.
Eventually, I couldn't be sure from one month to the next if I
would be having a period or not. And if I did, whether I would
bleed for two days, two weeks or even a month.
I began waking up at night for frequent trips to the bathroom
and finding myself unable to get back to sleep again. Insomnia
made me tired and irritable during the day. I was not able to work
the way I wanted and needed to. I began losing momentum in mycareer and my self-image began to suffer. I didn't lose confidence

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sinister wisdom #57 On Heali ng

in my basic intelligence or talents but I started worrying about myability to accomplish goals . I was often too tired to keep appointments. I felt my physical warranty was up and I was falling apart.
Menopause is not considered a disease it is a natural process.
However its various symptoms can suggest a number of conditions. The more these symptoms persisted the more concerned I
became about my health in general. I often ended up in the doctor's
office, distressed and in tears. Heart palpitations sent me to a
cardiologist (my father died of a heart attack at age fifty one). I wastested for diabetes because of frequent urination (members of myfamily suffered from diabetes) . Tests were done which found me
in general good health. This was not only frustrating and confusing but expensive.
A woman having a difficult menopausal passage can be dismissed by some as neurotic or a hypochondriac. But if you are thewoman experiencing these symptoms nothing could be more real.
I was experiencing an adverse response to the change of estrogenlevels which was unrelenting. It was interfering with my ability toperform the ongoing requirements of my work. I could not afford
to be at the mercy of fluctuating hormone levels. If I was not sickthen I wanted to feel healthy. Something had to get better. Prolonged
stress left me feeling desperate. I was aware that some women tried
hormonal replacement therapy under such circumstances.
Hormonal replacement therapy (HRT) is a program of estrogen and progesterone replacement. HRT was created originallyfor the post-menopausal woman. However, some women havefound that estrogen supplementation provides relief from stressful menopausal symptoms. Estrogen has also been credited withoffsetting heart disease and osteoporosis. However, HRT is notwithout controversy. I had been personally reluctant to participate in HRT. As far as I could find out, very little research has been
done on HRT. One public health expert considered HRT to be thelargest, uncontrolled clinical trial in the history of medicine. Uterine and breast cancer has been linked to HRT. That was troublesome for me. Women in my family had suffered from breast cancer.
There did not seem to be enough information to recommend it assafe. Yet, some women have used it and consider it to be safe.
What is true? I wanted an update on the subject. What exactly
are the risks I might face? What are the side effects? What are thebenefits? What's best for me? I decided to discuss it with myWinter/Spring 1996

69

doctor. I made a doctor's appointment, prepared my list of questions and hoped to receive information to help get through thisdifficult passage. I remember feeling particularly stressed thatday as I sat in the doctor's office. I felt exhausted in body, mind andspirit. I wanted to get on with my life. I didn't know what tobelieve about HRT. It felt like a momentous occasion. I was facing
something I had feared.
My doctor was a young, intelligent, friendly woman, with acharming 'Doctor to Patient' manner. But I was unable to engage
her in a detailed discussion. She literally waved my concerns
aside without giving me the information I felt I needed, andrecommended I start with a low dose of estrogen. I didn't knowwhat a low dose was for me. I don't know how she was able todetermine that. However, she spoke with all the authority the
medical profession and her white coat gave her and she filled myhands with samples of Premarine. In complete desperation, withnot a drop of fight left in me, I succumbed and took the samples.
I took the estrogen for ten days as she prescribed. On the eleventh
day I began the Progesterone. On the fourteenth day I awakened
in great pain from swollen hemorrhoidal tissue. I had to cancel animportant income producing job and go to the hospital emergency room.
The emergency physician, after consulting with a specialist
and after obtaining my permission, performed emergency surgery. Surgery was a bad idea. Over the next three days I returnedto the hospital three times seeking relief from extreme pain. During the course of two weeks I consulted, or had consultations on
my behalf, with eight different medical professionals (including asurgeon), as well as alternative practitioners. I was desperately
seeking a solution to what had become a debilitating situation. In
order to get relief I went from Demerol, to artificial Morphine, toVicodan, and other class three prescription pain relievers. Overthe counter suppositories and other remedies for hemorrhoids
were useless . I was exhausted! It was months before I started
recovering.
Because of this experience I cannot recommend HRT therapy.
I do suggest that any woman who is interested in HRT do researchon the subject herself. I also recommend seeking information
about other approaches such as herbal alternatives, homeopathy,
Chinese herbs and acupuncture. These may offer some women

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

help during this important time.
Menopause is part of the cycle of life - it is inevitable. Just as
each woman has her own variation of the menstrual cycle, eachwoman will have her own variation of the menopause experience.
There is no single type of menopause and no single way to deal
with it. As frustrating as it has been for me, I believe that it is betterto speak about it with other women than to suffer in silence.
During my distress an acupuncturist/herbalist healer, in mycommunity, offered to share her knowledge and wisdom with me.
I had a consultation with her and she gave me the gift of herconcern and time. There was no rush. In the quiet of her office,with a cup of savory herb tea, she allowed me to shed tears offrustration and despair. It was not her intention to heal me but
rather to lead me to empowerment through this journey. She told
me of herbs and remedies of the earth which benefit women
during their menopausal journey. She gave me understanding
and encouragement, and a book by Susun Weed, Wise Woman
Ways: Menopausal Years. Her loving generosity and this wonderfulbook have made all the difference. Sus un' s book is at the top of mylist for any mid-life woman seeking practical information to benefit body, mind and spirit. She introduces herbal allies, discusses
PMS, fatigue, sleep disturbances, depression, night sweats andhot flashes.
Sharing my concerns and commiserating, as well as sharing
information, support and compassion with other women, hasbeen a great help to me. It is time to bring information and discussion about menopause out into the open and acknowledge it for
the important phase of a woman's life that it is.
Women, as well as their partners and friends who love them,can benefit from a basic understanding of what they are experiencing. Mid-life can be the time for a woman to redefine herself,
reestablish her sense of self worth, and to determine for herself thequality of this next part of her life. This includes how she willhandle menopause.
As I approach the end of my menopausal journey, I lookforward to the promise of post menopausal zest. I am certain thatas I am older now I am also wiser. I am more confident of myintelligence and talent than ever. There is still so much I want toaccomplish. I anticipate a highly creative, as well as productive,
post menopausal life.

Winter/ Spring 1996

Adalia Selket

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Tzivia Gover

A Family Recipe
The nineties way

Ingredients:
1 Woman, more if desired
1 Turkey baster, sterilized in a large pot of boiling water;or an empty syringe prepared the same way.
2-5 tablespoons of semen; fresh is preferred. Frozen may besubstituted.
Place semen in baster or syringe.
Fill woman's womb-bowl.
Let stand nine months,
or until kicking to come out.

Winter/Sp ring 1996

73

Tzivia GoverFirst Born
I.
The strangest story I know
is that five years ago
today my daughter
was born, a virgin birthon Virgin Mary's birthday.
And so she arrived,
small, pink, and wideeyed with wisdom.

II.
I dared to be your mothertoo. To cut the cord that held you
safe inside, knowing
I could not promise you a silver
spoon or golden moons .
Growing up was a chance we took.

III.
For your first birthday I wrote
a poem about stars
staring down on you, keeping you
safe while you sleep. This year
I tried to be as happy
as the purple hat I boughtyou. Packed it up, knowing
you will never wear it.

IV.
Five is still too young to be told
Some wishes never come true.

74

sinister wisdom #57 On Healingv.
Close your eyes and make a wish
for me. Promise there is someone
else who will catch the lucky
eyelash we blew from your fingertip Someone who is keeping the promises
we tossed into the fountain on
the backs of pennies - Someone
who breathes in the candles
when we blow them out.

Winter/Spring 1996

75

Colleen Kelley

The Women Who Live in Me
There are women screaming in straitjackets
beneath my left breast;
A lonely woman sits in a shackunder my tongue.
There are stake burned women
lining the roof of my mouth(I can never get the tasteof burned flesh and wood rinsed out) .
Nervous, Lesbian couples hide in my hair follicles.
If asked, they would still say
they're cousins, companions or just good friends never lovers, beloved and adored by each other.
Rows of womenare shackled to my rib cage
lynched and hanging in my inner ears
And hundreds of other womenare crowded behind my knees, in my uterus,
along my thighs, down my spine, pressed against my heart.
They were stabbed, shot, ripped apart, hung, burned,
skinned alive, beaten to death.
They were butchered by male doctors who loved to experiment,
cast aside when husbands wanted firmer flesh,locked up and told they were crazy.
All of these women were trivialized and objectified,but now they live in the body of a woman
they, by their sufferings, have radicalized .
I will live my life honoring them.
Their pain will always keep me electric with righteous anger;
their agonies will always keep me working
to avenge, one by one, the women who live in me.

76sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Julia Youngblood'[his work is from my 1991 installation for the San Francisco's Mission

Cultural Center's Dia de Los Muertos, Rooms of the Dead II. Each artist
had a room in which to create an atmosphere for the dead, for ancestors,
for grief and healing. I photographed forty people and their grief spot,
which is thought to be in the center of the chest, between the breasts.
When asked to be photographed everyone responded immediately withwhat they needed to say/feel/experience. Our time together was iritimate
and as real as it gets. I was honored to be a part of this healing and wanted
to create a room that would lovingly hold all that these individuals had
entrusted in me by allowing me to participate in their ritualization of thegrief spot.
The ceiling was a red string web from which metal hearts hung fromyellow and red ribbons. In the corners of the room were piles of sand withfeathers coming out of the sand. The feathers and sand in each corner werea different color, red, yellow black and white to represent the directions.
The floor was a blanket of yellow corn kernels and dried rose petals ofpink, red, burgundy and black. In the center of the room was a groupingof old glass milk bottles filled to the top.
People spent a lot of time in the Grief Spot Room. Two guest books
were filled with their feelings and stories:"Never knew what this spot was called. Mine is deep. Deep enoughto drink from, and people have.""You (all) have reminded me to notice my grief spot. Some people
entering this room expressed disgust. I knew they were inwardly enthralled and excited by the openness of this room. I wish they had said
'HOW BEAUTIFUL,' because that is what I felt! Thank you for teachingme something like this. I want to hear more, and possibly share my griefand passions with all of you. I am 17 and just learning how to grow.""Between your breasts is a very deep well for me to lay and curl up
peacefully. And when I put my ear there I hear an old Indian drum beat,soft yet strong and steady and I thank god ... for everything, for life, forreleasing tears, for friendship! for a moment, for children.""Julia Youngblood, this, this grief is filling me, pouring over me,
falling out of me, holding and crushing my body, my eyes, my perception,
my ability to exist... You are giving THIS. I am 17 and am surprised tohave made it this many years. Soon I'll be 18 and only terror grows out ofthat inevitable growth. You are beauty. You have given me some TRUTH."

Winter/Spring 1996

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

I miss my mommy even though I never met her.. . The day I madephysical contact with my birth family was the first time I reallyfelt like I had a body.
- Barbara

Winter/Spring 1996

79

My body was broken by a disease/the connections broken/cracked,
severed/My body didn't work/does not always work/never works
likf:! it used to/and the GRIEF in this is/sometimes - used to bel
ALWAYS - UNBEARABLE.
- Julia Youngblood

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Cleansing is going on here ... of grief from loss of intimacy ... itcomes with acceptance of limits and decisions to acknowledge myown needs and desires.
-LA HyderWinter/Spring 199681

I was raised on television. I was told, I am an American. I learned
how to have a marriage from Lucy & Ricky ... I learned how to grieve,
how to die, from the evening news ... I grieve for my misplaced·culture. I grieve for my dead people, Iranian and American.
- Soraya82 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Mama was a short fat little lady who always wore an apron andsmelled like apple pie and sweat. She thought she would be remembered for what she said, but I remember her for what she did. She
loved us and loved us and loved us and loved us.
- DianeWinter/Spring 1996

83

When my mom died, I had horrible pains in the center of my chest/
She was 46, I was 28/The pain was harsh, sharp, stabbing thunderous
explosions/l pushed my fists against my grief trying to stop/erase it/llove my mom, I miss my mom/May she rest peacefully in my heart .
- Diana Manley84 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Words cannot express the pain/through which the body lives/andmind endures/sacred lives lived/everlasting trials/keep me alive/
never lost/life pain/growth pain/ownership/never again to be
infected by their disease/now I hold the blade/the power with which.to inflict/or endure/it is of my choosing/strength in the creationand nourishment of the killing/to be reborn .
-LaurenWinter/Spring 1996

85

My mother told me once how she surrounded us with light as wewere comin' up. As I became older 1'd fall asleep staring at thelight on the ceiling of my room . The light would drown out all thenoise in my head and soothe me. Looking back on that time I see
the light as this INTENSE HEALING POWER- Sarah Elizabeth

86 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

T Malone

Rising Tide

Cliff House appears
a toy tossed above sand. Couples
converse the lengthof gather granulation. Hearty youths
paddle, seal-skinned,
then disappear behind froth
into fluid valleys .
So grieve:
For what was never; for what was& was lost. For fearof what's to be?
Bloodstone
heart must heal; broken
quartz bones of the soul.
That strong gait,
embellished limp,
an impish grin caps fearbeneath bowled down dreams.
Tears runinternally amok;
Slam torsoed shores,
turn with tsunami strength
body into cleansed hull.
So, rock me, Motherwhile I hold tight,
drenched withinYour sanctum; given life.
Freed Spirit
becomes a woman goneWinter/Spring 1996

from her own illusions
long & strong enough toseize a handed rescue
to seethe moving Powerand to know:
fertility - not futility
arrives with the coming
Flow.. .

Jackie Hill

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Joanna Kadi

Coiled Tongues*
Which tender bodyshall be carved up
and presented on a platterto Monsignor tonight?
Male or female?
White, yellow or brown?

Wavering at rectory door
I watched my father's car
grow smaller.
Catholic obediencealways goes too far.
Before Monsignor devours flesh
he dresses it properly
manipulates each limb carefully.
Do clerks blanchwhen selling garter belts
and black nylons
to fit lO-year-old bodies?
Are store managers
appreciative accomplices
who insist Monsignor
take generous discounts?
Mouth a final blessing.
"You Lebanese girls are so pretty"
His voice slimed over my ribs,
anchored in.
Some words cannot be exorcised,even with flames.
Monsignor savors flesh morewhen flavored with lies.

Winter/Spring 1996

"Yes, I liked it."
I memorized the forceof white fingers
picking my bones clean.
Years later
I remember children

whose eyes slid under the pew
whose tongues tangledwhen Monsignor walked by.
The VanDerHagen girls
the Beneditto boys
the Lee children.
I envision priests
marking names in ledgers
systematically recording each feeding.
Years laterat a party
someone tells a 'joke' :A newly-ordained priest
celebrates witha lavish table.
"If this is poverty, Father,"asks a guest,
who could have been me
who would have said it grimly"If this is poverty, Father,what does chastity look like?"
Times change.
Time changes.
Bony and bloody remains
on plattersmetamorphize slowly,
gather force.
Nowwhen he poisons the roomwith his presence

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

our eyes will rivet instead of slide
tongues coil instead of tangle.
"What does chastity look like?"
The man with the backward collar
will chew his fingernail, grip chair tightly
as this new reality strikes full force:
Nobodies here
for carving, serving, devouring.
Memories withstand long decades.
Sins cast long shadows.
Take heed .
Broken children coil long tongues.

* For any reader fortunate enough to be unaware of the catholic church
hierarchy, monsignors are above priests and below bishops. The rectory is
the house next to the church where priests and monsignors live.

Winter/Spring 1996

91

Melanie Cockrell

Self Portrait, 1989
They tell me I'm still young - eventhough being raped made me eighty
inside, worn out from their questions
my lack of answers. Why'd you stay?

Why'd you let him? Aren't you done withit yet? As if it were a cold.
As if memory were a tithe
tossed from the car on a toll roadand not a heavy fog that cuts
through the rest of my days like lead
dividing bright colored glass. But
still the sun presses through the reds,
blues, and golds of holy windows.
How I go on, god only knows.

92 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Rebecca HallGlass

I am 31 years old. I am afraid of the bathroom.
I wake up in the morning after sweating all nightmuscles rigid, jaw clenched
I can get into the shower. It's safe now.
i can't get into the shower
Sometimes I rest my headagainst the bathroom window and I can feelitfeel it breaking my body small and powerful crashing throughthe glass shattering, it feels so good it slices through the skin,cleans the semen, stops the pain i can feel it. it feels so good
there is freedom there. i can feel it i can feel it i know it to be true
flying through the glass shattering free .
truth is not there it is here in this cold, cold room. i must stayhere choking on semen, shit in my mouth, i can't get it out iwash and wash and the water from my mouth never runs clear.
he laughs. it is what he wants. he wants me to feel like this likenothing, like worse than nothing. like him?
This is the time for cleaning and relaxing
to start the day to end the day
this day will never end never
the water gets colder
how long have i been here choking?
i am cold i cannot breathe it stinks it stinks it feels filthy i am
filth y i am fil th
I have learned my lesson
you have taught me well big brother.
big brother watches always i can feel his eyes burning
into my neck always, wherever i am
i sit with my back to the wall
even now i do.

Winter/Spring'996

93

Sometimes I rest my headagainst the bathroom window and I can feelitfeel it breaking my body small and powerful crashing throughthe glass shattering, it feels so good it slices through the skin,cleans the semen, stops the pain i can feel it. it feels so good
there is freedom there. i can feel it i can feel it i know it to be true
flying through the glass shattering free.

