sinister wisdom 42

LESBIAN VOICESSinister Wisdom 42
Winter 1990/1991
Editor and publisher: Elana Dykewomon

Editorial readers and advisors: Betty Dudley, Caryatis Cardea, CathThompson, Dolphin Waletzky, Gloria Anzaldua, Jasmine Marah, Lisa Carlin,
Naja Sorell a, Susanjill Kahn, Susan Levinkind, Valerie Stoehr, Winn Gilmore
Contributing editors: Gloria Anzaldua, Irena Klepfisz, Melanie Kaye/
Kantrowitz
Typists and proofreaders: Cath Thompson, Caryatis Cardea, Laura Tow,
Susan Goldberg, Susan Levinkind, Toni Langfield, Valerie Stoehr
Office help, correspondence, ads and accounting: Caryatis Cardea, Dolphin
Waletzky, SJ Kahn, Susan Levinkind, Casey Fisher
Thanks to Bobby Rothschild and Rebecca Kutlin of Tamed Technology
Mailing coordinator: Cindy Cooper
Distribution and mailing crew (#41): Darci Cataldo, Debbie Fier, Denise
Leto, Elana Dykewomon, Elena Baldisserri, elizabeth fides, Helen Friedman,
Jamie Baldino, Janet Capone, Jean Frances, Leslie Buck, Luna Moon, Mary
DeLorenzo Pelc
Reader for the Womyn's Braille Press: Judy Freespirit
Cover art: Sue Sellars, "Our words make us whole" (pencil on rag)•
SINISTER WISDOM, founded1976
Former editors and publishers: Harriet Ellenberger (aka Desmoines)
and Catherine Nicholson (1976-81)
Michelle Cliff and Adrienne Rich (1981-83)
Michaele Uccella (1983-84)
Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz (1983-87)
Copyright © 1990 Sinister Wisdom. All rights reserved to individual artists and authors.
ISSN: 0196-1853. Printed in the U.S.A.

Sinister Wisdom· PO Box 3252 • Berkeley CA 94703 • US

IUTo la_________________ Contents
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7
8
10
22
29
32

Elana Dykewomon • Notes for a Magazine
Upcoming Issues
Christina Springer • Wishlist (poem)
Melizma Morgan • The Secret Keeper (fiction)
Sapphire. American Dreams (poem)
Elana Dykewomon • Some Things Chava Meyer Says (poem)
Ruthann Robson • Looking for Lesbian Legal Theory A Surprising Journey (theory)

§§§
40
42
44
47
49

Jasmine Marah • Study (narrative)
Ruth Farmer • Mistress from the Plantation Poems (poem)
Thelma Seto • This Shame is a Carnivore (poem)
Lisa Carlin • The Significance of Stones (poem)
Nancy Nachum • Peaceniks (theory/narrative)

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54

59
68
69
74

Deb Parks-Satterfield • from Naps ... The Politics of Hair(a prose performance piece in progress): I Don 't Know
If You Can Relate; Mabelle & Loretta IS Tres Beau Salonof Beaule; More Hair
Michele Connelly • What They're Missing (fiction)
Helena Lipstadt • Waxlips (narrative)
Tina Gianoulis • Perspective (narrative)
Marcy Jacobs • One, Two, Three (narrative)

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82
85
86

Frances Negr6n-Muntaner • the wait / espera (poem)
Anne B. Dalton • Eidetic Images (poem)
SDiane Bogus • Her Son (narrative)

92
94
113

Winifred E. Eads • Durable Rustproof Saturday Night(prose/ poem)
Betsy Warland • cutting re/marks (narrative/theory)
Anne Lundquist • Small Girl at the Chesapeake (poem)

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114

117
122
124
127

Sharon (nee De La Pena) Davenport • Outshout a
Waterfall: Making Face, Making Soul/Hacienda CarasCritical and Creative Perspectives by Women of Color, ed . by
Gloria Anzaldua (review)
Barbara Ruth • Love and Politics - Radical Feminist andLesbian Theories by Carol Anne Douglas (review)
Sandra Butler • My Jewish Face and Other Stories byMelanie Kaye/Kantrowitz (review)
Rebecca Ripley • Enter Password: RECOVERY - Re-enter
Password by EUy Bulkin (review)
Amber Katherine • Lizards/Los Padres by Bettianne
Shoney Sien (review)§§§
ART
Cover Sue Sellars • Our words makes us whole (pencil on rag)
28 Sudie Rakusin • Untitled (pen & ink)
43 Elise Dodeles • Why Am I So Angry? (pencil)
53 Ellen Oppenheimer • October 17 (quilt)
58 Sine Anahita • June (pen & ink)
81 Beth Karbe • Katy (photograph)
91 Elise Dodeles • Self portrait - Butch-Femme (pencil)
93 Francesca Forte • Witch Eye (photograph)
132 Dean Brittingham • from The Adventures of Miz Willoughby(cartoon)

____________ Notes for a Magazine
Lesbian Voices : This may come as a surprise to you, but this is thefirst intentionally all-lesbian * issue of Sinister Wisdom since 1976. In
May, inspired by a subscriber's letter, the editorial group unanimously decided to make Sinister Wisdom dedicated lesbian space.
From #42 on, you can assume that everything we print will be bylesbians.
Why didn't we make this decision sooner? Sometimes it takes
an outrageously long time for lesbians in groups to make the next
obvious radical move. In the position of "editor" I found myself
more of a "conservator" and questioned policy less than I like tothink I usually do. I saw myself as keeping continuity with thelesbians who tended SWbefore me, and didn't bring this issue up
for a group vote. Message #1: keep constant watch on how powerand "tradition" work, what roles do to us. Question everybody the publishers, organizers, consultants, spokesdykes, experts,
owners, laborers, typists, crews, artists, critics, yourself. Certainly
we work hard - we all want and deserve credit for the days wespend making our love visible in lesbian community. But we need
continuous dialogue about what we're doing, how the positions
we take on affect our perception of possibility and change. Of
course you know that alread y, don't you? But it's like knowing tha t
woman-hating and racism permeate our whole lives - we'remore comfortable when we let ourselves believe acknowledging
the truth of those things makes them go away. As if you can deal
once and then your mind and heart are fixed forever.
Something bothering you about a lesbian (or women's or gay
or eco-feminist or smash-the-state) event? Worry over it - workover what seems to be a petty annoyance until it becomes a fullblown complaint - bother yourself and your friends until you feellike you get some satisfaction, and then start all over again. We
need more cranky dykes.
So thanks to the cranky dykes who wanted a lesbian journal:
here she is, full of lesbian voices .

•••*SW #2, on Lesbian Writing and Publishing, was, as far as I can tell, the only
other purposely all-lesbian issue. Many issues have been all-lesbian, but notby prior editorial decison.

3

What is a lesbian voice? How do we choose the ones we wantto present out of the hundreds of lesbians who send us their work?
Because the editorial readers of Sinister Wisdom have such diverse
interests, backgrounds and tastes how we choose is complicated.
Each of us argues for the works which challenge us in ways we're
willing to be challenged or confirm our world-views. We present
these different challenges and views to each other and hammer it out.
We have two or three six- to eight-hour meetings about the material.
Usually pieces get in by majority vote: the more of us who say
yes, the more likely it will get in. But one strong, principled "no"can veto a popular piece (and has) . It is definitely the case that we
spend 3/ 4ths of our time discussing 1/ 4th of the work we read.
Recently we've decided not to consider work written as first
person narrative cross-culturally (a white dyke writing in the voiceof a black dyke; a christian writing in the voice of a jew, forinstance). Whether or not you agree with this policy, ask your bes t
friend what she thinks about it - chances are you'll have a heateddiscussion. Some of us feel that writers, especially lesbian writers,
should be encouraged to take up the full range of human experience in whatever persona moves them powerfully; and that every
writer has the responsibility to portray the diversity of her community. Others feel that this whole business about what writers
can do is elitist: no one should ever "speak for" or "assume"another's voice: it reinforces the idea that there are some who are
powerless to speak for themselves: it becomes a form of colonization.
Imagine eleven lesbians having this discussion for days, trying toagree on a policy.
What I hope is that the urgency and angst of our editorial
discussions carryover - that when you read Sinister Wisdom you
want to talk about it with other dykes - that at least some of thewriting we print disturbs you, moves you, makes you feel lessisolated with your questions, grief and joy. I hope it's our groupability to stick with a process where we never all agree (well,almost never) that keeps Sinister Wisdom vital. Although we rarely
publish letters (the length of time between journals and the enormous amount of new work we want to print makes it unfeasible),
we read and discuss them. Keep writing us - sometimes wechange course on account of what you have to say. And if you livein the Bay Area - the editorial group is open to new members. We
want particularly to be more representative of lesbians of color,4

working-class and old lesbians wants space to agitate and create .

we welcome any dyke who•••

Lesbian Voices, part 2: it was my privilege this summer torepr~sent SWat the 4th International Feminist Bookfair in Barcelona,
Spain, and do readings in London and Brussels on the way.
I went to Europe hoping to meet lesbians with different perspectives. I was feeling frustrated, isolated. Sometimes it seems the"thrust" of gay organizing is to make lesbians more acceptable tothe "mainstream" (read: men, the family and male organizational
values); and that radical lesbian analysis of institutions and power
relations is "out of fashion," very'70s and passe. I wanted to talkwith lesbians from other places about their/our survival issues. I
was 'lucky to be able to begin some of those conversations - itwould be silly to say I came back knowing what's going on in
Europe - so much is going on, and mostly in languages I don't
speak.'But I did get some inklings and some sense of other dykes'
visions (and I didn't meet anyone who thought a woman could
sleep with a man and still be a lesbian).
In Barcelona, Susan and I attended a series of "unofficial"lesbian meetings (the Fair organizers were, oh, slightly homophobic). There were lesbians with a passion for writing andpublishing from (at least) Australia, Scotland, India, Guinea, Argentina, France, Italy, Germany, Russia, England, the U.S., Canada,
Mexico, Israel, Scandinavia, Aotearoa, Spain. And first we had todeal with the politics of language: what languages can we use to
speak to each other? Who agrees to interpret? To be interpreted to?
We eventually agreed to speak and translate in English andSpanish, but the implications of our choices, the difficulty ofchoosing, were not lost on us. We talked about the situation oflesbians in Spain and Italy - what it's like not having a lesbianpress. In many countries the only lesbian book available is"rubyfruits." No journals, no presses, maybe a few translations
and a couple of pamphlets, only one or two native authors willing/able to come out. We talked personally - what the lesbian andfeminist movements have meant in our lives, what it was like to be* In Europe, not unlike in the U.S., there's an intensification of violent racist
and anti-semitic hate-crimes. Responses vary from bravado to terror, butwith less apparent denial than I experience in the States.

5

a lesbian before those movements, to be a dyke under the Franco
regime. During our last meeting, we engaged each other in the
powerful, open-hearted way oflesbians who are likely never to seeeach other again; lesbians who nevertheless have a passionate
interest in and need for each other; who are inspired by eachother's accomplishments and risks.
I have just this little space to tell you about it: it was incredible.
All over the world there are lesbians struggling with some of thesame issues that you struggle with in your hometown - anddifferent ones. We can get together and understand each other,make a way towards understanding each other, based on respect
and our desire to listen. What we need to give to each other is ourcontinued willingness to risk - to take the chance, in the face of
oppression, under threats of censure, beatings, jailings, isolation,
betrayal, to risk going on with it - and living to tell about it. We
need pride in each other - pride in, among many, the lesbians ofColectivo de trabajo de lesbianas of Barcelona, Urban Fox and
Onlywomen Presses of England, Artemys Bookstore in Belgium,
Esporadica of Mexico, Estro Editrice of Italy, Lesbia of France. We
keep finding our voices.

•••And speaking of taking pride in each other: thanks to Denise Letoand Janet Capone for the Italian-American Women's Issue - fortheir hard work, their consciousness-raising with us and othercommunities, their dedication and inspiration. #41 was a fine issue
and an important resource - they did a great job .

•••This note of appreciation is for all of you who send us donations.
We've opened subscription renewals to find $100-$300 checks;
often dykes send an extra three or five dollars. We believe that"sustaining" subscribers are putting their money where theirmouths and hearts are as much as "hardship" subscribers do, so
we don't publish special lists of those who support us financially.
But your financial support does mean we can keep going - weneed it; we are, in fact, sustained by it. And you know there aredays that seem a little bleaker than others - please keep thosechecks and letters coming. Tlumks.