"if you want to change your life"
Yvonne Kettels

94 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Liliana Slomkowska

Hitler My Heart
Ihere was a time when I blamed my health problems on Hitler.
Because, after three years of forced labor at the Bremenburg
work camp, my mother saw each doctor as a persecutor, eachsurgery as an experiment, my heart was not repaired until it wasalmost too late. When finally I gave my consent, the surgeon
thanked me. He could not understand why my family was notthere, why I had been so obviously neglected. No matter how manytimes I explained the war, the camp, the terror, he still could not
believe that in this day and age (1976), in our medically-advanced
country, that anyone,let alone a parent would not avail their childof what should have been a serious but routine procedure.
Though extensive, the surgery failed to completely repair theabnormalities. Two years laterxenotransplantation was performed.
A pig's valve was sewn in the place of my human one. The
procedure was an ironic echo to my mother's terrified and terrifying, "Why are you letting them experiment on you?"
No, I was not directly involved with Hitler's tyranny. I did notwitness and I hesitate to speak knowing there are those witnesses
who will take their secrets to the grave. I do, however, believe inparallel lives and the historicity of relationships.
The writings of Dr. Judith S. Kestenburg, a member of theGroup for the Psychoanalytic Study of the Effect of the Holocaust on theSecond Generation, reveal that memory for crucial dates and theanniversaries of special events influences survivor-parents' behavior toward their children. Further, children are frequently
hospitalized at the same age as their parent(s) had been when they
were removed from the home.
Though she had long left home, my mother was 21 when she
was interned; my age during the first surgery. At 23, with thehelp of a pig's valve I was again free to breath. In the spring of1945 the Bremenburg Arbeit Lilger was liberated and my motherwas released. She was 23.

Winter/Spring 1996

95

Thirty-seven years apart, on different continents, we wereboth, once again, free to live. I do not think either one of us everthought that life after-the-event would be so difficult, or that theevent would not remain more firmly in the past. My mother tells
me she still "dreams" that the earth, alive with bodies, moves
beneath her feet. As for me, I will never live with more than fifty
percent heart-lung capacity, or without the heightened risk ofcongestive heart failure, or a stroke.
I do not believe that my mother and I ever imagined oursurvival, our healing, would so inextricably bind us. I know mymother worked with children before, during and after the war.
The only two photographs from that time she shows without
hesitation, with joy, is of her feeding and teaching orphans. She
has also mentioned that sometimes the kapos were good and they
got a little extra (food) for a child.
She always just mentioned these details as if speaking of morning
coffee and muffins. This casual tone, which once caused me to doubt eachdetail, I now recognize as the flips ide of terror, an expression of healing.
I don't think she ever imagined having a child with a deformed heart, one that undoubtedly would not have survived,
and almost didn't.
My deformed heart has become the symbol of my mother'sdevastation and consistently betrays her history. I am the remaining one who represents the many lost. Through me, my mothermourns. As for me, her past has unwittingly become my present
and future.
Recently I read about a reversal of the association of past withbehind and the future as in front. A reversal that clarifies the placeof history in my life. The past, isn't it really in front of us as it canbe seen, and the future, the unseen, behind?
As a child I was trained to become as ordinary, as other as
possible. I became a mannequin of a certain Americanism, thequintessential blond: thin, blue-eyed and taught to let others
understand me as dumb. My first love was the image of such awoman, a model torn from a Seventeen magazine perfume ad. The
copy told me that she loved the perfume, rain and her brother's
best friend. I hid her in my top dresser drawer for years knowing
any Nazi would love and spare us.

96 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

1 became acceptable, even desirable. All my official documents, driver's license and passport, reflected the fantasy. It
wasn't until my first lover of consequence, a dark-haired woman
with brown eyes, noticed my green eyes that the facade began
to crumble, "and a wound began to heal.
But that was only the physical body, a place to enter. Just as
most would never suspect my mother's history and when told
often deny it, "But you're not even Jewish!" 1 have lived a lifetime of''Well, you don't look sick." Or, "I never think of Lusia as disabled,"or"chronically ill." And, from those who find me too closely alignedwith my mother's history: "Aren't you over it yet? When are you
going to put the past behind you?"
Often, even mostly, these comments come from family andclose friends. Yes, even those who consider themselves evolved
feminists. Some, who have adopted the dangerous and cock-eyed
optimism of New Ageism, counsel me to forgive, accept mychosen path, accept that my mother chose hers, that everything
happens for a reason, every experience is worthwhile. The mosthonest response came in a post-fireworks discussion this 4th of
July. A woman I've known for almost five years admitted quietly,
but firmly, ''We don't like hearing about these things."
By bringing the Nazi Genocide forward, sometimes coupling it with my medical traumas, sometimes the medical traumata alone, I become unacceptable, even intolerable to some. My"path," my exploration of the past as it exists in my body creates
discomfort. In their New Age estimation such exploration is resistant to "letting go," to "healing." I am judged as unwilling, unable
or not ready to accept. Implicit in this judgment and dis-ease isdenial. But either way, denial or acceptance, the antidote is silence.
Certainly, every philosophic/spiritual construct has its lineage of truth, an enticing prescription, a solace for generational
wounding. Complicity and silencing, however, should not be
mistaken for solace or truth. There is a certain banality in the
New Age insistence that all must be forgiven, forgotten anddistanced that I find frightening. Hannah Arendt has written
extensively and convincingly on the "banality of evil" in relation
to the complicit acceptance of the Nazi regime. How violence
continues so innocently, even well-meaningly.

Winter/Spring 199697

As I write I span a spectrum of emotions, from anger and hurt,rage and repugnance, acceptance and relief, to fear, silence andself-effacement. The doubts drift in.
Perhaps my ailments are simply a malicious twisting of fate
which I would do well to accept as my chosen destiny. Perhaps
some things are better left unsaid, do not deserve saying?
Yes, my mother and I have been a we against the world. I'm 41
and sometimes I still think if we separate they will come. In these
moments I'm not sure anymore what healing is or how it begins.
Then, the transcendent moment happens.
We have been driving for hours arguing my health and herhistory. When Roosevelt Lake appears the water captures ourattention and finally, the words stop. I take the first exit, drive thecar beneath the trestle bridge, past the edge of the lake into thewater, stopping only when I hear waves lapping at the hubcaps.
My mother steps out. Her wig, stockings and shoes off, she isquickly in the water past her knees . A boat trawling the lake comesnear. Kids jump off the back. A crane skids to a splash in the water
just beyond. The kids splash back. My mother joins in and smiles.
I laugh.
It is a small moment but in that moment healing occurs.
Once again, the world becomes hospitable. My mother and herhistory, me and my health concerns, are transformed in a splash
and a laugh.
Healing may be as gentle as a smile, but it is never easy or only
physical, and rarely inconsequential. It is a path that entails theextreme. When did I stop blaming Hitler? More importantly,
why? Because I believe the capacity for the extreme, evil andgoodness, is in all of us. Yes, even the pacifist lesbian feminist. To
argue otherwise would diminish all of us.
Why goodness not evil, or evil not goodness triumphs is acomplicated matter. But it is always a willed event, a conscious
choice. I believe that my body has been violated physically, spiritually, psychologically, emotionally and historically. But in thename of healing, of goodness not evil. So I would live, not die. And
if I choose to heal on all levels I know the many are mourned andmore than the self is healed.

98 sinister wisdom #57 On HealingWinter/Spring 1996

99

Melanie Cockrell

Asthmatic's Diary (a broken sonnet)
When birds beat their heavyrage against my chest
I know it's timeto leave my body behind.
Flight's simple.
The panic travels
in from my limbs
to search for my heart
also beating inside
this marrow cell.
But my heart pushes
a patient rhythm
like the ocean sweeping
its smoothed stones
well onto the shore.
Only such steady hymns
will calm this flock of birds
in its fury to be free.
Still, each time, moments before
the peace of easy breathing
I see them breaking away
leather waving from their talons like ribbons .

100 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Ellen Bass

I enter myself

I have lived too long on the edges
like a child listening outside the window
to someone else's mother read stories.
This body has gone through the motions
like an old milk horse, while I, the driver
having dropped the reins
busy myself with accounts and schemes.
I want to gallop bareback
the mane stinging my face.
Or better yet, be
the horse, feel my own flanks sweat
to the rhythm of my own churning legs.
Meanwhile, my elbows knock door frames .
My finger pokes my lover's eye as I caress her cheek.
Just yesterday my head clunked the wall of the toilet stall.
I have always been embarrassed.
I have hidden behind the conventional disguises
lest anyone accuse me ofpoor taste, of calling attention to myself,of flaunting. But"Flaunt," my lover prompts me.
She's sprawled in the sun, her perfect breasts
rising like sand dunes. "Flaunt it,"she chuckles, like water
tumbling over stones.
And so I do. I fill myself
like wind filling cloth, flaring
the pleated sacks of my lungs
oxygen rich in my blood

Winter/Spring'996

heart pumping to each fingertip
my crown, the tough soles of my feet.
I immerse myself
sleek, like a beaver slipping into a lake
full, like water sucked through green stalks
hot, like sun swelling grapes, sweetening
each taut juicy globe on the vine.

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sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Victoria Lena Manyarrows

Silence is Deep
Silence is deepand covers me like a shroud
i can' t say what i've seen
what i've heard
what i've felt
i am a prisoner beneath your knives
under your threats
haunted by your heavy & jealous
shadowi know you'll often follow mesometimes chase me
and there'll be times i'll stay with you
and love youoffering you forgiveness & caresses
dreaming rainbows
that someday soon you'll change.
in my silences i'll pray for you
and hope the ashes of our ancestors will soften
your temper.
and in my silences i'll remove the shroud
and open my heart to those who surround me
those who embrace me
those who have courage to listen
and not run away.
i'lllisten
for the earth to movefor the earth to shakei' lllisten and wait.

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103

i'll shake off all silences
and when the spirit moves me,
i'll burn cedar and sweetgrass
copal y sage
i'll fight you backshake offthe silences
i'll fight you backi'll break free of your chains.
and i'll speak my own language
again.
i'll be the indian your conquistador souldespises,
i'll be the healer you won't be able to keep
down .

and i'll break free of you
i'll break free of you.

for my Chicana friends who are courageous, who are survivors,& who love Indians ...

104 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Joan Annsfire

Deserted Beaches.

1 came to the edge of the ocean
barren and brittle as the blackened branchesof trees after fire,a message transformed into charcoal,a carving of scar tissue upon the land.
your illness, your death hardened me to a cinder,
all the loose pieces melded together.
now i walk the beach, a skeleton,a grain of sand against the sky.
i remember the small things;
your hands selecting peaches,moving slowly, carefully over the rows of ripe fruit,
your small, hairless head bound in Balinese fabricthat, like your life, had begun to unravel.
i came to the edge of the ocean
to spread small remembrances of you over the sand.
like ashes flung out from the side of a boat,
and the futile words tossed after them,these lives are never long enoughto make up for those hard years of preparation.
i came to the edge of the ocean
to listen to the secrets the waves pass to the shore
to learn why you came to live among us
and why you left so soon.
like a hungry bird abandoned by its motheri search for sustenancein wide and empty spaces.

Winter/Spring 1996

105

Gayle Bell

Brave SurvivorS

he read five pages of the hell she survived
on a night when confessions were RSVP
A freshly cultivated friend
the journey we walked on barren rock and biting windI heard of the little girl
who wanted to be safe and loved
who received beatings from HER
the one Hallmark sends no greetings
who was touched by a bully
The Man Of The House
good 01' family values
I walked my own inferno in her steps
careful of the mines and trenches
when her story finished
we were drained but mending
shit
in the soul was felt
"shit!/I
was all I could say"shit!
was all I could feel
to soften the tone
she read a few light pieces of poetry
she knew my heart still wept for her
the girl and brave woman survivor
almost by way of apology
she changed the subject
so - by way of my apology
I say to her now
WRITE IT!
SPEAK IT!
to me anytime/I106 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

to them anywhereto the ones who hurt you
until you feel no need tobe afraid tospeak
without being sorry
without fear, shame or guilt
SPEAK!
LOUD AND PROUD!
BRAVE SURVIVOR!

Winter/Spring 1996

Jackie Hill

107

108 sinister wisdom #57 On Hea ling

Jo Anne Reyes-Boitel

Untitledrve decided to stand up straightto give up those things I don't needor deserve (because I deserve better).
I've forgotten the drinking, eating and talking
unless it concerns the mountains .
The energy within my rocks calls
and I know I can trust them,pulling on them as I push myself up .
Sides of mountains give a little
and my feet curve around them.
Leveling myself,
The mountains believe in me.
I've decided to change my hair and face
to better express my intent, my ideals
because I'd lost my voice for so long (and have again found it)
I'm not changing my outward colors or textures
but insuring my face holds the radiance of our sun and my earth
I've decided to alter my name,not to hide or forget but to remind myselfof where I come from and who I am and will be.
I've recognized the history of the voices in my head.
They are the whispers leading me toward the mountains .
As a child, the whispers told me
move toward us
touch the dirt and discover us
sleep, knowing we will tell the stories.
And they did tell me stories.
Of forgotten family and herbs,
stories of my heroes and friends,
stories of my past and its importance in my future .

Winter/Spring 1996

I took in visions of people talking with me,of cactus surrounding me, sharing
stories of companion lives, intertwining wisdoms,
drunkenness and untold histories.
And the mountains carried me up,
my fingers feeling their sides for the soft spots.
Helping me, I believe in myself.
I've decided on a new path,a life that brings the sun's lightand lives within my dirt, projecting my voice.
And mountains pour from my mouth,
whispering the stories of my life.

109110 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Ellen Bass

Slowly, like archaeologists
Slowly, like archaeologists, we dig with our hands
layer through layer, not to damage the fragile shards.
With a patience glaringly inadequate, I follow you
through my fear, as our nails scrape away the heavy earth,
excavating your passion.
It's one more story of a child, hammered into terror
like a nail into wood . That child drags within you now,sullen, she scuffs her heels as she turns away,
hiding her tenderness like young grass,the blanched shoot encased in the tough sheath.
I want to believe you that time will heal.
I want to trust your moods like the tides, secure
even as you recede, that you will return
lapping me with your salty body.
But faith is not mine to own.
It's an exercise 1 must do every day, day
after day, like swimming, to strengthen my heart.
This is April. The California sun shines benignly
and acacia branches sway in the breeze.
But my body is a bitter terrain and springmeans the rivers gush, ice chunks scraping, crashingagainst the banks, and each other.
Last night in my dreams I dropped to my knees,
looked you square in the face and wailed but the name that erupted from my lungs was not yours .
I cried the name of old wounds, and all the miseryof those years gripped me. I woke into terror,
trapped like a fish in ice.
You must understand. I spent so many years
trying to love a man into fullness, setting
my desire aside, like a casserole on a chafing plate.

Winter/Spring '996

111

Trying to hear him, see, accept him
enough, believing
if I could give him what he needed, he would give mewhat I needed. There is no way to tell you
how desperate I am. My need so naked,
I am ashamed. Unprotected,
like the young basil in the garden.
It is hardly dark before the snails
slide toward it.
Nights when we get into bed, your bodyrests quiet as dry seed. Your skin
like sun-warmed fruit, your breath light.
While inside me desire churns. I am a seed wet
with rains. Root, stem, the paired cotyledon leaves
all stirring into life. I want to drenchyou, so dormant, so self-contained.
To slip your fear away, like the seed coat.
Like the sun slips into the ocean, or a dress slips
over the shoulders and slides to the floor.
I want those times when your desire's drawn out like silk
scarves from a hat and doves are released. Your kisses
sing over my breasts and I feel your heart
throb like hummingbird wings. Devour melike a whale eats krill, opening
your magnificent mouth to the sea.
This will not happen. What's possible
is possible only slowly. My pain
and yours. They fit together neatly
like dove-tail joints. We lie together
naked, after a ba tho It is six 0' clock
on a Wednesday evening. All over the city womenare driving home, cooking, eating dinner, yet
we are still. We look at each other.
There is no motion. Lightly,
I draw one finger down your back.
You rest your head on my shoulder.

112 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

T Malone

Happy Any Day There's Birth
Ramlike features do not preclude softness
Even in you - sister proud
Of inability to sometimes bend Because sometimes
Bending can cause the whole
Heart soul self
To feel slaughtered
After all, African daughter
Your expectations are
Sometimes only yours
Even people you know
Should love you
Shove
And you not fully arisen
From some last shocking blow
Find not one year
Gets easier passing
Toward whirring cacophony.
Yet others pass
Away.
So keep stepping
As if your life depended
And when hope is with you - Praise!
When notAnd there is only inner strength
Trust that you will findEspecial nectar
In torn away rinds .

Winter/Spring 1996

11 3

Linneafrom my journal"Still Working My Way Out of Violence"

The Permanent Stain

I understand that piercing can be donewith exquisite, merciful gentleness
if it is done imaginatively,
and only seen in the mind's eye.
Then the needle into the vein equateswith the scalpel parting skinand the searing cut of a whip resonateswith the cutting red heat of a branding tool.
But memory is a cruel partner.
Such visions erode my serenity.
Was it ecstacy that followed pain?
Did beauty flow from violence?
Or is ecstacy likethe opening of a flower?
Does it come like the rustle
of beach gravel in the waves?
Or the purple and rose tones of twilightreflecting through every nerve
washing over the skin to leavea permanent stain of well being.

114 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

K. Linda Kivi

N ow is the time to bury our ghosts
Under the leaning birchwith the oblong wound on its trunk
the boy
who raped me at fifteen- watch the snow gather aroundhis protruding ears, brimfull his startled eyes, flakes
standing sideways among the stubbleof his military shorn head
under the fat cedar
the men
who pinched my ass
on a Grecian street whistled insults
on a broken road copped a feelon a lurching city bus clucked
under the trio of towering firs
the thin man
who told me the world
was for my taking but fed me onlya sliver of Boston Bluefish andfour small flowers of broccoli
it is important to be thinwhen you are free, he said
and the snow takes him quickly, gently
his bones fallen branches
under the pine dying of blister rust
the woman
who said she loved me, seized
my collar in her fist, held
the other to my face told me
to watch myself or elseWinter/Spring 1996

or elsewhat else will happen now
that they are all enshrouded, frozen hard?
me, safe under this soft coverletof snow, I cannot help but cast
one small thought to how theforest will rage when the snow
thaws .