6

- - - - - - - - - - - - - V p c o m i n g Issues
Next year we are publishing only two issues:#43/44 will be our 15th Anniversary Retrospective issue. We'regoing to focus on work fromout-of-print Sinister Wisdoms. Due out
in June, 1991. We could really use help with this project:
1. If you have favorite Sinister Wisdom articles, especially work from#1 -19 (out-of-print), please let us know - and if you are a past
contributor to Sinister Wisdom, or know past contributors, please
send us your current address.
2. If your subscription expires with #43 (the italicized number on
your mailing label) PLEASE RENEW NOW!
#45 Lesbians & Class is the next issue to which you can contribute.
We want to focus on lies abou t money - in our editorial group weacknowledged that we had all lied about money, though how andwhy varied dramatically by class. Where do the lies come from?
How do we deal with our shame? Our anger? Our bitterness? Are
there communities where dykes are actively re-distributing resources? After 20 years of personal discussion around class in our
movements, have we found any ways to really change the classset-ups we're born into? We urge middle-class and wealthy lesbians to remember that an embarrassment of riches is not the sameas the shame of poverty. This issue will particularly address theconcerns of working-class and poor lesbians and will be primarily
composed of their work. Lesbian Ethics will be putting out an issue
on class as well - we hope it appears before our deadline so wehave the opportunity to continue discussions started there, as wellas present new perspectives. Deadline: June I, 1991.
#460r #47will be the work of Lesbians of Color. Watch this spacefor details.

See inside back cover for details on how to send us your work.

_________________ Correction
The correct address for Earthlight Visual Productions - specializing in video and photography - is PO Box 11511, Oakland, CA
94611. We apologize for our typo. Check the classifieds section for
current information.

7

Christina Springer

Wishlist
for my sisters who think process is permanent

Want you to be fierce
virtuous in presencerighteous in thought
imperious in spirit.
Want you to be
nappy, kinky, out of control& threatening.

Want Rocky Mountaincompeting with the skyline laughter.
Want rumpled up / needs ironing
tossed out of the laundry basket
landing in the corner for a week smile.
Want harvest moon
cloud passing overswaying with the wind butt.
Want climb a coconut tree
in Barbados
during early morning sunrise
rain for five minutes breasts.
Want a kneel down, genuflectwith nothing on my conscience
about to receive communion body.
Want you dancing Manjani
in all of its ancient gloriousness
on the last nervesof the Missus Clairols, TCBs, Revlons and Posners.

8

Want your hair permanentand your emotions turning backconsistently.
Want to roll overbeg Medusa
turn me to stone
for always pestering her in want.
Want soft nappy kinks
springing comfortable control
in gnarled wise youness.
Want you looking dredfulfrightening and untamed.
Want warrior & woman simultaneously.
Want truthful honesty in spirit
Want a mirror of yourself learning in love9

Melizma Morgan

The Secret Keeper
Yvette was seven when she ran from the place and did not go back.
She had left Wanda on the floor with the man still hitting her. Her
body did not move except to vibrate each time the man brought thepipe down onto her body.
Down in the alley the brick buildings were hollow. Glass
crunched under her shoes as she ran, and each street looked thesame. He'd always said he would do this. As long shadows began
to fall in the alleys she grew hungry, and her running slowed.
She ran into a dead end street full of warehouses and hid. Was
he coming for her now? A row of trashcans offered her nothing but
bad smells, the gutters only pigeon feathers .
Night fell. Yvette curled up against the wall, rocking herself,and sang, "forget forget forget." But there were voices in the windwhipping through the broken buildings:
Little girl little girl - learn to be my slave
Learn to be my ornament - my servant to the grave
The hair on her arms stood on end. She heard the rumbling ofa train behind her, and turned around to see it coming slowly
down the tracks. She jumped inside an open boxcar and prayed for
it to take her far away.
All night long Yvette slept inside the boxcar, and it carried her
between the buildings and under the city; over little houses andacross wide fields. All night long the wheels of the train sang,"forget forget forget," and when she woke up the train had
stopped at a station in a town in the middle of the woods.
She ran through forest and fields until she came to a house witha wide front porch. It was surrounded by tall trees, and a woman
in a wide straw hat was working in the garden. Her hair was snow
white and her skin was dark black.
''Well, look what the wind blew in!" she said. "You look as if
you could use a glass of lemonade."
Yvette knew right away that the woman was a witch - thekind who knows about stars and animals and how to heal illness
with herbs.
10

"You've come from a long way, haven't you? Come sit up hereon this old porch swing."
So they sat on the porch together and drank lemonade, and Yvettehelped the old woman shell peas. When the sun began to set the
woman said, ''Why don't you stay for dinner?" And she did. They ate
green pea soup and sweet potato pie, and when the dishes were all
washed and dried, the woman said, 'Why don't you stay for good?"
Yvette learned the woman's name was Tabitha, and every day
she helped hoethe garden and collect eggs from the chickens. She
learned to make sweet potato pie and how to fix the roof. She slept ina bed with cherrywood posts under the eaves and the only song thatcame to her, through the leaves outside her window, said Shhhh.
Then one day, when Yvette was twelve, a white man came tothe door and asked for the old woman. They talked in the parlor fora long time.
"That was a man from the bank," she said. "He wants to takethe house.""He can't," said Yvette.
"He can," said the old woman, "I haven't any money left, andthe taxes must be paid.""I will make some money," said Yvette. She got a job. She
worked in a laundromat, she worked in a factory, she cleaned the
big white mansions on the other side of town. And as she walked
home every night beneath the sky, she heard a whistling:
Little black girl-learn to be my slave
Learn to be my ornament -my servant to the grave
But when she got back to the big old house beneath the trees,
Tabitha would be waiting by the fire. Yvette would lay her head
down on the old woman's lap and Tabitha would tell her long
wonderful stories.
''There was a woman," she would say, "and she was fast andfearless and taller than any man. She was so black she couldn't be seen
at night. Sometimes she wore the clothes of a man, and she carried agun. She was the one who got us free. They came by the huts before
it was light, singing that song they'd sing to tell they'd be coming.
Get on board little children
Get on board little children
Get on board little children
There's room for many more
11And sure enough she came that night and we got out throughthe woods, and then in a boat, and then hidden in a hay wagon formiles and miles. Oh I remember her - fast and fearless and taller
than any man, so black she couldn't be seen at night." And thewoman would sigh. She told the story many times.
"Tell about the witch," Yvette would say.
"Ah," said Tabitha, "she was a slave too, but she wasn't born
there like the rest of us. She remembered the land they'd taken her
from. They said she could freeze a man just by looking at him.
When first she came, they said, the boss tried to hit her with hiscane and she just looked him in the eye and he couldn't move. Well,
I expect it unnerved him, because they didn't beat her much, no,they left her alone after that. And when I was a little girl, she wasan old woman and she'd sit outside on a stump and tell the futurewith rocks. She told me there was a way to kill a man just by looking
at him. She taught me all the things I know.""Teach me," said Yvette.
Tabitha looked at her as if she were sizing her up. "Seems like I
have to teach someone," she said, "or I'd be long gone by now.
Someday, Yvette, after I'm dead, you go help some other child."
They stayed up by the fire night after night, and Tabitha showed
Yvette all her spells. She taught about stars and animals and how toheal illness with herbs, and when Yvette knew all that she had to teach,the old woman died in her big curved rocking chair.
After that Yvette couldn't sleep. The house seemed so big; themoon so bright. She spent nights in the woods and made friends
with the wild dogs. She dreamt of Tabitha night after night, and of
the old witch. She grew fast and fearless and taller than any man.
She was so black she couldn't be seen at night.
And then she dreamt of the place. She dreamt Wanda rose fromthe floor. She dreamt of woman after woman rising up from the floor.
"I must go," she finally said, "I cannot wait any longer." Sheleft the dogs to guard the house and jumped into the rolling boxcar.
The wheels on the tracks sang:
Little black girlGo back from where you came
You don't have a face
You don't have a nameBut Yvette did not listen, for she stood tall now and she sanginto the wind:
12

Beware beware the woman
Who will not be a slave
She gathers up an army
To bring you to your grave•••

Bianca's room used to be a pantry, and now she used the
shelves for books. Lately in the afternoons, she sat behind the door
with her head on her knees, while her mother and Mrs. Terreci
smoked cigarettes in the kitchen.
"Look at this -lose 40 pounds in one month, eat all you want,
no exercise - I wonder what it is."''Bulls hit. ""No -look they've got a picture. Maybe it's chemicals.""Let me see that picture. Huh! That's not the same woman!"
Bianca talked to herself in a whisper.
"Are you doing your homework, Bianca?""I did it," she said, staring at the pile of textbooks on her bed.
"I don't want that teacher calling up again, you hear?""Yeah," said Bianca. She huddled closer to the radiator andclosed her eyes.
"I don't know what's wrong with that kid.""Oh don't worry - they're all like that at that age."
Bianca rocked back and forth.
Mrs. Terreci rattled the newspaper."Hmmm. They foundanother pimp in the river.""Shot?""Can't figure out how he died, but they think he was deadbefore he was dumped.""I don't know why they're making such a big deal out of it. So
there's a pimp in the river. So what?""Twelve pimps in the river. Can't figure out how they died andall the girls just disappeared."''They're probably in the river too - Bianca, are you listening?""Unh unh.""Close your door and do your homework."
She closed the door. She watched the light change on the brickwall across the alley. She went out to the kitchen and poured
herself a glass of milk.
"You really don't think that's the same woman?"

13

Bianca pulled a long knife from the kitchen drawer and crept
back to her room.
"Really -look at her face. "She put the knife under her pillow. It was late that night when
Bianca woke up.
"You won't tell anyone now? That's a good girl, that's Daddy's
girl." She couldn't breathe. ''I'm not going to hurt you this time."
Someone was singing down in the alley, but she couldn't hear
the words.
"That's Daddy's good girl."
Someone was singing:Get on board little children
Get on board little children
Get on board little children
There's room for plenty more
Bianca felt for the cold knife under the pillow.
Oh, get on board little children
there's room for plenty more
J$J$J$"I just don't understand it." The Chief of Police slammed his
coffee cup down on his desk. "This is the fifth one."
Lieutenant Barton cleared his throat. "Sixth, sir.""It's outrageous. What's the motive, Barton?""It certainly seems unclear, sir."''Why murder the fathers and not the little girls? And where
are the little girls?" Chief Dunphy began to pace the linoleum in his
office. "I think we're dealing with a real monster here, Barton.""A real sicko, sir.""Could it be revenge? What's the connection between thesemen, who come from as diverse social, economic and racial
backgrounds as you can imagine? Wha t' s the connection, Barton?"''They all have daughters, sir."''What's that got to do with it? I've got a daughter! So've you!
No, Barton - it's a tough case. I think this is a job for Inspector
Romirez. I believe she's the one who can get to the bottom of this.""You might say she's champing at the bit, sir.""Get her in here."14

Mary did not want to go to school. She pressed her head against
the cool windowpane and looked at the park below. She thought she
might throw up. That'd be okay - they'd think she was sick.
"Mary, are you coming? Your father's ready to drive you.""Mom, I don't feel well!"
Her father's voice came through the door. "Young lady I'mgoing to start the car and I expect you out front in two minutes."
Mary swallowed. "Mom, can't I wear pants? Please?"''Mary, we've been through this before. You know it's against
the rules. Now get out of here and get to school."
She turned to the dresser."Yeah - in a minute." She slid the top
drawer open and looked down between the pristine slips and theclean woolen socks. There lay a small sharp knife with a shiny black
handle. She'd taken it from her brother's desk drawer the night before.
She picked it up and touched it very lightly to her wrist.
"Mary."
But of course she couldn't - not really.
"Mary!" The doorknob turned and Mary whirled around,dropping the knife into the pocket of her blazer.
"How many times do I have to call you?"
Mary looked out the window at the street outside Madison Day
School. There wasn't a sound in the room except for scratching pensand an occasional sniff. A woman was standing in the shadows of thealley, a huge woman looking up at the school, searching from window
to window. Her lips moved as if she sang a song. Mary watched her
for a long time. At the end of class she handed in one sheet of paper:"Once upon a time there was a woman who was fast andfearless and taller than any man. She made friends with wild dogs
and was so black she couldn't be seen at night. She could kill a manjust by looking at him."
At lunchtime the boys would try to pull the girls' skirts up as theystood huddled in groups around the courtyard. "Knock it off!" someof the girls yelled; the ones who stood in circles of friends.
Mary crept over to the frozen ground behind the oak tree in thecorner. She brought a book with her and read the same page over
and over, without comprehending.
"Mary!" one of them called in a soft, slow singsong. She did notlook up from her book. A second later a stone hit her in the back of
the head. She swallowed. She did not look up.