115

116 sinister wisd om #5 7 On Healing

Marie Cartier

I Wantto love with the windows open,
I want to breathe a deep
sun rise, the proud morning gloryof my hand, blooming around your waist.
I want to love
this way with roots,
solid as dirt.
That sure knowledge of burrowing growth,and home.
I want to lovewith my tongue saying "yes"like water running over and over,"yes."

Winter/Spring 1996

117

Holly Iglesias

Supplicant
1hrough December fields
under noon-high sun
I walked from those woods
casting no shadow
to her housesquat at clearing's edge.
Weeds, seed pods, and websof spider silk hungacross the transomof her door.
Lying on the stoop
face to heaven, hands
crossed over my heart
I uttered her nameimploring her:
Wash me in the salt
pools of your seer eyesseal my lips with oil
dra pe me in linen.
Buff palms to petals
scrape heals to new flesh
trim these hardened nails
back to new moons.
Roll a ripe peach up
the rocks of my spine
pulse under these waves
and rock me to shore.

118 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Mistinguette

Traditional Medicine
for K.J.,who understood
And now, not full enough of
my Self, I shrink intoa kernel, dry husk embracing
a seed without soil. I am homesick
for my sisters' voicessoothing and teasing me
into the step beyond
hold on & hold on & hold on
This grief that makes
my chest so tight I can't exhale,
this hole burning in
the lining of my stomach
is only the bright ember of anger
that I cannot vomit up. It
no longer lights my way, it burns me
as I hold it dear. I lay
my head down tired as I wakeand dream of medicine
simple as this: a bathof blue water; a letter to my pastbeneath my bed; Billie singing
In My Solitude; parting
oiling, brushing, parting,
my cheek against
the thigh of a woman
braiding me into wholeness again

Winter/Spring 1996119

120 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Contributor's Notes _____________
A. Miriasiem Barnes - I am Portuguese, Native American, Nigerian". I was born and raised in the U.S.A I am a writer and musicanand mother of two children. I am currently working on a novelette. I am a member in good standing of the Lesbian/Gay Freedom Band of San Francisco. Currently, I hold a seat on the Boardof Directors for the Jon Sims Center for the Performing Arts, basedin San Francisco. My instruments of choice are voice .and alto
saxaphone. I identify as a multicultural lesbian with disabilities.
Adalia Selket is a 39 year old Afro Brazilian Native living in the
Bay Area. Since I started working with clay my life has changed.
Each piece I make is like a long prayer.
Annalee Wade - I am a sweet, old-fashioned all-american boy. I
like punk music, violent movies and vegetarian cuisine. I grew up
in the 60' s and early 70' s. Believe me, there was more compassion
in the Black Panthers' raised fists than in all of Jimmy Swagart's
TV tears. Diane DiMassa I don't know what you look like but I
have a giant ass crush on you.
April Citizen Kane is a native New Yorker who lives in Minnesota
and is hoping to move to a warmer climate. April has completed
her MALS and is now finishing an MFA at Hamline University.
April is hoping, in the near future, to publish her first book of
poetry and move closer to the ocean.
Ardena Shankar is a published writer of fiction, non-fiction andpoetry. She is an experienced workshop facilitator and a popular
performer of music, poetry and drumming. She has worked withmany multicultural groups and is a trained Cultural Diversity Specialist. She is mother to twin daughters and a grandmother of five.
Cathy Cade has been a lesbian feminst photographer since theearly 70's. She is working on a photo book about lesbian mothering and lives in Oakland with her two sons.
Cheryl Jones continues to hold dear the values that her relationship with Joanne Garrett embodied, attempting to live in honesty,
kindness and love. She works as a psychotherapist and is raising
two daughters, 15 and 3 years old.
Christina Springer - I cross disciplines like busy streets in Manhattan using film, traditional and performance poetry, video andtheatre. AK.A General Manager of WYEP - voted best radio
station of 1995 by the readers of In Pittsburgh.
Chrystos is a First Nations Two-Spirited (lesbian) writer, artist

Winter/Spring 1996

121

and political activist whose poetry has been widely acclaimed.
Winner of the Audre Lorde International Poetry Competion in1994 and of the Astraea Foundation's Sappho Award of Distinction in 1995 and author of 5 books: Not Vanishing (1988) Cleveland
State Univ. Press, Dream On (1991), In Her I Am (1993) Fugitive
Colors (1995) and Fire Power (1996) Press Gang Publishers.
Colleen Kelley - a writer from Coolville, Ohio in volved inwomen's Appalachia work.
Debby Earthdaughter - I am 34, European heritage from mixed
working and middle class.
Elizabeth N. Evasdaughter was born and grew up in Tulsa. Dark
Patty Beattie was her first friend, the one she walked home fromschool with. Blond Shirley Thomas was the next, the one who
befriended her at the new school. And so it has gone. Now Elizabeth is 63, loving and writing in Raleigh, North Carolina.
Ellen Bass has published several volumes of poetry, somechildren's stories and is presently writing a novel. She is also coauthor of The Courage to Heal and co-author of Free Your Mind: The
Book for Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual Youth - and Their Allies to be
published in June, 1996.
Elsa E'der is one of nineteen granddaughters descended from
Filipino plantation laborers of Hawai'i. She has been involved invarious lesbian, women of color, and Asian American community
activities and currently distributes media by and about Asian
American experience. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals and currently she is writing a screenplay.
Gayle Bell is a fat, Black, nappy headed woman loving womanist.
She lives in Dallas, Texas.
helen laurence - in a life once circumscribed by suppression ofself as writer and lesbian, the final burst into awareness of bothaspects about 15 years ago has brought greater and continually
deeper joy than i ever dreamed possible. poverty (in american
terms) has been a life-long constant, but my world is rich and fullwith woman-love and creativity. i live and teach in eugene, oregon- working primarily with women escaping domestic violence
and recovering from patriarchal abuses.
Heidi Beeler-Trumpet-blasting-humor, scrawling, band-marching, board haunting, Dyke-woman, comma nanny, Fou~dingmember of the dixieland Dykes + 3. (not only is she the presIdentof the Jon Sim Center for the Performing Arts, she is also a mind
blowing musician and heart felt writer.)122 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Holly Iglesias - I am a doctoral student in Humanities at Florida
State University and non-fiction editor of International Quarterly.
My most recent publication is a translation of an essay by Octavio
Paz and I have poems forthcoming in Potato Eyes. I recently beganco-editing an anthology of lesbians' writings on their relationships with their mothers.
Jackie Hill - I am an artist/ graphic designer. I was born andlived the first twenty-one years of my life in Trinidad & Tobago.
I was fortunate to grow up in a family where being an.artist was
taken seriously. I currently live in the Bay Area.
J an Thomas: Initially a social worker, over the past fifteen years she
has worked on environment and peace issues. Her abiding passions
include Eastern spirituality, social change, mountain streams, singing, and Asian mystical poetry. She lives in the Bay Area, California.
Jeannie Witkin is a Jewish lesbian living in Berkeley, California.
She works with other people's words as a sign language interpreter.
Writing lets her speak for herself. She is happiest when climbing talltrees so she can see what is happening in the world around her.
Joan Annsfire started writing again four years ago after a hiatusof nearly fifteen years. Her work has appeared in the Women'
Cancer Resource Center Newsletter, Mediphors and in past issuesof Sinister Wisdom.
Joanna Kadi is a working-class Arab halfbreed queer girl. Her
first book, Food For Our Grandmothers, was published by SouthEnd Press in 1994. Her second manuscript, a collection of essays
examining class, race, gender, sexuality and imperialism will be
released by South End in October 1996.
Julia Youngblood - I am a mixed-blood, two-spirited writer andphotographer, active in Native American and Lesbian communities, as well as the Gay and Lesbian Indian Community. My workoften combines words and visual images in performance exhibition or book form. I write about disability, spirit, loving women,
my two-spirited brothers, being mixed-blood and growing up in
the South. I'm a new mother to a five-year-old. I'm lover to Che.
I am director of newly established Serpent Source Foundation for
Women Artists.
K. Linda Kivi is a mountain-dwelling, house-building dykely
babe of Estonian-Canadian heritage. At 33, she is still amazed atwhat time dredges up.
Laura C. Luna - I am a Chicana living in Northern California
with my two girl dogs, Yogi and Hodgi. In writing the poem, I Cry,Winter/Spring 1996