15

''Mary!'' they grabbed her book. She ran into the school, toward
the girls' bathroom, where she could stand alone in a stall and cry, andno one would see her. Except sometimes, when they followed.
They laughed loudly as they ran. There must have been five or
six of them. With that number they hardly needed their years ofsuperior phys. ed . equipment to drag her in the boys' room. It was
in fact quite simple to pin her down against the freezing grimy tile.
Mary always prayed to god then. She clenched her teeth andclosed her eyes. Today, though, she did not think of god. She thoughtof a woman fast and fearless who could kill a man just by looking
at him. She thought of a little knife in the pocket of her blazer.

•••"My God, who would do this?" Even Chief Dunphy had toturn away and put his handkerchief over his mouth. The scene
before him was grisly indeed. Five fine youths, five of the nation'sbest, struck down, yes, slaughtered when life had hardly begun.
"This is a tragedy, Barton. A tragedy.""Yes, sir. Gruesome too, sir, if I may say so.""Excuse me, chief," officer Cradley said, ''Mary Lincoln has been
missing since noon, sir. She was in the same grade as the deceased.""Thank you, Cradley. Get the girl's parents ready for questioning. And Barton - get Romirez down here!"•••

Irene Romirez was making a meal she would not be eating. She
found cooking helped her think. She'd been on the case two days andalready had an eggplant casserole, two red pepper quiches and a panof Cajun tempeh in the freezer. Now she was rolling pie crust.
She slammed the rolling pin down. ''None of the locks werebroken, none of the windows smashed and none of the doors forced."
She resumed rolling, then stopped again. "And no extra sets offingerprints anywhere!"This she was sure of because she'd gone over each apartmentinch by inch. She had questioned each devastated mother andcurious neighbor. She'd been to the lab, the morgue, the scenes ofcrimes, and in short, all over the city for 48 hours, pausing only tocollect her data while chopping onions or braising tomatoes.
She threw the rolling pin down once and for all and began to pace.
This was the most elusive case she had ever worked on. She
was famed for her logic, her keen hypotheses and her amazing
16

capacity for keeping all the facts in her head. She produced criminals in two days in cases others had worked on for months. But thephysical facts were not adding up.
''Wha t could be happening to those girls now?" she wondered.
She bit her knuckles. "Damn it, think!"
The telephone rang. "Lieutenant Barton here. Chief wants you
down at Madison Day. Been a few murders.""I'll be right there."•••

The place had had one window in the kitchen room and one in
the room with the mattress. The window in the kitchen looked out
against the building next door. A small gas range stood away from thewall, where Wanda stood sometimes, heating coffee. Wanda Wanda
Wanda. The name should remember the face. But only the window
remained, where Yvette stood watching the pigeons, waiting forfood,looking down at the alley of glass. Long afterwards, Yvette dreamt of
the window; seeing the gray green paint with its blackened wrinkles,
and hearing Wanda's voice; and turning, hoping to see Wanda's face.
Sometimes she'd remember the other window, and lying on themattress while the man ground himself into her. She could not breatheenough to scream. Over and over again she bled. The window looked
out through a gap between the buildings, and it was at this gap that
she would stare. She remembered nothing before the place.
Now she stood tall and changed herself at will to a flapping
screen door, a blowing newspaper, or a shadow. She darted up fireescapes and leapt across roofs. She put her hands on the sides ofbuildings to find what she was looking for. She followed trails ofsorrow through supermarkets and department stores, on line at
the welfare office, and in the subways. She sang:Hey now woman -leave your desperation
Move now and take - a new reparation.
Sometimes she dreamt that she found Wanda .

•••Inspector Romirez leaned against a chain link fence on theedge of a grammar school playground. She had been to this school
the day before, questioning teachers about one of the missing girls.
She had been to eight schools in the past five days. She had not
slept. She hung on the fence, staring without seeing the children
inside running and screaming on the blacktop lot.

17

Irene drew her eyebrows together. She tried to imagine how a
twelve year old girl could kill five boys. She tried to imagine any
one of these small laughing children killing an adult man. It wasabsurd. Assuming for the moment that it might be possible withthe right amount ofluck and desperation, it was still inconceivablethat nine of them would do it in the same month,like an epidemic.
She heaved a great sigh, her eyes wandering up and down theschoolyard. Some little girls were playing jump rope nearby, andIrene watched them for a long minute before she began to hear thewords they were singing:Hey nonny-no, I've come to let you go
Hey nonny nee, I've come to set you free
What a strange song, she thought. She leaned closer.
Once there was a big man
Who liked to hit his wife
And stick it in his daughter
But she killed him with a knife
Hey nonny-no I've come to let you go
Hey nonny-nee I've come to set you free
Irene Romirez's mouth fell open. Very slowly she walked into
the schoolyard. A group of girls stood in a circle near the entrance
playing a clapping game:
I went to tell my motherShe said be a good girl now
I went to tell my father
But he just hit me - pow!
I went to tell my teacher
And got no recess for a week
I went to tell a nun
She said turn the other cheek
I tried to tell a shrink
He said are you repressed
And the preacher only said
Do you have something to confess
They think that they can take you
They think you are for sale
And the judge just says not guilty
Or lets him out on bail18

Irene walked very slowly all around the schoolyard. She
stopped when the pavement began to move up and down beneathher. A group of girls at her feet sang:
Get on board little children
Get on board little children
Get on board little children
There's room for many more•••

Mabel was a waitress at the Red Bonnet Diner. She worked 54
hours a week in a pink polyester uniform with a white frilled apron
and cap. She could dish out, wipe down, check in and ring up fasterthan instant coffee. For 54 hours a week, she did not sit down.
"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat, hon?" she asked asshe poured black coffee into Irene Romirez's cup.
''No. No, thank you. That'll be all." Irene's hand shook as she
picked up the coffee cup. She set it back in the saucer with a rattle.
'What's the matter with her?" asked Cheryl adjusting her cap in
the reflection of the pie case. "Looks like she's seen a ghost."
Irene laid her spoon down on the coffee shop table. She remembered being a tiny child and holding her grandmother's hand as they
climbed up many flights of stairs. At the very top, across a chippedmosaic raIlway, was the door to where the Brujas lived. The Brujas
was the oldest woman Irene had ever seen. Through the doorway,
across a dim room smelling of dried herbs, she sat on a thin woodenstool, like a spider. She had long white braids and thousands of little
wrinkles shooting out from her eyes. She looked into Irene's face andsaid, "La gue guarde los secretos. This one will see.""You know," she heard one of the waitresses saying, "If waitresses ran the world, this would be the most efficient planet."'We do run the world," said the older one, "I'd like to see Lefranski in here waiting tables."The younger one snorted, "For two dollars a fucking hour!""And then there's my sister, the one who works in the bank. Shesays to me, Mabel, I held a million dollars today. I said so what. What
are you gonna do? She says nothing, I just think about it sometimes.
And it's pretty funny, you know? I mean, what if she just took it?"
Irene shivered. "La gue guarde los secretos," she said softly,"the secret keeper."•••19

Walking along a side street carrying two empty shoppingbags, a tall white-haired woman turned at the sound of her name.
"Is that you, Miss Miracov?""Oh, Miss Donolley, good morning!" she said smiling towards
the approaching woman. "Isn't it a beautiful day?""Yes, and about time." Miss Donolley pulled her wire shopping cart onto the curb behind her. "Though I have to say, my cold
weather coat is much better for shopping."
They walked briskly through the streets to a large store with neon
letters. Miss Donolley parked her cart against a tow zone sign.
"And how are your little charges?"''Not so little!" Miss Donolley said. "Eating me out of house andhome- but they're good girls, really. Offered to do the shopping, but
I don't think it's safe for them to be out during the day."'Well, they should be sleeping anywa y," said Miss Miracov, as
they entered the store, "with all that running around at night." She
put two loaves of bread into her shopping bag.
"Look at this!" Miss Donolley held up a package of cheese, "$2.99- outrageous." She shook her head and slid it into her pocket.
'What did you think of that presentation last night? It seems
to me that we could do the same thing at NBC, and if you ask me,Time-Warner would be a piece of cake."
Behind them someone cleared his throat. Miss Miracov continued dropping packages of dried beans into her shopping bag.
"Uh, rna' am?" A tall lanky boy wearing a grocer's apron stoodnervously watching them.
"Oh, bother," said Miss Miracov. "Be a good boy, dear, and put
your hands up." She drew a small revolver from her purse.
"Lois! That old fashioned thing?"'Well, I haven't got anything bigger."Miss Donolley took hold of the boy's chin, forcing him to look
into her eyes. "There," she said. "Helpless as a babe, and what can
he say to the police?" She ducked under his arm, still frozen in the
air. "Nothing but trouble with that thing, Lois."
Miss Miracov stuffed the revolver back into her purse. "Veryclever!" she said, grabbing a last bag of apples, "do you think it
could work from a video camera?"
Back outside they walked through the street unnoticed, thewire cart rattling behind them.

•••20Irene was not su·re if she dreamt it or if she actually left her bed
and ran through the streets. She saw lights on in windows where
women were meeting. She saw girls darting through streets andalleys holding bricks. One of them took her hand and led her
through a deserted park, where the streetlights had been shot out.
Only the light of the moon outlined the figure of the tallest woman
Irene had ever seen. The woman looked at her intently"" Are you
ready?" she asked. Irene nodded. Then there was the sound of atelephone.
"Inspector Romirez? Officer Cradley here - you got to comedown to the station.""What's going on?"''It's the chief - ya gotta come down here." Irene hung up andpicked up her car keys. She knew what she was going to find.
"Police Chief Dead - Daughter, 13, Missing." ltwas on the front
page of every newspaper. "The body of Police Chief Edmund Dunphy
was found this morning at 6 a.m. by the newspaper delivery boy.
Dunphy's thirteen-year-old daughter Amelia is missing. The cause ofdeath is unknown and police are still baffled. Inspector Irene D.
Romirez has been temporarily appointed to Dunphy's position."•••

There was a riot in the garment district.
The week before it had been the red light zone, and Dunphy
had sent riot squads who beat fifty or so prostitutes senseless.
Irene had wondered what she would do if it happened again.
"They're setting fire to the building and they've killed twomen," Officer Cradley was fuming.
''Who have they killed?" asked Irene.
''It was Capowitz," Cradley exchanged glances with Barton.
''Who was he?""Look, Dunphy had a deal with him, okay?""And you knew about it?""Aw, come on. Everybody did."
Irene hesitated only a moment before she sent a squad of boys,
the ones who most wanted to bash a bunch of bitches senseless.
But no one could identify the very skilled sniper that shot
down the row of them. And Irene, from her vantage point on topof an office building, could see the streets filling with women.

21Sapphire

American Dreams
Suspended in a sea of blue-grey slate
I can't move from the waist down.
Not being alive from the waist downbrings visions & obsessions of & withquadriplegics & paraplegics,
wondering how they live, smell,
why they don't just die.
Some people wonder that about blacks,
why they don't just die.
A light-skinned black woman I know
once uttered in amazement about a black black woman"I wanted to know how did she live
being as black as she was!"
I don't quite know how to get freeof the karma I've createdbut I can see clearly now
that I have created my life.
My right ankle has mud in it,
I'm in debt
I need dental work
&1 am alone.
Alone if I keep seeing myself
through Donna Reed's & Father Knows Best's eyes,
If I don't see the friends,
people who care,giving as much from their lives as they can.
If you live in the red paper valentine of 1st grade of 1956
then you are alone.
If you live in the real world of now,of people struggling freethen you are not alone.