123

I have begun to release the beliefs that were ingrained in me.
Crying is one of the hardest things to do. I am only now beginningto believe I have a right to my feelings and words. That I am not"crazy." I had this deep feeling knowledge that if only I could cry,I wouldn't have to punish and hate myself. My goal for now is toto complete a collection of short stories (I'm working on) before
this year is out.
Liliana Slomkowska - as 1996 represents the twenty-year anniversary of my first open heart surgery, I think of the publication of
my essay as particularly celebratory, as words to live by. Thank you.
Linnea - I am lung disabled, fat, 54 single and a survivor. I am alsosane, practical, talented and clever. I am loved by my friends. I feelthat I have a long and healthy future. I live partly on my land near
Willits, California and partly with my aging mother near Chicago.
Mariah L. Richardson is a literary performance artist, publishedpoet and seasoned actor. She currently resides in Los Angeles.
Marianne Hewitt is a 39 year old poet, student, tutor, waitress,
mother and lover. She is currently engaged in writing a work inprogress, The Poetics of Motherhood .
Marie Cartier teaches the first class offered in the country on theculture and politics of incest survival "No More Shame," in the
Women's Studies Department at UCLA. She created the Dandelion Warrior project, a movement for incest survivors, with grou ps
meeting in California and Colorado. The Dandelion Warrior project
includes writing workshops, theater presentations and classes.
Melanie Cockrell is a twenty-eight year old lesbian living in Minneapolis. She has been published in The Iowa Review, Negative Capability
and other journals and has won numerous awards for her poetry
including a Loft McKnight Award. In May Melanie is changing herlast name from Cockrell to Figg, her mother's maiden (sic) name.
Mistinguette is a pushy, loud, Black dyke who lives in Ohio. She
calls herself a poet when she thinks no one is listening. She isgrateful for her Yam Sisters, who help "braid her into wholeness,"and her friend Lee Evans, who made a New Year's resolution thatmistinguette would submit something to Sinister Wisdom in 1995.
Morgan Ahern - I am Rominchal/Sinti (Gypsy), born in Brooklyn, New York. I was removed from my family as part of a program of forced assimilation. I write and talk about the historicaloppression of Gypsies, and the situation they face in the world
today. I am the founder of RED BANDANNA: ROMANI

124 sinister wisdom #57 On Heali ng

AGAINST RACISM.
Rebecca Hall: an African-American lesbian lawyer and civilrights attorney, she is committed to the process of healing fromincest and learning to thrive.
Rivka Mason - I am a proud bold bearded Jewish country dyke
who presently resides in the Berkeley hills. I have made my livingby planting gardens and by carpentry. At the present time mywork is in the healing arts of Shiatsu, yoga and macrobiotic cooking.
T Malone - I am a 37 year old queer black woman who resides
in Oakland. I have spent the past year totally immersed in aprocess of healing. Through a decades-long history of pain (andmore than one moment of total despondency) I still believe that
healing & wholeness remain possible - not only individ ually, but
on a planetary scale.
Tzivia Gover is an MFA candidate in writing at Columbia University and a freelance writer. Her work has appeared in a number ofjournals and anthologies, including Evergreen, Peregrine and The
Femme Mystique, ed. by Leslea Newman.
Victoria Lena Manyarrows - I am a 4O-year old writer and activist
whose work is strongly influenced by my American Indian and
Latin birth cultures (Tsalagi/Eas tern Cherokee and Italian). I am theauthor of a book of poetry, Songs From the Native Lands (Nopal
Press, 1995). In 1994 I was awarded an Astraea Foundation Lesbian Writers Award in poetry (judged by Marilyn Hacker andChrystos). For many years, I have worked with community arts,
education, health and social service programs in the San Francisco
Bay Area, and I have a Master's degree in Social Work. Since I wasa young girl, I have been witness, survivor and warrior against theabuse, control, racism and sexism of domestic violence.
Yvonne A. Kettels - I am a Black woman who was born into theAfrican Diaspora in Germany 30 years ago. My mother is German
and my father is African - Zairean. My art reflects many things
about my identity as a lesbian woman walking through this world.
Foremost, however, my art is a dialog between the spirit world
and its intersection with what some call "reality" My art is acelebration of the many faces of the Black woman .
Zelda Lockhart was born an African-American Lesbian on June
11, 1965. She grew up one of eight children and now resides in
Norfolk, Virginia with her nine year old son. Zelda has been
writing and performing her poetry and prose for lesbian andmainstream audiences for six years.

Winter/Spring 1996

125

- - - - - -_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Books Received
About the Books Received List: I've listed (almost) all the books
we get in the mail. Unfortunately, there is never enough room ortime to review everything we'd like to - although, in the future
we plan to do more whole book reviews. If you're interested indoing reviews please let us know. I have listed the books of eachpress together. While I feel all of the books listed here are important - because our perspecti ves need to be out in the world - wehave not actually reviewed them, and much of what I have said
comes from the publisher's press release. Therefore, what is written here should not be viewed as my endorsement of a book.
When I have read parts or all of a book, I've put my comments inbrackets. - Akiba
Lesbian Sacred Sexuality - This work empowers women with thespiritual values inherent in lesbian relationships and an appreciation of their bodies - essays, short fiction and poetry enforce thistheme. The first photography book that treats the spiritual elements of lesbian love, by Diane Mariechild and Marcelina Martin.
1995, $24.95, Wingbow Press, 7900 Edgewater Drive, Oakland,
CA 94621.
Thunder's Grace: Walking the Road of Visions With My Lakota Grandmother - intimate, painfully honest, essentially and overwhelmingly spiritual. This is a book about a woman's quest for meaningamid two cultures and a compelling account of the visionary underpinnings of Native American life, by Mary Elizabeth Thunder.
1995, $16.95, Stanton Hill Press, Barrytown, NY 12507.
Black and Lavender: The Collected Poems of Margaret Sloan-Hunter[The first time I heard Margaret read I was so touched. Between
these pages I have been touched over and ov~r again. These are
pieces I will continue to revisit, for their resonance speaks to myheart as a black womon laughing, crying, loving and, by all means,living], by Margaret Sloan-Hunter. 1995, $12.00, Talking Circle
Press, 343 Soquel Ave #312, Santa Cruz, CA 95062.
Fire Power - With these poems of passion and power, Chrystos
solidifies her place as one of the great political voices of our time.
[Page after page of stories I feel, know and need to remember. Unapologetic, honest and matter of fact, Fire Power, mirrors the journeyof a passionate warrior], by Chrystos. 1995, Press Gang Publishers,

126 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

101-225 East 17th Ave., Vancouver, B.C. V5V 1A6 Canada.
Tangled Sheets: Stories and Poems of Lesbian Lust - heats up the bodyof lesbian sex literature with a collection for and about dykes inlust. A luscious sequel to the popular Getting Wet: Tales of Lesbian
Seductions, ed by Rosamund Elwin and Karen X. Tulchinsky.
1995, $14.95/$12.95 US, Women's Press, 517 College St. #233,
Toronto Ontario, Canada M6G 4A2.
In Her Nature - desire, love, hot sex, cool sex, grieving andthriving as a Jewish Dyke, by Karen X. Tulchinsky 1995, $14.95/$12.95 US, Women's Press.
Lavender Reflections: Affirmations for Lesbians and Gay Men, by Elanor
Ruth Wagner. 1995, $10.95, Alamo Square Press, PO Box 14543,
San Francisco, CA 94114.
The Hadra - the long awaited third novel in the acclaimed Hadra
Series, which follows the adventures of a fiercely proud tribe of
women the Khal Hadera Lossien, who exist and thrive away fromthe company of men, by Diana Rivers. 1995, $9.95 pb, Alyson
Publications, Inc., 40 Plympton St., Boston, MA 02118.
Heatwave: Women in Love and Lust - features passionate, volcanic
stories that deliver, both in terms of literary and erotic content, ed by
Lucy Jane Bledsoe. 1995, $9.95, Alyson Publications.
Tomboys - features the work of fifty lesbians who offer a lush andoften cinematic portrait of Tomboyhood, with poetry essays, fiction and photos that span the decades from before the Second
World War to present day, ed by Lynne Yamaguchi and Karen
Barber. 1995, $9.95, Alyson Publications.
The Femme Mystique - a fascinating and insightful look at theworld of femme identity within the lesbian community. The firstbook to focus exclusively on thisnewlymainstreamed style of lesbian
self expression, features poetry, essays, short fiction and photography, ed by Leslea ~ewman. 1995, $11.95 pb,Alyson Publications.
Oral Tradition - taking their inspiration from the author's African
American and Native American storytelling heritage, these arepoems of finding home, making love, learning history. Tales ofwomen and satisfaction, regret, love, danger, death and eternallife. [Spellbinding, witnessing the Griot weave her tales, eachcarefully chosen word, so full of purpose], by Jewelle Gomez.
1995, $9.95 pb, Firebrand Books, 141 The Commons, Ithaca, New
York, NY 14850.
The First Time Ever: Love stories by Naiad Press Authors, ed byWinter/Spring 1996