22

Isolation rises up
like the marble slabs
placed on the frontof cheap concrete high-rises
With apartments that start at 500,000 dollars.
It all seems so stupid
but I understand it now,
why they have homeless people
sleeping in front of these
artificial penis looking buildings.
It's so we'll move in,so such terror will be implanted
in our guts
we'll save money& buy a concrete box
to live in & be proudto call it home.
All anybody really wants
is some security,a chance to live comfortably
until the next
unavoidable tragedy
unavoidably hits them
& splices open their chests,& takes the veins from their legs,& carves up their heartin the name of surgery
or vicious murdermurder murderer
hal hal hal
murderer.
No one,nothing
can protect you
from the murderer.
Not the police, nuclear weapons, your mother, the Republicans,mx missiles none of that23

can protect you
from the murderer.
Even if you get all the niggers
out the neighborhood
the murderer might bea white boy like David Berkowitz
baby-faced Jewish boy
who rarely missed a dayof work at the post office.
hal hal hal you're never safe!
Like a crab walking sideways
America hides its belly
under an arsenal of radioactive crust,
creeping along with its
long crustacean eyes,sucking debris fromthe ocean floor
till there is no more,while the giant Cancer breasts
get biopsied & amputated& the crab caves inunder the third world's dreams& 5 million pounds of concrete.
& the murderer
stabs stabs stabs
at the underbelly &tiny submicroscopic
little viruses
fly out in ejaculate& claim your life,
while the powers that don't bejoin together
for a loving circle jerk
& nostalgic reminiscenceof days gone by,lighting candles for Roy Cohen& J. Edgar Hoover as they lay a bouquet of cigarettes
on John Wayne's grave24who is clandestinely slipping
into the wax museum
to suck Michael Jackson's dick
only to find he has had his penis
surgically reconstructed
to look like Diana Ross's face.
& the Trane flies onlike Judy Grahn's wild geese
over a land diseased like cancer
killing flowers by the hour
& a huge hospiceopens up in the sky& the man quietly tells his wife
as he picks up his rifle,"I'm going people hunting."& he steps calmly
into McDonalds & picks off
20 people& blood pours red
Big Macs fall flat
amid shrieks & screams
while the plastic clown
Ronald McDonald
smiles down on the houseadditives & the destruction of
the rain forests built.
& you smile for awhilefeeling ever so American& in good company
as you eat compulsively,
after all, the whole country does it.
It's just pasta heaven here
till you get your x-ray
or biopsy back.
Making the world safe for democracy& you can't even evade
heart disease until you're 40& it attacks quietly

25

walking on those big
expensive sneakers
Black teenagers wear
as they shove the pawn shop gun
to your head and say,
"GIMME EVERYTHING YOU GOT!"& for once you are not afraidcause the nigger has AIDS.
You laugh triumphantly,
finally you've given
him & the world
everything you got!
I was at Clark Center for the Performing Arts
getting ready for my morning ballet classwhen this old wrinkled up white faggot
ran up to me, threw his arms around me & grabbed
me in a vise-like grip & screamed:
BE MY BLACK MAMMY SAPPHIRE
BE MY BLACK MAMMY
He held on & wouldn't let go.
Finally I thought to turnmy hand into a claw
& raked straight down his facewith my fingernails.
He let go.
I'll never forget
how hurt & bewildered he looked.
I guess he was just playing.
I was just devastated.
There are no words
for some forms
of devastation
though we constantly
try to describe
what America has done
& continues to do to us.
We try to describe it

26

without whining or quittingor eating french fries
or snorting coke.
It's so hard not tobe an addict in America
when you know numerology& have x-rayed the insideof Egyptian mummies 5,000 years& robbed the graves of Indians& deliberately blinded children& infected monkeys & rats
with diseases you keep alive
waiting for the right time
so you can spring' em
on anyone else who might be making progress.
Well, you're miserable now America.
The fact you put a flagon the moon
doesn't mean you own it.
You can't steal everything
all the timefrom everybody.
You can't have the moon sucker.
A peanut farmer from Georgia
warned you
you could not stay number 1that number 1 was an illusion
in a circle which iswhat the world is,but you still think thatthe world is flat
& you can drive out evil
with your pitchfork & pickup truck.
One time when I was a little girl living on an army base
I was in a gymnasium & the general walked in.
& the general is like god or the president if you believe.
The young woman who was supervising the group of27

children I was with said,"Stand up everybody! The general's here!"
Everybody stood up except for me.
The woman looked at me & hissed,"Stand up for the general!"
I told her, "My father's in the army not me."& I remained seated.
& throughout 38 years ofbucking & winging
grinning & crawlingbrown nosing & begging
there has been a quiet
10 year old in me
who has remained seated.
She perhaps is the real American Dream.

untitled
Sudie Rakusin
28

Elana DykewomonSome Things Chava Meyer Says:
here is a road away from death.
I came across seas to find it.
But death is desperate for us,
hungry for Jews.
I wonder why Jews taste so good to death?
Did Rose taste good to death?
Did she taste like a charred chicken breast,
the skin sweet and crunchy
when death met her
in that locked room?
Why do I think such things?
The boat was so cold, the shop was so hot.
We thought in america it would be different
but only america's manners are different
or its clothes.
Underneath there is the samelust let me call it what it is
I'm not ashamed.
How can I be ashamed anymore
after I saw Rose's body from the fire?

This poem is the introduction to a novel-in-progress about Chava Meyer, bornin Russia, whose parents where killed in the 1903 Kishnev pogrom, and who
emigrated with a family of her cousins. She became lovers with her cousin Rose,
only to see her die in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911 in New York
City. Many of the deaths from that fire were attributed to management's locking
the fire exit doors to keep workers from leaving early. After the fire, Chava tried
to be a union organizer in New York, but her grief and her inability to accept theconstraints on her gender pushed her west.

29

She was so soft
she was so good to me
I tell myself stories about how good she was to mesometimes I'm not sure anymore
if she really did put her calloused hand on my cheek.
Her eyes were so blue
nothing else in life is that color because the color in eyes changes on you a person's eyes, all of a sudden,
some feeling shuts out light.
How can that happen?
When we were children we'd pretend
we could control the candle flameby thinking:now I think it will be very small How can I stop thinking about the fire?
I tell myself stories about her goodness,
how she put her hand on me,
the heat in our rooms unbearable
but at least
it drove everyone else to the fire escape.
And if we lay with just our slips on
our breathing noisy, labored
who would think something was wrong?
I never would have believed the world
stretched out so farI still cannot bring myself to speak
about the sea, crossing the sea I pretend I dreamed it and if I try
I believe it although my stomach is bad
after that dream.
My stomach is bad.
She would stick her finger
in the cream at the top of the milk bottles
and hold her hand out to me.

30She would pull my IIp down
and run the cream against my teeth
until I couldn't stand it anymore and I would
bite and lick her fingers we were so lucky.
Listen to me!
What we endured, what we went through,now she's dead, murdered, they murdered herwhen they locked those doors.
All I can do is keep moving
looking at your america traveling west.
The train stops for a minute.
I stare out over this lake catch a little bright blue at sunrise
over there, see, in the shallow water.
It's a nice color but
there was no color, really, like her eyes
and I forget for a minuteIsay
we were so lucky.

31

Ruthann Robson

Looking for Lesbian Legal Theory
A Surprising Journey
Rom the sandy whites of Florida through the southern forests'
greens, through the sunset mesa pinks and high desert beiges, into
the tie-dyed urbanity of Berkeley, I travel across the country inorder to do a project (a book!) I'm calling Lesbian Law. I've been an
attorney for the last ten years, and much of what I want to do
involves writing about the practical problems of discriminationthat affect lesbians. I believe I'm going to get the luxury of an"academic" year to think and write about the possibilities andperplexities of a lesbian jurisprudence - a lesbian philosophy oflaw. I'm torn between lesbian anarchism (the law is totally irrelevant) and legalization of lesbianism (law is the answer to our
problems, including problems in our intra-lesbian relationships).
I am looking for a symphony of lesbian voices singing about
conflict resolution, about discrimination and child custody and thecriminality of our sexuality. I want to look at the law through the
kaleidoscopic lens of lesbian theory. I'm excited about the project,
but I don't feel especially inventive or creative, for I see the project
as one of application: applying lesbian theory to legal theory. I've
been reading lesbian theory for longer than I've been a lawyer: I've
got the 42 boxes of books to prove it.
So, on the drive across country, I don't look for lesbian theory.
I think I know where it is: safely snuggled in a Roadway freighttruck. Instead, I look for places that I've always wanted to see.
Window Rock is difficult to locate if one doesn't already know
where it is (we don't); it isn't mapped as a "must see" attraction in
the AAA Guidebook. But this site of the tribal government of the
Navaho Nation is worth all the U-turns. The space is singularly
sacred. I gaze a long time at the round hole in the stone, almost
forgetting that I had assumed the "window" would be a rectangle.
Much less sacred is the University of California at Berkeley
campus. I feel too old to be a student. I've been accepted into a rarified
graduate law program and as an affiliated scholar with a feminist.

32

"research group," both on the basis ofa four page, nine chap ter outlineof "Lesbian Law." At the orientation meeting for the graduate law
program, the materials list my project as "feminism and the law."
During the introductions, I sip the overly strong coffee popular inBerkeley and listen to the other students, most of whom are foreign
lawyers from other industrialized countries, describe their projects asvarious legal aspects of international trade. When I say my name, I
correct "feminism" to "lesbianism." When I relate this story at thefeminist research group, I wittily add that everyone groped for theirEnglish dictionaries. The truth is more mundane: everyone at thegraduate law meeting stared at the ceiling; as did I. At the feminist"research group," no one stares at the ceiling, yet the law aspect of myproject seems alienating. The only other feminist engaged in an
explicitly lesbian project is researching psychological issues.
At the law school I often felt as if I were surprising everyone by
my aberrant interest in a bizarre topic. For those law professors, law
students and lawyers whose interest persisted beyond surprise (often
because I was directly engaged with them), the rearguard reaction
was dismissive. ''How is what you are doing any different fromfeminist legal theory?" I was asked repeatedly, and less often, "Howis what you are doing any different from gay rights legal theory?"
These questions resurfaced in responses to a cross-country "informal
survey" I conducted by mail of lesbian legal workers. Either the real
problem was gender or the real problem was sexual orientation, but
lesbianism definitely did not qualify as real within the realm of legal
theory. My work was petty, and worse, divisive.
The relevance - the right to existence, space, breath - of mywork on Lesbian Law has been challenged in a manner I had neverbefore experienced, including when my work consisted of studying
German philosophers who were either long-dead or who had been
Nazi sympathizers. I became what I like to think of as disarming;
expert in the smiling sentences that started "yes, but." I mouthed
expressions like: "Just as feminist legal theory has been heterosexist,
so gay rights legal ideology has been sexist." I wrote footnotes tosupport such statements. I could cite to the "observation" by
feminist legal theorist Catharine MacKinnon that the "terrain of
feminism" is "relations between the sexes."l I could discuss theUnited States Supreme Court's decision in Bowers v. Hardwick, in

33

which the Court ruled there was no constitutional right to "homosexual sodomy," apparently construing "homosexual" to mean''between men" and the outpouring of legal commentaries disapproving the decision but furthering the interpretation of "homosexuality" as "male homosexual-ity."2 I quoted and cited andfootnoted until I could footnote my footnotes.
While I could footnote exclusions, I was less successful footnoting positive expressions of lesbian theory. Within the world oflegal scholarship, there were many articles on "feminist jurisprudence" that had been written by women I knew to be lesbians.
Lesbianism, however, was becoming an epistemological question
for me: how did I know the author was lesbian? My knowledge
was usually based on incidents outside the legal scholarship:
gossip, supposition and in one case a narrative in a lesbian publication. I adopted Cheryl Clarke's methodology for identifying alesbian as a woman "who says she is."3 This excluded almost all of
the feminist legal theory published, but I was comfortable with thisbecause for the most part, whatever the sexuality of their authors,
I did not find the articles particularly "lesbian."
Outside of the arcane atmosphere of legal theory, I was lesscomfortable with my inability to footnote lesbian theory. The 42
boxes of books had made their way across the country, arriving
looking as if they had been tossed from a small aircraft, and were
now stacked at various angles on the bookshelves. But as I looked
and relooked at those texts, I was becoming troubled at the
integrity of claiming many of them as lesbian. Is Mary Daly alesbian theorist? For years and years, I had consistently read theterm "radical feminist" as a cipher for "lesbian," but then again, as
a girl I had assumed "ladies night" emblazoned in neon signs ofbars meant "lesbian." I have never thought we were invisible: Isaw
us everywhere: Even where we weren't. I worried about thepossibility of an adult bout of false optimism.
My footnote crisis exacerbated my discomfort with the term"radical feminist." As Joan Nestle has written: "Articulated feminism
added another layer of analysis and understanding, a profound one,
one that felt so good and made such wonderful allies that for me
it was a gateway to another world - until I realized I was saying
radical feminist when I could not say lesbian."4 Nestle's essay is en-34

titled ''Butch-Femme Relationships: Sexual Courage in the 1950's;"
she is writing about the import of lesbian relationships occurringin the decade I was born. Yet her essay resonates with me as one ofthose girls who educated herself off of the streets and out of the bars.
Theorizing and reading were my strategies of survival. I needed apolitic to justify my body's desires. I thought radical feminism wasthat politic; I thought lesbianism was "only" the body's desires.
But in Berkeley as my daily life organizes itself around doing
lesbian legal theory, I strengthen my commitment to lesbianism as
theory, as politic. Theory. Politic. Not lifestyle or sexual preference/orientation/persuasion. Not radical feminism. Not even lesbianHYPHEN-feminism. Lesbianism. A lesbianism that can have relevance to legal theory. A lesbianism grounded in the body's desires
but not reducible to it.
Yet again and again I am confronted with my own confusions
between radical feminism/lesbian feminism/lesbianism. In a student-organized seminar on feminist legal theory at Boalt Hall, there
are efforts to incorporate lesbianism into feminism. I even participate
in some of these efforts. At the end of the semester Chinese dinner tocelebrate the course (and obliterate its tensions), the conversation
momentarily clears my confusions. The heterosexual women areconfessing the multitudes of instances in which they have denied
their feminism because they have been mocked for it. One woman
proposes that what feminism "really needs" is a "public relations
campaign so that people understand feminists aren't perverts who
don't shave their legs." What these heterosexual women are sa yingis that feminism has been degraded by dykes. What I have implicitly said is that feminism has elevated lesbians. While this iscertainly not the first time that I have experienced lesbianism as
being a drag on feminism, not the only time I have felt like the poor
relation at the feminist banquet, I decide it is going to be my last.
I reduce my "lesbian theory" books by half. My hunger is satiatedby the works of Audre Lorde, Adrienne Rich, Joan Nestle, Judy
Grahn, and Marilyn Frye (whose wonderful book The Politics ofReality
is nevertheless subtitled ''Essays in Feminist Theory"). I reread every
back issue of lesbian periodicals. I gain a deeper appreciation forthe lesbian separatists, especially Sarah Hoagland and Jeffner
Allen, who insist on the term lesbian, who insist on lesbianism as35

a theory. I look again and again at all the lesbian fiction, lesbian
history, lesbian psychologies and lesbian criticism. I revisit lesbian
poetry I had memorized years ago: "There are words I cannot
choose again: / humanism androgyny / Such words have no
shame in them, no diffidence / .... "5 Feminism is becoming a word
I cannot choose again; the shame in it is not mine.
I begin not to miss the works excluded because they "do not
say they are" lesbian. Lesbian theory is varied, diverse and fascinating. The law review articles I complete, scholarly and footnoted,
reject both feminist and gay rights ideologies as a basis for lesbianlegal theory. I complete an article entitled "Lesbian Jurisprudence?"
I am counseled not to submit it for publication because it is not
perfect and the first work to see print in such a novel area should
be as perfect as possible. I am told that the sources cited are "wayout." I am told that the article does not really "solve" the separatistproblem within lesbianism. I submit the article anyway.
Another article begins as a historical piece, but transmutes intoa piece of historiography: a lesbian theory of lesbian legal history.
I criticize the prevailing notion of lesbian sexuality as unpunishedthroughout history; there are cases, executions, banishments. Thereis also a famous Swiss jurist in the 16th Century who advises
authorities with no prior experience with lesbian crimes to omit
the customary description of the crime when reading the death
sentence.6 As much as I distrust conspiracy explanations, I posit a
conspiracy of silence on the part of legal authorities surrounding
lesbian crimes. Relevant to legal history, it seems I can answer (atleast partially) Lillian Faderman's question: "Who Hid Lesbian
History?" 7 They did. And they did it on purpose.
But we did too. We did it on purpose, for our own protection
and our own survival. And we continue to do it, to hide our own
history. Although it is popular to assert that lesbians as a category
did not exist before the 19th Century "rise of the sexologists," wehide history in our selection of what qualifies as "lesbian." If wechoose lesbian legal history as applicable to upperclass school
mistresses, we might conclude that lesbianism was legally unimaginable; if we choose lesbian legal history as encompassing
prostitutes, vagrants, thieves and the criminally "insane," then thelegal history of lesbianism is not a portrait of immunity.8 Our

36lesbian theory determines, at least in part, our choice of history, ourchoice of what is revealed and what remains hidden.
Our lesbian theory, however, is itself hidden. To rephrase
Faderman's question: Who hid lesbian theory? obviously, "they" didand "they" do. It is difficult to find time, space and money in thispatriarchaliy constructed world to "do" lesbian theory; it is difficult
to publish and difficult to obtain, even from "alternative" sources.
But we hide it too. We hide lesbianism as a theory within radical
feminism and gay rights ideology. We deny that lesbianism is atheory. If we are predisposed (or pre-educated) to believe a theory isnecessary, we decide lesbianism is too lonely; it needs feminism or gay
rights ideology. I want to challenge this. I am not denying connectionsor the value of coalitions, but I am proposing that lesbianism must be
self-referential and independent. True connections and coalitions are
not constructed among ideologies if one ideology is consideredderivative: one does not make common cause with one's shadow. On
the other hand, if we reject theory as a bourgeois concept not necessary to our daily lives, we decide lesbianism is a body without a politic. Our sexuality becomes a happenstance, an irrelevance. I want
to challenge'this too. Theory is the way in which we conceptualize
and understand our realities. Although as imperfect as all analogies,
I sometimes think of theory as a roadmap: it helps me negotiate
places I have not yet experienced, helps me decide where I want to go
and how to get there. Theory is not dogmatism: I do not drive throughthe road block because the map indicates the road is passable.
Theory mapped my way across the country, to a place where,
despite the drought, it seems to rain a lot as I compile footnote after
footnote. I am looking for lesbian legal theory. I am substantiatingit, citing it, quoting it. And, strange as it may seem, those footnotes
aren't for anyone else but us. Even as the money runs out and I
interview for jobs, explaining my recent scholarship to glazed eyesover mouths that repeat: "How is this any different from feminist
legal theory? From gay rights ideology?" I know that those footnotes aren't for these interviewers or the next job or the "interesting" resume. I am not footnoting for them. I'm footnoting for us.
For if we hide lesbian theory, we hide it from ourselves.
I am committed to rewriting those footnotes into a book that isaccessible and intelligent. I imagine the finished book will dispense

37

with all those academic superscripts and postscripts. Meanwhile, alaw student calls me on the phone to accept an article, telling me:''The article is really great. I've given it to dykes here who aren't
involved with the law at all and they think it's really great." I am
thrilled. The article is not great, I know, although I sometimes think
it is good. In my more effusive moments I allow myself to think it
is very good, but it is definitely not great. It is only overdue.
I want a lesbian legal theory of lesbian battering; of lesbian
relationships (to contract or not to contract?); of sexual "privacy"
within lesbian communities. I'm looking, not for definitive answers, but for possibilities. I suppose I'm looking for lesbian legal
theories. I bargained for the luxury of this time to look for lesbian
theories and I don't want to waste any more time hiding or being
hidden in feminism, radical feminism and gay rights. A lesbian
theory is that which says it is .9 I am satisfied with this; satisfied withthe lesbian theory I am finding. But I am thirsty for more; and more.
I continue to look because I am thirsty. But I also want to look
for lesbian legal theories for all those lesbians who have ever been
involved with the law, perhaps as legal workers, perhaps as clients
invoking legal protections, but also as subjects of the law's awful
powers capable of depriving lesbians of their physical freedom,
their children, their lovers and their lives. I want to look for lesbian
theories for that lesbian who thought the article was great; for all
the lesbians-like-me who thought ladies' night was meant for
women-loving-women; for all the lesbians-not-like-me who knew
the window in the rock would be round; for all the lesbians wewould have been and all the lesbians we are.

1. MacKinnon in DuBois, Dunlap, Gilligan MacKinnon and Menkel-Meadow in"Feminist Discourse, Moral Values and the Law- A Conversation," 34 Buffalo LAw
Review 11,20 (1985).
2. My favorite example is this quote attempting to support a claim that homosexuality does not threaten the institution of heterosexual marriage:... by persuading homosexuals into a heterosexual marriage, the state isacting to increase the divorce rate. A homosexual can survive in a heterosexual
marriage by using fantasies ofmen to experience an eroticfeeling. However, thisfrustrates a homosexual's natural feeling, just to conform with heterosexual
marriage.

38

Casenote, "Bowers v.Hardwick: The Constitutionality of Georgia's Sodomy
Statute," 20 John Marshall L. Rev. 325, 340n.107 (1986) (citations omitted) (emphasis added).
3. C. Clarke, "Lesbianism: An Act of Resistance" in This Bridge Called My Back:
Writings by Radical Women of Color 128 (1981).
4. J. Nestle, A Restricted Country 107 (1987).
5. Adrienne Rich, "Natural Resources" in A. Rich, The Dream of a Common Language, 60,66 (1978).
6. Germain Colladon is the jurist. See generally Monter, "Sodomy and Heresy in
Early Modern Switzerland," 6 J. Homosexuality 41 (1980/1).
7. In Lesbian Studies (ed. Margaret Cruikshank 1982).
8. This conflict is expressed in the comparison of two articles, Everard, "Lesbian
History: A History of Change and Disparity," 12 Journal of Homosexuality 123,
129-30 (1986) (discussing an unmanageable "morally insane" housemaid who
had "the habit of holding her hands to her genitals at night, and even went so
far as to invite her aunt, with whom she shared a bed ...and even to try to force
her to do it together as man and woman,") and Faderman, "A Response to
Myriam Everard's "Lesbian History: A History of Change and Disparity," 15Journal of Homosexuality 137, 140 (1988) (discussing the concept of romantic
friendship). Faderman attempts to resolves the conflict:
Everard found the true ancestor of the lesbian in Magdalena van W., awoman discussed in an 1882 medical journal article on insaniamoralis, who
led a life of vagrancy, street fighting, thievery, and prostitution, whichbrought her into regular contact with police and corrective institutions.
Magdalena is undoubtedly a spiritual ancestor to many women who
identify as lesbian today, not only women of the lower class, but women
who were born into the middle class and have declassed themselves, oftenout of disgust with social institutions. Many other contemporary lesbians,
however, find they have much less in common with hard-drinking, roughand read y street women like Magdalena, and much more in common with
Aagje Deken [mentioned in the Everard article], who longed to "live next
to her with whom my heart is already joined." But then, perhaps we eachhave a right to define for ourselves who is our spiritual predecessor.
ld. at 140-1. Faderman's resolution that "perhaps" we have the right to define
lesbian predecessors for ourselves does not entirely answer the question for me.
If I feel more identification with "lower class" Magdalena, am I justified inignoring Aagje Deken? Or if I feel more comfortable reading love letters thanclinical records, does that mean I should limit myself to the literate classes? The
choosing of a "spiritual predecessor" in what I see as essentially a class conflict
has important consequences for the history - and the theory - I will produce.
If I choose the writer oflove letters as the predecessor, I might reach easily reacha conclusion that lesbianism was unpunished and unpunishable. If I choose thehousemaid, I might conclude that lesbianism was censured by the law, althoughperhaps under different rubrics, such as "vagrancy" or "moral insanity."
9. See supra note 3 (Cheryl Clarke).