127

Barbara Grier and Christine Cassidy. 1995, $14.95, Naiad Press,
Inc., PO Box 10543, Tallahassee, FL 32302
Miss Pettibone and Miss McGraw - the enchanting story of fourstrong-willed women - two of whom happen to be ghosts, byBrenda Weathers. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press, Inc.
Beach Affair, by Barbara Johnson. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press, Inc.
Bar Girls - a novelization of the movie, by Lauran Hoffman. 1995,$10.95, Naiad Press, Inc.
Family Secrets - an exhilarating blend of romance and suspensethat will keep you enthralled from the first page to the sensational
climax, by Laura De Hart Young. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press, Inc.
Getting There - a slow-dance in the eye of a hurricane. A banquetof eroticism where you'll savor each delicious word, by Robbi
Sommers. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press, Inc.
Final Cut - mystery number two, by Lisa Haddock. 1995, $10.95,
Naiad Press, Inc.
Paxton Court - insightful, erotic and wickedly funny. A delightfulcontemporary tale about the comic chaotic and sometimes cruelbusiness of learning to live together, by Diane Salvatore. 1995,$21.95 hdb, Naiad Press, Inc.
Payback - a gri pping thriller of romance, revenge and betrayal, by
Celia Cohen. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press, Inc.
The Hangdog Hustle - the third in the Nell Fury Mysteries, by
Elizabeth Pincus. 1995, $9.95, Spinsters Ink, 32 E. First St. #330,
Duluth, MN 55802.
Common Murder - the second Lindsay Gordon Mystery, by Val
McDermid. 1995, $10.95, Spinsters Ink.
Domestic Violence For Beginners, by Alisa Deltufo. 1995, $11.00,
Writers and Readers Publishing, Inc., PO Box 461, Village Station,
New York, NY 10014.
J.-esbian Parenting: Living With Pride and Prejudice - in thirty-eighta~ti'c1es women talk of their multi-faceted experiences of lesbianparenting: legal issues, social issues, political issues, becoming
pregnant and custody issues; also included are the voices of children of lesbian parents, ed by Katherine Arnup. 1995, $19.95/$16.95 US , Gynergy Books, PO Box 2023, Charlotte Town, PEl,
Canada CIA 7N7.
Deadly Reunion - second in the Harriet Hubbley Mystery series,
by Jackie Manthorne. 1995, Gynergy Books.
Last Resort - third in the Harriett Hubbley Mystery series, by128 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Jackie Manthorne. 1995, Gynergy Books.
Virtual Equality: The Mainstreaming of Gay and Lesbian Liberation guided by a moral vision yet grounded by realpolitik, Virtual
Equality is a call to arms to the gay and lesbian community to begin
with the work necessary to achieve genuine equality with the restof America, by Urvashi Vaid. 1995, $24.95 hdb, Doubleday, 1540
Broadway, New York, NY 10036.
Love Does No Harm: Sexual Ethics for the Rest of Us, by Marie M.
Fortune. 1995,$16.95 hdb, The Continuum Publishing Group, 370
Lexington Ave, New York, NY 10017.
Lesbian Words: State of the Art - a virtual primer to contemporary
trends in lesbian thought, ed by Randy Turoff. 1995, $10.95, Masquerade Books, Inc., 801 Second Ave, New York, NY 10017.
The Adventures of Mona Pinsky, by Harriet Ziskin. 1995, $12.95,
Calyx Books, PO Box B, Corrallis, OR 97339.
Four Figures In Time, by Patricia Grossman. 1995, $13.95, Calyx
Books.
Seeds 2: Supporting Women's Work Around the World ----'- the sequel toSeeds traces the evolution over the last decade from women-specific, essentially anti-poverty projects, to efforts integrating women
into major economic activity, ed by Ann Leonard. 1995, $12.95,
The Feminist Press, 311 E. 94th St., New York, NY 10128.
Southern Lady: From Pedestal To Politics - 25th Anniversary edition, by Anne Firor Scott. 1995, $12.95, University Press of Virginia, PO Box 3608 University Station, Charlottesville, VA 22903.
The Lesbian Parenting Book: A Guide To Creating-Families and RaisingChildren - filled with wisdom and humor, this book is essential
reading for every lesbian who is involved in - or considering raising a family, by D. Merilee Clunis and G. Dorsey Green. 1995,$16.95, Seal Press, 3131 Western Ave #410, Seattle, WA 98122.
The Apparitional Lesbian: Female Homosexuality and Modern Culture,
by Terry Castle. 1995, $16.50, Columbia University Press, 562 W.
113th St., New York, NY 10025.
Happy Ever After- [Fun reading], by Stacy Chandler. 1995, $10.00,
Speculators, Inc., PO Box 94038, Troy, MI 48099.

Winter/Spring 1996

129

- - - - - Announcements and Classified Ads
PUBLICATIONSCONMOCION, revlsta y red revolucionaria de lesbianas latinas, a

new national publication with 100% Latina lesbian vision, seeks
writings and art by Latina lesbians in Spanish, English or
Spanglish, any form. Subs: $13 for 3. Info: 152i Alton Road
#336, Miami Beach, FL 33139.
MAIZE, A Lesbian Country Magazine. Land dyke networking
since 1983. Sub: $10/4 issues. Single issue $3.50. MAIZE, POB
130, Serafina, NM 87569.
WE ARE HERE - national resource guide for lesbian and gay
youth, by Gay Youth Comm. Coalition of the Bay Area, $5 (pay to
We Are Here) from: 2215 Market St., #479, SF, CA 94114 .
TEEN VOICES - by, for & about teenage and young adultwomen, sample $2: Women Express, POB 6009 JFK, Boston,
MA 02114 .
DYKE REVIEW MAGAZINE - "We don't judge it, we justpublish it." Looking for features writers from your area; all
publishable forms of dyke expression. Call 415-621-3769 or
write: 584 Castro St., Ste. 456, SF, CA 94114.
LESBIAN CONTRADICTION seeks non-fiction from women
who've experienced the Far Right around lesbian/gay &women's issues. Ongoing column. LesCon, 584 Castro St., Ste.
356, SF, CA 94114.
SHORT FICTION BY WOMEN, new guidelines available SASE to: Rachel Whalen, ed., Box 1276, StuyvesantSta., NY, NY
10009.
VAMPIRE JOURNALS, a new lesbian & bisexual quarterly,seeks writers and readers. Send SASE for guidelines, info to:
The Queen, P.O.B. 681, San Leandro, CA 94577.
VIRAGO, a new quarterly for lesbian veterans, seeks all formsof writing . Queries: POB 1171, New Market, VA 22844.
CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONSBLUE COLLAR, WORKING CLASS AND POOR LESBIANS'
identity anthology: who decides who's a lesbian? What a real130 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

lesbian looks, acts, sounds like? What we call ourselves? For
info, send SASE to: POB 8939, Minneapolis, MN 55408.
RIPENING LESBIANS, an anthology, seeks all forms from all
dykes on growing older. Queries, submissions w /SASE to Tirzah
Gerstein, 85 Newbury St., Hartford, CT 06114.
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.
SPINSTERS INK is seeking feminist writing by women of color- novels and non-fiction works. For more info: POB 300170,
Dept. C, Minneapolis, MN 55403, (612) 377-0287.
VISUAL AND PERFORMING ARTSLESBIAN VISUAL ARTISTS (LVA) a promotional & networking organization whose purpose is to network among lesbianvisual artists and to promote their work. For more information
contact Happy /L.A. Hyder, 870 Market Street #618, San Francisco, CA 94102, (415)788-6118.
EVENTS/ORGANIZING/CONFERENCES/RETREATSTHE FATE OF FEMINISM: IS THERE A NEXT GENERATION?
S. Conn. State Univ. 5th Annual Women's Studies Conference,
Sept. 30-0ct.1, 1995. Info: V. Neverow, Women's Studies, SCSU,
501 Crescent St., New Haven, CT 06515, E-mail:neverow@scsud .ctstateu.edu.
LESBIAN NATURAL RESOURCES (LNR) is a new organization dedicated to developing rural lesbian community, providing grants & assistance with land purchase, establishing land
trusts, tax exemption & land skills. Emphasis on making thisresource available to lesbians of color. For more info, write:
POB 8742, Minneapolis, MN 55408-0742.
OLOC - Old Lesbians Organizing for Change helps form newgroups of lesbians over 60, provides ageism education, stimulates existing groups to confront ageism. OLOe, POB 980422,
Houston, TX 77098.
COTTAGES AT HEDGEBROOK - ARetreat for Women Writers
grants cottages and meals for writers for a stay of up to threeWinter/Spring 1996131

months. Application deadlines: Apr. 1 and Oct. 1. For applications: 2197 E. Millman Rd., Langley, WA 98260.
NORCROFT - A writing retreat for women provides spaceand food for up to four weeks between May & October. Write
for 1995 applications: POB 300105, Minneapolis, MN 55403.
DYKE SEPARATIST CELEBRATION - Lesbian Separatists will
be gathering near Oakland, CA on Saturday, June 22, 1996 forworkshops, networking, potlucking, dancing and fun. Lesbian
Separatists put Lesbians first in our lives; we are committed tobuilding strong Lesbian communities and to fighting
heterosexism as well as all other oppressions. This Celebration
is being organized by SEPZ, Separatists Eliminating Patriarchy
with Zeal. We invite female-born Lesbians who identify as
Separatists to join us for a day of camaraderie, strategizing andmerriment. In order to make this gathering as safe as possible
for Separatists with Environmental Illness (En, this event will
be fragrance and scent free, drug and alchol free, and smoke
free. (No smokers please!) In keeping with Separatist ideology,
no bisexuals or transgendered persons or sado-masochists will
be admitted. This event will be child free. Pre-registration isrequired. Separatists with special needs let us know ASAP.
Separatists, please respond with a SASE and your enthusiasm
and ideas to SEPZ, P.O. Box 1180, Sebastopol, CA 95473-1180
SUPPORTLAVENDER L.E.A.F. is the Lesbian Emergency Action Fund ofmoney given anonymously, available to any S.F. or Alameda
County (CA) woman-born lesbian of poverty or working classbackground who needs it. Lavender L.E.A.F.'s long-term goal
is to diminish economic disparities among lesbians. Send checks,
queries to: L. Leaf, POB 20921, Oakland, CA 94620.
SPINSTERHAVEN, INC., a retirement haven for older women
and women with disabilities, promoting physical, cultural andspiritual well-being of women. Membership info and donations,
POB 718, Fayetteville, AR 72701.
WHIPTAIL WOMYN'S COLLECTIVE provides a womyn-only
dyke-identified, drug-smoke-alcohol free space in S.F. & needs
all the help it can get. Send $, questions, energy to: 354318th St.