39

Jasmine MarahStudy

I sit at the table with her, in a kind of dual trance. No conversation,
hasn't been for an hour or so. Occasionally she says "K" or "5" or"B." I answer hmm, or no. Sometimes she cannot decipher theletter with her fingers. Then I take it from her hand and replace itwith another.
Her large, working hands flutter as delicately in mine as anintelligent infant's. They are cold, dry, sensitive, trained to assist
her evaluation of the physical world from early childhood. I, too,have this habit. Though I taught myself to read at four, I early
realized that my perception of an object was clarified by touch.
Always got me into trouble in museums.
But Polly's dyslexia and related "learning disabilities" wereenough to keep her from learning to read until she became adult.
She reads painfully slowly, not fluidly enough to permit her to takeclasses. When my kids, both dyslexic, were unable to read in thethird and fifth grade, I made sandpaper letters, used with ablindfold, for them to learn with. Polly is using them now.
I thought I would be bored sitting in silence with her, while shepicked out and aligned the letters. I wasn't expecting this tender,
intense communication that is happening between us. I've moved
under the cover that she has developed over the years. The feelingis familiar, a place that I haven't known outside nursing mydaughter, and having nothing to do with mothering. This is an
intimacy that depends neither on words nor images, but feelings
alone, a telepathy of currents we usually try to protect and explain,
but rarely to share.
Her feelings are strong and clear. Effort, intense concentration,
tentative solution, sureness; or conversely, disorientation, confusion, release. I am sending calm, encouragement, praise. At thesame time I know that it is her own drive, pride and determinationthat keeps her going.
Places in my heart are opening that I haven't known wereclosed, places covered with cold stones, tumbled-down houses. I
40

watch the sweat on her neck curl the fine hairs there, seeing, feelingthe concentration, the pathways, which are so different from mostother people's, but are very similar to my own. It is exercise tolearn. Polly is always learning, observing, sifting, evaluating, but
she has not had the opportunity to team these two, usually separated, areas together before.
Polly's quickness, her sureness, her method of making markers
for herself strums my brain, releasing long unsounded chords ofconcentration in harmony with another person. I feel tenderized,
alert to this opening, like a person kept a long time in darkness, letinto the light without sunglasses. Will this make it too dangerous
to continue?
But Polly is entirely her own person sorting these letters.
Because she does not know alphabetical order, she cannot guess
the next from the one that has come before. I give them to her inorder. A few times she could not decipher the letter. Since I was nottalking to her, and since I wanted to interfere as little as possible,
I did not tell her to leave a space when a letter was not decoded. She
puts the unclear letter aside.
N ow, at the end, when only the ''W'' and a few other letters areleft out of order, I hold both her hands in mine. The right one isstationary, holding a card with a letter on it. With my left hand, I
guide her left hand over the letter. Her trust is great enough so that
she has no resistance in her fingers, yet they are not flaccid. The
fingers tremble, sense, respond and finally lead. At that I fadeaway. She recognizes the letter. An intensity of satisfaction at that.
Polly has the entire alphabet laid out. She feels the letters andidentifies them all in order. I ask her to spell out several words, stillwith the blindfold on: her name; and; is; the; stop. Her quickness
awes me. She unerringly finds the letters. She asks for the spellingof my name. I answer one letter at a time. When they are all lined
up precisely on the table, Polly removes the blindfold.

41

Ruth Farmer

from the Plantation Poems

MistressI

We run the household
Biddie and me
With the help of the other hands
So Mistress gets to entertain andSpeak of her importance.
We greet the guests,
Make sure they're fed .
We smile and make them welcome.
For they're important,
Just like Mistress
And deserve our respect.
She is praised for her wonderful house
The parties she gives:"Things are always SO nice here.
How do you do it?
"Good help is so hard to find ./I
She's grateful to us for dancing attendance
And pats us on our heads with one fair hand.
The other holds the knife
That spreads the butter on the bread
We earn for being good little girls.
II

The white feminists need us once again
Ornaments, decorations,
For their what-not shelves.
An Asian here, a Latina there, two Blacks please,
And a Native American as long as she
Is using her tribal name.

42

We're placed on the shelf
For future reference
When the movement requires our presence
To lend authenticity to the cause.
We're okay as long as we keep quiet,
And don't presume to speak,To name our own concerns
Only our feminist friends can articulate
The complexities of the struggle.
Only they have the analytical perspective
On the pertinent issues.
They don't need us to say anything anyway
Just stand there looking ethnic.
And by all means, stop being so hostile.
They are only trying to help
After all, we are sisters,
Somewhere
Under the skin.

Why Am I So Angry?
Elise Dodeles

43

Thelma Seto

This Shame is a Carnivore~e poet stands at the podium.
A Chinese dragon unfolds its wings
out of her impassive face.
No one notices.
Perhaps they don't knowwhat Chinese dragons look like,or even that they exist,
like the Asian woman poetwith her blood red mouthand her small white teeth.
She will not stop reading the poems
that gouge the inside of my ribs.
This is who you are,she says,looking me in the face.
I pull the veil over my eyes,
watch from behind the gauze cloth.
I'm afraid.
I curl like a potato bug in a cornerof this twilight house, strain to hear
the footsteps of my secret police
now she's tipped them off.
Please stop talking.
I didn't ask to come to thisdark, immobile placealone with her.
Carefully, I keep my faceblank
so she can't read it.

44

Who'd be such a foolto choose my childhood
where the word heart
shimmers like mythic standing waters
in the desert's mirage
beside the Qajar mosque,its ochre mud bricks
dripping like honey in the sun.
This shame is a carnivore
and I am its only sustenanceor pleasure.
The poet gestures for us to sit at her feet.
She is the phoenix.
We are the other three hundred and sixty
feathered species. To this assemblage
she articulates my silence
while I burn with shame:
I came to this barren place.
I have no home.
My spirit wanders,disconsolate,from continent to continent.
Even you, sitting there,
think you see me.
You cannot.
You in the back.
What do you see?
An Asian woman?
Wrong.
The dragon leaps from her mouth
like spring floods unleashed.
I am not exotic, she says,
nor submissive.
And, no,I do not have a slanted
cunt.

45

Take this bitterness
and eat it
or I will spew it
all over this city of yours
until your plains burn with its gall.
You probably won't even notice.
You are like that.
Anything that doesn't fit your image,
Asian whore, Asian wife,
you don't even see.
So very convenient.
Everything in America is convenient.
That is why I float
like a defiled person's ghost.
From inside the small woman's
small red mouth
the dragon's wings settle,
its mail clinks like moneyas it folds into a disturbed,
disturbing sleep.
The audience applauds.
Politely.
The poet pulls the tiny hoods
Caucasians call the epicanthus foldover her eyes,
sticks her chin in the air
like a moistened finger
gauging the winds for her next flight.

46

Lisa Carlin

The Significance of Stones

25 Kislev 5750 greetings sisters

we interrupt this reading
this is the voice of radio VCN
your Vilda Chaya Network saying

jew to jew anddyke to dyke
on this second night of miraculous lightin this the third year of Uprisingtake note take hopeas we recite the meaning of light
may we also invoke the significance of stoneson this second night in this third year
jew to jew and dyke to dyke
tonight I appeal to you
my message is as clear
as the imperative
to take the risk
to add my voice andcelebrate tenacity
bear witness to atrocity
and most of all insist
that genocide
is genocide and must be stopped
that we resist those fascist boys
Rabin Shamir Sharon and Bushthe IDF their "iron fist"that jew to jew and dyke to dyke
I come to you tonightin anger and in black
to make a mockery of their "diplomacy"
their rubber bullet poison gas diplomacy
their uproot trees starvation diplomacy

47

their isolation deportation mass detention
occupation curfew diplomacycollective punishment diplomacy
assassination pass law diplomacy
taxation without representation diplomacy
close the schools kill the children diplomacy
in this third year this second night
jew to jew and dyke to dyke
as we recite the prophecy"by spirit not by strength"
may we recognize and reaffirm
the wisdom of stones
as were the Maccabees a people of stones
as was the Temple freed by stones
so may it be this year
in this third year of Uprisingthat children of stones born without fear
dream only of the melody of motion
as for the Maccabees
in this third year
there is no going backthe revolution of stones
will not be stopped© 1989/5750 Lisa Carlin

Notes:
25 Kislev 5750 - December 23,1989, by the Jewish Calendar.
2nd Night of Chanukah - Festival of the Miraculous Lights.
Vilda Chaya - wild, untamed womon.
Uprising - The Intifada, Palestinian resistance to Israeli occupation ofthe WestBank and Gaza.
IDF - Israeli Defense Force.
The prophecy - The prophecy of Zechariah "Not by strength, not by power, but
by my spirit ... "The Maccabees - Chanukah celebrates the rededication of the temple, freed by
the Jewish Maccabees who overthrew Syrian despots with 3 years of guerrilla warfare.
The Wisdom of Stones- "Ancient rocks who never leave home" - Merlin Stone.

48

Nancy Nachum

Peaceniks
They are bickering about the plan. I don't participate. It's a men'splan.
The Palestinian isn't being consulted. I' mnot perceptive enoughto see if he notices. My best friend notices and speaks out. She
receives vague replies from the opposition. They're being evasive.
The traffic noise of East Jerusalem is close by. It has its reality
and we have ours. There are people in the room, with that mysterious, repetitive dynamic that strange rooms engender instrange people, and they are bickering. The Palestinian doesn'tbicker because conflict takes two and he's only one.
There are faces to look at in this room. I'm a cynic; I study
astrology, so I study the faces. This man has eastern eyes, thatwoman has western lips. I catalogue my observations. I'm not too
attentive to the speakers.
The power in this room is in the hands of one man. He has astatus position in the Israeli establishment. I marvel at how thoroughly he plays it down. A newcomer might not even guess. I
happen to know where he lives. He's got the best of both worlds.
Although there are women present, I don't feel supported. The
views of my best friend and me are minority views. The people
from overseas have the safety of distance. The establishment man
has the safety of normative lies.
Outside there shines a glorious sun, glory being a local commodity. Boys are selling watermelons down in the street. There are
moments when I'm glad my kid isn't out selling watermelons, andthen there are other moments when I think that he's bloody lucky
he doesn't have to. We live our class differences.
The men are planning a demonstration that involves a lot ofsheet plastic. This has been tried in Australia and will undoubtedly
work here. It will certainly annoy the army. For myself, I don't go
where the army goes. I'm too scared.
A woman is talking. My best friend and I have many speculations about this woman. Our speculations roam freely andreach all areas of life. What does she do, and with whom, underwhat circumstances, and with precisely what techniques.
49

We leave no stone unturned. She is fast food for thought.
There is now a clear difference of opinion. Some are for andsome against. I look around to see if there are any undecided.
I like to feel in good company. There is vacillation on some of thefaces. It looks at home there. I pick up some deep encoded bodylanguage. I can't read the code. The coders don't know they're
sending.
We take a break. They stand about, placidly heterosexual. To
myself! make blanket generalizations about their politics. I'm suretheir politics stop at the bedroom door. I don't even trust thefeminists, and I virulently suspect the men.
There have been sordid crosscurrents of anti-semitism today.
There have been great niagaras of Christian condescension. There
have been background threats of Israeli martial arts. Thus have I
perceived the action. I cannot take sides.
We are drinking coffee and eating sandwiches. Our hostess iskind. She is a woman of faith. I am an off-duty heretic. We are
becoming unfocussed. No god blesses these rooms. There arebooks for sale in three languages but god reads only one. There
are sparks in our glances.
We go back into the room. Now the business begins of decisions. To some this will have a high price. Here and there I've met
people who count costs in emotions. Here and there people havecounted me as one of their costs.
There is war in this country. It bears many false names and at
the moment it isn't called war. But in rooms such as this one weenact all its conceited pretensions, and we skirmish and parry andmake fools of our dead educations.
We have all fallen silent. Some visiting clergy are trying out a
new confrontation. I'm sincerely annoyed: they don't have theright to guilt-trip the soul-searching locals, and they don't have thesense to use their resources on authoritarian targets. The influenceof the church could do much if it ever faced hard facts.
But we Jews are on the defensive, and the point is being lost.
Our Palestinian guest is bewildered by hot double meanings. My
impatience makes me aggressive and I jump into the fray. There
are ghosts in the room and they're soon going to scare us away.
I lock in a one-to-one fight with a man of my people. So bitteram I that it doesn't even matter which one. That one won't serve in
the army but will torment his wife. This one may not beat his wife50

but he picks on his children. I have no power but I'll send theirstuffed egos to hell.
Anger has entered the room and the atmosphere changes. No
longer can we entertain illusions of guardian angels. We would
cheerfully sell each other out to our religions' old devils. We aresinners aswim in the gore of bent and torn minds. The platitudes
that brought us to meet are the earliest casualties.
I lay my beliefs at my feet and take off mental gloves. As far as
I know, I have never been innocent once. It's a pleasure to me
to tear off the masks of these showmen. To live with myself is aburden whatever I do.
Soon we are all out of breath and the battle's inconclusive. For
the hundred th time I find I can hurt but I cannot des troy. The world
views of those whom I meet remain forever intact. I get rid of someof the poison but the poison's still in me.
The rush towards honest encounter brings an imploding selfhate. I have lived in the whorl of that vortex since the day I wasborn. The Palestinian's pain has a dignity I can only envy, and I
respect his clean wounds with an ease that I don't give my own.
This room full of people is judged by the fates even as we eachjudge. I have not yet untangled the rhetoric surrounding our luck.
Should we reconvene in a decade our changes might cruelly
surprise us. There are already scars on our souls that will only
show then.
I've made enemies today who will remember me for years in
the future . This is a small town and circles entwine and collide. I
value my enemies: they are proof that I've almost existed. Existence itself always seems to float far beyond proof.
My best friend and I can't remain any longer. We have cut
ourselves off from the conformity everyone pays. If we took the
majority path we would live unforgiven. Our choices are something we cherish and don't give away.
When we stand up to leave a breath of relief swirls up near us.
We've demanded the subtle in a male world of unsubtle brutes.
Even peaceniks will hide from nuances and that's their undoing.
We hide with each other and they calmly hide from themselves.
I say to myself, it's not worth the expense of belonging. I've
gone it alone in the past and I'll go it again. No group can comfort
the guilt that I anyway feel. Out the window I see the city and her
shaded eye.

51

We have signed the list that says today we've been present. In
these unpredictable times this may turn out to be no small risk. I
don't know if the risks that we take have a value in heaven, andonly we know the struggle we've had in addressing our fears.
Tomorrow I'll sit in my workplace and look at the people.
They're respectable people who won't talk to Arabs like equals.
I'm no better than they are; I haven't the courage to challengethem. But these questions are part of my day like the air I reluctantly breathe.
Now it is evening and we are making our way through the city.
I am cold with self-disgust though the summer goes warmly about
us. I will justify nothing to no one - and anyway who wants tolisten? I am not responsible for what the Israeli men do.
My best friend and I are entranced with the movement aroundus. We will cross no man's land and get home as if everything's
simple. We make no claims on this place and thus buy our safe
passage. We have other issues to resolve that don't come from race.
Jerusalem, I tell you, is a city made only for women. Only
women deserve her soft hills, her low valleys, her night skies. Only
we can keep peace when our anger's withdrawn from men's
arsenals. Only we can be trusted with her old age, her frail shrines,
her lost graves.
We walk up the hill to our side of the city and to unease.
Though of one ethnic root we are not of these people nor are theyof us. Our vision estranges us as it's done to women before us, andthe problem's unsolved and walks with us wherever we go.

52

October 17
Ellen Oppenheimer
1989,73" x 64," machine sewn fabric, hand & machine quilted

53

Deb Parks-Satterfieldfrom Naps ... The Politics of Haira prose/performance piece in progress

I Don't Know If You Can Relate

I don't know if some of you will be able to relate to this but I must
speak of it anyway. You have no idea what colored people,
specifically WE colored people go through concerning our hair!
The problem of the hair, the do, the crowning glory, the rare, thepatch, the kitchen, yo' wig, that stuff on yo' head ... yo' naps! Short,
long, dyed, fried, layed to the side? Finger waves, Jheri curled, hotpressed or 'Fro. What's it gonna be huh? The search for a politically
non-alienating hairdo continues.
Nappy hair. Somebody had the audacity to tell me my hair
was out of style and if 1'd wear it a little softer I'd look much better.
How can the hair I was born with be out of style?
See, if it's too long and nappy then people be thinkin' you oneof them bad bitches. People get scared. Think you some sorta
political, radical, anarchistic, dyke, terrorist, hippie, commie, pinko,
red slut ... that'll kill 'em in they sleep in the name a yo' people!
If it's too short and nappy then people think you some sort of
exotic, African violet, mojo wearin' voodoo chile or they start
askin' you why don't you cut some designs into it? ... and a Jheri
curl, they should call'em scary curls .. . chile tha t' s enough grease
to fry a dozen eggs! Just lay strips of bacon 'cross yo' head, it's a lot
cheaper!
If it's too long and straight then there you are breakin' yo' necktry in' to toss it around and let it wave in the breeze like the whitefolks! Dreads? Out of the question! People be thinkin' there's
somethin' livin' up in there, be 'fraid to sit next to you on public
transportation! Dreads? That's just TOO political!
So here we are tryin' to snatch this stuff around every which
way to suit what ever mood we ha ppen to be in and match any andevery occasion ... sheeeet! ... we got to do some thin' folks! I am
here today to tell you that I have put enough chemicals on this headto keep Johnson Products in the black till hell freezes over! Do you

54hear me?! I say I have streaked, peaked and freaked this head, I
have shaped, draped and scraped this head to the max and I say toyou, sisters, it is time to give it a rest!
These days I wear my hair, how you say, au natural. No muss,no fuss, no bother. Cut as close to my head as it can possibly get
without bein' BALD. I tell people it's political- actually - it's
convenient!

Mabelle & Loretta's Tres Beau Salon of Beaute(Door bell tinkles) (Mabelle, a sixty-ish, plump, black matron with some
sort of elaborate pressed hair-do, is gazing at herself in the mirror. She
touches up her make-up as Dinah Washington plays softly on the radio... circa 1966.)
Child, what have you done to yo' head?! I told you not to
go to Felicia's but no-o-o-o you was in such a hot hurry, now here
you are wantin' Mabelle to fix it. Look at this mess! <sniffs, recoils,
mumbles "what did that woman put up in here?") If you'd a come inwhen I told you ... they all go to Felicia if they in a hurry but if you
want it done right you come to Mabelle and Loretta's ... uh huh.
where doin' heads is an art!
Darlin', I can save you coif but it's gonna costya! Say what?! ...
just a touch up 'round the edges?! Girl, ain't that much touch up in
the world! You done put so much mess on this stuff it's dryas the
Mojave! I bet you don't refill ice cube trays either. I said I bet you
don't refill ice cube trays either. I know because yo' head is all dried
up!WhatI'msayin'is ... why does one refill an ice cube tray? Right!
'cuz youanticipatin' that next cold glass a Kool-Aid. Now, why do
you grease yo' head? ... yes, 'cuz you anticipatin' that next big dateor job interview or whatever. See, you got straw growin' out cha
scalp and I bet there's empty ice cube trays in yo' freezer ... that's
poor plannin' chile. This stuff needs to be shaved right down to theskull! You ain't Diana Ross you know. Now THAT chile got somehair ... down to her ankles! ... no girl she be wearin' wigs on T.v,
yes .. . it's all stuffed up under a wig. With hair like that? .. yes she
got to be pari Indian, but she still cullud. Uh huh. She got real cullud

55

one night ... I read in JET .. . yeah JET 'cuz Ebony don't neverwanna tell the dirt! Nope, I don't even keep Ebony in the shop.
There's only so many high-yellow Negroes, sippin' Crown Royaland leanin' on Cadillacs I can look at before I get mad ... now canI continue? Well ... like I was sayin' Miss Ross got real cullud onenight, she got mad packed her husband's stuff and put the shit on
the front porch! ... uh huh another quarter in the kitty, no cussin'in the salon. You do not have to remind me, it's my rule I made it
up and I will follow it! (drops coins in jar) You wasn't even listenin'
to me, you just waitin' to see if I'm gonna cuss! You better listen tome ... see that's what you need to do with that low-lifed reptile you
been livin' with ... put his Black ass ... ass ain't no cuss word! No,
it is not! They say it on T.V so it ain't a cuss word and I do not haveto put any money in the kitty! ... ass, ass, ass! Put his Black ASS in
the street! Oh, puh-Ieeze, girl don't nobody care if he look like Billy
Dee Williams or Sammy Davis Jr. for that matter. Lemme tell you
some thin' , back in the old days I was goin' out with this pretty
dark-browned skin fella, nicest lookin' man you ever wanted tosee, could steal the sweetness from a cookie and not break it. I met
him and got them peanut butter legs ... smooth brown and easily
spread. First time I got ready to get into the bed he say, ''Baby keep
yo' hair on till we done." Well I thought he was just bein' cute, till
he wanted me to sleep in that sorry ass wig every night! One
evenin' I was standin' by the bed and as politely as you please I
took off my wig, laid it on the pillow ... then my false eyelashes, all
my make-up dumped that on the pillow too ... then finally, hedidn't know about these ... my dentures! Laid' em all right on thepillow next to him. I said, "You wanna fuck somethin', fuck that!"
Fifty cent for that one! (coins in jar) See just' cuz somebody lookgood and wanna jump up and down on you every night don't
mean no thin' ! Jealous? I'll have you know Loretta flips my switch
on a regular basis! Not that it's any a yo' damn bizness (coins in jar)what the hell (coins in jar) we do! Shit! (coins, coins, coins) And justwhat have you got that Loretta and I ain't got? 'Cept all them little
monsters and a blender you got on yo' weddin' day that don't
work no mo'! Huh ?What choo got? I got my shop, I got Loretta andI got no man under foot ... plus I ain't got to wear no wig which iswhat is gonna happen to you if you continue to patronize Felicia's!

56

(bell)Miss Shapiro, how are you today? Go on in the back Juanita'll
take care of you. What? Slow down Sister ain't no room in here forthat mess! Her money is just as green as yours and her head isalmost equally as nappy so ... those kinda people? Those kinda
people, I'll have you know, keep my mortgage paid and my waterrunnin'! If it wasn't for their steady bizness I don't know where I'dbe. You need to hush ... she comes in here for the same reason you
do to try and straighten out her kinked-up, wooly, comb-destroyin'... Well just go on and get a natural or a Afro or whatever the hell
you call it (coins) I don't care! Y'alls afro wearin' asses are putt in'me outta bizness slowly but surely! Back to Africa? .. what do you
think you know about Africa? BACK TO AFRICA MY BEHIND!
Yeah, you and Marcus Garvey ... see you don't even know whothat is! I'll tell you about Africa ... Africa walks through my door
everyday sayin', ''Do somethin' with my hair Mabelle - Felicia
done messed it up!" Go on in the back and let Juanita wash thathead! No, Ilike when you come in here with all yo' little off the wall
ideas, makes my day more interestin'! Chile you get me goin' ahundred miles an hour! (calls over her shoulder) Juanita grease that
stuff good now, we don't want no brush fires up in here! I'm
sorry baby I didn't mean to call yo' children monsters, Unique andMotif are real sweet ... yes sweet ... o.k darlin' Juanita'll take carea you (door bell tinkles).
Child w ha t have you done to yo' head?! I told you not to go to
Felicia's ...