132 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

Box #29, SF, CA 94110.
PEN CENTER USA WEST is offering grants for writers withHIV / AIDS. Applications are available from PEN Center USA
West, 672 S. LaFayette Park PI, #41, LA, CA, 90057. App . deadline ·Sept. 29, 1995.
LESBIANS IN CRITICAL NEED have been sending us increasing numbers of requests to run announcements for their personal funds. Instead of printing these individual appeals, weurge you to contribute frequently and generously to local organizations. Imagine if we just told you your childhood bestfriend, your favorite gym teacher, an admired dyke activist or
your first lover had metastatic cancer and couldn't pay thedoctor bills; or had developed E.L, could no longer leave herhouse and had no way to get or pay for groceries. Then makea contribution to Lavender L.E.A.F., The Dykefund, the Charlotte Maxwell Clinic, The Women's Cancer Resource Center(these are S.F. Bay Area resources, find the ones in your community). We need full support networks as well as money-dykes
willing to shop, drive, talk, listen, organize.
WOMYN'S BRAILLE PRESS (WBP) seeks proposals for small
grants for disability access projects . Founded in 1980, WBP
distributed lesbian and feminist literature on tape and in Brailleto blind and print disabled readers for fifteen years. WBP is
now in the process of disbanding and has surplus funds todisperse to other nonprofit organizations. We will review proposals for up to $2,000 and will distribute up to $5,000 total.
Priority will be given to projects dealing with ta ping or Brailling
and to lesbian/ feminist projects.
Please send a concise proposal to: p.o. Box 8475; Minneapolis, MN 55408. Include the name and contact information foryour organization; proof of non-profit status or a letter fromyour fiscal agent; length of time your organization has been in
existence; the nature of your organization's work; the amountrequested, and what you specifically propose to do with thismoney. Also include the names and numbers of two organizations which are familiar with your work. Deadline: August 1,
1996. Decisions will be made by September 1, 1996.

Winter/Spring'996

133

October 19, 1995
Dear Friends,
We are writing to remind you of the case of Aileen "Lee" Wuornos,
currently on Florida's Death Row for killing six men who attacked
her. Recently four of her six appeals were denied; two still await
judgment. The second set of appeals is being prepared now.
Lee was working as a highway prostitute when she was attacked. Prostitutes are much more likely to be raped than womenin other jobs. In fact, prostitutes in one study testified that they
were raped an average of thirty-three times a year.
The issues of violence against women and our right to selfdefense were obscured in this case by sensational charges that Lee
was a man-hating serial killer. Call her a serial killer and you cansleep well at night knowing the highways are safe ... for men. Callher what she is, a woman who killed before submitting to rape andpossible death, and you are forced to wonder whose life is valued?
As Lee said, "Who's supposed to die? Am I supposed to die
because I'm a prostitute?"
Unsurprisingly, Lee did not receive a fair hearing of her case.
In her only trial, the dead man's history of sexual violence was notallowed as evidence. Her overworked public defender had nevertried a capital case; sixty references to self-defense were deleted
from her videotaped confession; Lee's background of chronic
abuse was not acknowledged as a mitigating circumstance, andthe list of injustices goes on.
As feminists, we feel it is important to raise our voices todemand that Lee receive justice, and that women have the right tofreedom from violence and the right to protect ourselves when
violence does occur.
We urge you to demand justice for Lee Wuornos.
Write postcards to the Florida Supreme Court, 5th Judicial
Circuit Court, 300 Beach St., Daytona Beach FL 32114. Demand a
new trial.
Speak to your friends and family about Lee' s case.
Rent a copy of the documentary" Aileen Wuornos: The Selling134 sinister wisdom #57 On Healingof a Serial Killer" and host a viewing of it. We will supply an
information packet.
Write letters of support to Aileen Wuornos, A#150924, DR1,
Broward County Correctional Institution, PO Box 8540, Pembroke Pines FL 33024.
Form a defense committee in your area. Contact the Aileen
Wuornos Defense Committee at (415) 995-2392 or write to us at3543 - 18th St., Box 30, San Francisco, CA 94110.
Hildie Kraus
Aileen Wuornos Defense Committee

11S NeHS is a qIIarleriy publication by, for andaddressing issues aJnceming gay, lesbian, bi-se.TUal,
and tnJllS-sexual people of futJiRenous Thrlle Island ances/ry.

SUbscription Price; $10.00 (4 issues)(Sample Back bsues: $2.00)

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Winter/Spring 1996

135

Lesbian Health News-a bimonthly newsletterHealth News &. Views, PUllonal aod Professional Articles Welcome

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136 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

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138 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing~@@~~a~lf~[%~ (D)[%~~ ~(ffi~W
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Winter/Spring 1996 139

sinister wisdom
Some Current & Back Issues#56 Diverse voices explore the complexities of language - Akiba's first issue.
#55 An open issue explores issues of racial identity and sexeual identification.
#54 Lesbians & Religion: explores questions of faith and community from many
directions (Elana Dykewomon's last issue as editor).
#53 Old LesbianslDykes: guest edited by 9 old dykes, features the work of 38
womyn over 60, including Del Martin, Phyllis Lyon & Sally Miller Gearhart.
#52 Allies includes 10 interviews by Jamie Lee Evans with lesbian activists.
#51 An open issue where lesbians lay claim to our lives.
#50 Not The Ethics Issue we had planned (read itto find out why). But there is great
work on ethics & more. Guest edited by Caryatis Cardea and Sauda Burch.
#49 The Lesbian Body: here's where flesh and theory meet- includes lesbians ofcolor, roles, disability, body image, fat, sex, menopause and more.
#48 Lesbian Resistance: investigations into the activist heart of our courage including messages from dykes in prison.
.
#47 Lesbians of Color: Tellin' It Like It Tis'. Special 160-page issue edited bylesbians of color, includes new work in all forms - essential reading.
#46 Dyke Lives. New, international fiction and poetry.
#45 Lesbians and Class. The first issue edited entirely by poor and working classdykes includes analysis, personal narrative, poetry, fiction & a graffiti wall.
#43/44 The 15th Anniversary Retrospective. 368 pages, over 90 lesbians' work fromthe second wave. An amazing, indispensable source collection!
#42 Lesbian Voices. Our first intentional all-lesbian issue.
#41 Italian-American Women's Issue. Guest edited by Denise Leto & Janet Capone.
#40 Special Focus on Friendship. Essays, fiction, editorial discussion transcript.
#36 Special Focus on Surviving Psychiatric AssaulUCreating Emotional Well
Being in ow Communities. Includes testimony, prose, poetry and essays.
#35 Passing. Investigations into trying to appear other than we are.
#34 Special Focus on Lesbian Visions, Fantasy, SciFi.
#33 Special Focus on Wisdom. Lesbians of Color, non-violence, war stories, incest,leaving a will, assimilation & The Real Fat Womon Poems.
#32 Special Focus on Illness, Death, Mourning, Healing, the disappeared, hunting
season, dealing with suicide, cancer, new ritual observances.
#31 Special Focus on Sex and Fiction, coming out in the south, found goddesses.
#28 Special Focus on Women & Work; Body Image, Size & Eating.

We recently found a case of slightly damaged copies of #39, On Disability ($5 ea.).
Sinister Wisdom #1-19, 27,37 & 38 are out of print. Photocopies can be provided - $5
for the first article, $1 for each add. in the same order ($17 for a whole issue). Allow
one month for delivery.

140 sinister wisdom #57 On Healing

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All written work should be mailed flat (not folded), with your nameand address on each page. Submissions may be in any style or form,or combination of forms. Maximum submission: five poems or twostories per issue. We may return longer submissions. We prefer you
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stereotypes. We do intend to keep an open and critical dialogue on all theissues that affect our work, joy and survival. See page 10 for details on
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Sinister Wisdom, Inc. is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization. We provide free subs to women in prison and mental institutions (15% of ourmailing list), as well as reduced price subs for lesbians with limited/
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I am only beginning to believe I have a right tomy feelings and words. That I am not "crazy."... I had this deep feeling of knowledge that if
only I could cry, I wouldn't have to punish andhate myself.
- Laura C. Luna
I've decided on a new patha Iife that bri ngs the su n's lightand lives within my dirt, projecting my voice.
And mountains pour from my mouth,
whispering the stories of my life.
-

jo Anne Reyes-Boitel

I will not give up hope.
I will not let my heart
be cold and empty.
I will not be ruled by despair.
- April Citizen Kane

$6