More Hair
after the yelling, the fighting, the struggling to get me into
the house, out of my dirty clothes and into the tub
my mother washes my hairi let myself settle down into her all business no nonsense embracei close my eyes and put my head under the faucet"wait, the water has to be just right, " she murmurs
i let myself be the sweet, submissive little girl she covets ... i
wait

57

the bathroom door is closed, me, mama, steam water
gently she massages shampoo and warm mysteries throughmy hair
softly asking how did i get so dirty her small strong fingers
working up a lather i smile beneath her gaze, beneath the faucet
beneath the rivulets running down my eyes squeezed shut against
the stinging suds welcoming the smooth tender hands not raisedin anger or holding a whippin' switch
under the water time slows
we speak in low voices our breath hardly disturbing the moist
hot air
i lean against her pregnant belly as she rubs hair grease lacedwith bergamot, for good luck, into my scalp and talks about
everything ... men, women, whitefolks, my step-father, the world
braiding intricate secrets she works the knowledge into my headas she finishes the tip of the last braid, i look at the moon and wish
for more hair

June
Sine Anahita

58

Michele Connelly

What They're Missing
Zenith wonders where it will all end.
She punches the stamp marked Greenhill, NM 88473 onto thepurple pad and then comes down hard, just to the left of the stamp on
Florence's light bill. The pad softens her next blow and then she hits
Jonas's letter to his son in California. Thud, stamp, thud, stamp,
thud, stamp. The purple ink seeps into the cracks of the flat of her
hand and makes it look like she has tiny varicose veins of the palm.
''Mail hasn't come yet," she says as Meryl's key opens the backdoor.
"Surprise, surprise," Meryl says. "It's only eight thirty. Chuck's
here like clockwork at nine 0 five. You want some?" she asks, as she
pours a cup of coffee from her thermos.
"Not me. I'm onto Tab now. Besides, I got to finish these."
Zenith stops on the upswing and lets go a low whistle. 'Would you
look at that?"'What?" asks Meryl, resting her chin on Zenith's shoulder. Hereyes drop onto a number ten envelope with hand colored pink andorange magic marker mountain peaks surrounding the address.
"They're doing it again.""It's beautiful.""Beautiful? Kidstuff, even worse. You and Hattie did better as
children. Look at this one." Zenith pulls another from the stack.
This time the mountains are turquoise with purple trim.
'Wow. They're so alive.""They must be on LSD.""Nah," Meryl says. She straightens up and goes back to her
coffee.
'When have you ever seen Hudson Mountain turquoise?""Maybe that's the way it looks from up on that mountaintop."'When they're on drugs, I tell you."''They're just lonely girls with a lot of time on their hands.""You like 'em, don't you?" Zenith asks, pushing her glasses
back up her nose and putting the stamp and pad in the drawer.
Meryl stands, looking out the window. The slow curves of theriver glint in hard sun, leading her eyes downstream where the59cliffs begin and the river disappears. "Yeah, I do. They remind me,
a little, of someone ... "'Who?"
Meryl turns back to Zenith. "And I like those envelopes. It's niceto see a little color once in a while."'Well, have you noticed the color of all those peculiar magazines they're always getting?" Zenith asked . "They all have plainbrown wrappers. Does that tell you something?"''They're mailers, Zenith, you know that. What's got into you?""I don't know why they couldn't hire locals for that lookout
tower instead of importing strangers from somewhere, probably
up north around Santa Fe somewheres, when we got such a highunemployment rate here-"
Merylla ughed. 'Well, for starters, no one around here would be
willing to walk twelve miles out to the road or live without runningwater and electricity.""That's exactly what I mean!" Zenith said. "It's like the hippies
all over again, only those girls are not hippies . They're - they're
Satanists."
Meryl could tell by the screech in her voice that she wasn't kidding.
She took a sip of her coffee to let Zenith know she was taking her
seriously. "Satanists," she said. 'What ever gave you that idea?""I think they're in some kind a cult. You ever looked at thenames of those magazines?""None that I recollect, right off hand."
Zenith scowled and her black wig inched a little forward on herhead, like it always did when she was going to clinch an argument.
"Listen to this," she said, picking up the list she had written out forPreacher Tate. "Diary ofthe Crones, " she said and arched her righteyebrow over at Meryl. But Meryl, in her white painter's pants andwhite cotton blouse and bowl cut hairdo, just shrugged. "That's
another name for witches." Meryl's face looked blanker than oneof the wrappers Zenith was waving at her, so Zenith went on.
"Artemis' Army, Spinster Warriors - do you believe that one? I
don't think it's a bunch of Army gals sitting around playing Old
Maid, either. Daughters of the Amazon - Could be a SouthAmerican cult."''Doesn't sound Satanic to me."Zenith looked at Meryl with the patience of a diamondback on
a hot day. "All of 'em, without exception got this funny little stamp."
60

"So?""Don't play dumb with me, Meryl Ann Mc Callister.""Zenith, I don't see anything Satanic - ""Doesn't it seem funny to you that there's a circle above Christ's
cross, an empty circle, the hollow, empty face of the devil rightthere on top??"''It's a shame you didn't go into preaching yourself, Zenith. You
could get a congregation worked up over nothing. That's a women'ssymbol, don't you know that?""A what?"Meryl held one fist up in the air.
''What on earth are you doing, Meryl?""Remember women's lib?"
Zenith snapped her fingers "Of course! Why didn't! think ofthat?
Women's lib, that explains everything! Those girls look like they crop
their hair with rusty sheep shears and - " her voice dropped to awhisper - "their bosoms haven't been reined in since they were in a
training bra." She looked down at the symbol again. "So that's whatthat means. Well, Mrs. Satan's stolen their souls for sure then.""They're young girls, Zenith. They live a little differently thanus. That doesn't make them Satanists. I don't think they're on LSD
either and here's Chuck, praise the Lord, with the mail."
Chuck, slam bam, thank you, maam, brought in the new mail,threw it down, mouthed the words, I gotta go, grinned, took out
the old mail and was gone. Meryl handed the heavy canvas bag to
Zenith and poured herself another cup of coffee. Zenith flicked the
new mail into the small box slots like she was aiming darts at abullseye so Meryl said,"ThinkI'1l go over to the store and get somegum for my run. You want anything?"
Zenith shook her head no like she was too busy to talk, but thetruth was she was angry. What was this town coming to when
Meryl could say, they just live a little differently than us? She
swallowed hard. She did want a Tab to wash down her prickly
throat, but right at the moment she didn't want anything from
Meryl. She tilted her wig forwatd and said no to the soft hush of thedoor closing.
Lunchtime and she can finally close the window, but Zenith still
has that tightJipped feeling like she could spit at anyone who looks
at her sideways. She munches her egg salad sandwich. It feels61

gritty in her mouth, like there is something between the bread andthe eggs, something blown in in a dusty spring wind.
It has to do with those damn girls. Every time she'd just about
forgotten them and gotten back to being her old self someone'dcome up to the window, and in the course of doing their business,
ask if she'd heard from the girls on the mountain about any fires.
Nobody's asked about Hattie and Lester and her grand kids in ablue moon, but the girls on the mountain, well. This business has
her burning.
She throws the rest of her egg salad in the trash and reaches inher sack for the Little Debbies. This week she has the peanutbutter
and chocolate wafers, her favorite. She pulls the packet out, and toher amazement the wafers are smashed, all of them, as smooth aslittle grains of sand. But the bag isn't broken. How could that be?
Zenith feels a chill run down her spine. Her wig ripples on her
head. Satan's work, sure as fire catching in dry grass.
Somehow the day went better after that. She had some of her
best visits in months, better even than when Becky Talbot ran off
with one of those boys from Georgia, here putting in the powerline. "You can't be too careful," she said, and no one disagreed withher.
At four twenty Zenith heard the thump of Old Mrs. Jones's caneon the linoleum and went back out to the window. There was a girlthere, tall as a soldier, and just as big and strong. Zenith could tell
she was a girl because of the mammoth bosom that rested on the
counter. She guessed the thumping had been her huge mountainboots. The girl clomped them a couple more times and hollered,"Anybody home?" before she saw Zenith.
Zenith felt that same cold tickle on her skin. The only other girls
who came in with dirt on their legs and hair under their arms werethe lookouts. If it hadn't been for the smashed Little Debbies,
Zenith wouldn't have been able to muster up her end-of-thesummer-I-am-sick-to-death-of-tourists-smile. But now she wasdoing the Lord's work. She cleared her throat and smiled. "Can I
help you?" she asked. The girl certainly looked like she needed
some. She had to be over six feet, with brown muscly arms and theshort short hair on her head sticking straight up. The Farthington's
girl got a magazine that had pictures of rock and roll stars with hairlike this, otherwise Zenith would have thought she was the victim
of electric shock.

62

"Yeah," the girl said in a deep husky voice. "I need somedirections.
Amen, Zenith thought, amen.
"I've got this friend who works in a lookout tower somewherearound here and I've got to find her-""Oh? Is there some kind of emergency?" Zenith asked a little
hopefully.
"No, no emergency-"''Who are you?""I'm Space.""Space.""Um-hm."Zenith wasn't sure if the sensible thing was to send her on up themountain or draw her out a little more. Who needed an alias inGreenhill, but someone doing the devil's work?
She and the girl were looking at each other the whole time Zenith was figuring, and the girl's eyes never wavered. Zenith could
feel her own eyes wander back and forth from the girl's eyes to her
dog bristle hair to her big sloppy breasts to the muscles in her arms
and still the girl's eyes never moved. Get rid of her quick, Zenith
thought. ''Well you go up the mountain," she said, and just thenshe heard the deep rumble of Meryl's truck pulling into the drive.
"I have to go now," she said. "The window's closed." She pulled
the window down in front of the astonished girl and bolted it.
"Hey lady, wait a minute! Hey, open up!" the girl shouted.
Zenith turned her back to the shut window and hummed loudly.
Meryl came in and set down her sack.
''What's going on?" she asked.
''It's one of them!" Zenith said.
''Who?''-Meryl asked.
"Them," Zenith said, throwing her thumb over her shoulder
towards the mountains. Meryl looked at her like she hadn't heard
her. ''The Satan worshippers."
Meryl laughed. "Zenith, you've got to give that one up. I justgave Shelly a ride down here-""You gave her a ride??""Yes, I gave her a ride. She had two flat tires and an old girlfriendof hers is supposed to be coming here to hook up with her -"The pounding s topped and the sound of la ughter, the giggles ofgirls, came from the lobby. Zenith's heart quivered.
63

"How was your lunch today, Zenith?" Meryl asked, grinning.
Zenith whirled around and looked at her. "Why do you ask?"
Surely they haven't gotten Meryl too.
Meryl smiled and looked a little sheepish. "I' m sorry, I forgot totell you. When Chuck threw in that sack of mail this morning it
landed right on your lunch. I thought your Little Debbie cakes
would be smashed to smithereens. Why are you looking at me likethat?""Like what?" Zenith asks, trying to refocus. This is Meryl.
Meryl.
"Like you got some kind of spook in your eye.""For a minute there I - Meryl, you're going to think I'm silly."
Meryl smiles. "I already do," she says.
"No, 1 mean stupid, really dumb. 1 thought they'd gotten aholdof you," she said throwing her head towards the lobby.
Meryl looks at her and doesn't say a word. It's quiet out in thelobby now. There's nothing but their breath and the hum of theclock.
"I've known you a long time, Zenith."
Zenith swallows. "Yes, you have," she says.
"And I've never known you to be dumb.""You're just saying that to make me feel better.""No, I'm not, Zenith. 1 mean it."
The pounding at the window starts again.
"Mrs. Arthur, Mrs. Arthur -""That's Shelly," Meryl whispers. "She needs to buy some stamps.
"Did you see her friend?" Zenith whispers back. Meryl shakes
her head no. "They're monsters. Satan's monsters."
The pounding on the window continues. Someone yells, "Iknow you're in there."'We're trapped," Zenith says, eyeing the back door.
"Have you got your cross on, Zenith?""You bet," Zenith says, quickly reaching into her dress andbringing out the tiny silver cross.
'Well, 1know you're smart enough to know that if Shelly didn't
get me on the ride down, then she's not one of them - Right?""I guess so," Zenith says, giving her head a slow nod but
holding the cross tighter.
"Take it from me, she's alright," Meryl says, nodding. When
Zenith is nodding in unison she continues. "And what we've got
64to do now, Zenith, is open up that window and take another lookat the other girl. She might be okay too.""But what if-"'We've got your cross Zenith. Nothing bad happens to goodpeople with crosses in their hands.""But what about you? You don't have a cross and mine is too
small-""I'm thinking of a cross in my mind, Zenith. I'll be safe." Zenith
can't remember if Meryl' s voice has always sounded this soothing.
She clutches the cross and points it at Meryl and nothing happens.
Meryl is still standing there, smiling at her.
''Now why don't you open the window and let Shelly get stamps."
Zenith looks up at the clock: five past five.
"She couldn't have gotten here any sooner, Zenith.
"I don't want to set a precedent.""Nobody else'll know."'Well, all right," she says as she opens the window. "But justthis once." She holds her cross out to the two girls.
"Hi, Mrs. Arthur, I'm sorry to bother you -" Conkwell begins.
Zenith keeps the cross in front of her but nothing happens. The two
girls are smiling at her. Their grins are so wide their faces look likethey'll crack open. She sighs, and drops the cross to her chest.
The soldier girl puts her arm around Conkwell and pulls her
tight. "I see you found your friend," Zenith says to her.
"Space, this is Mrs. Arthur -"'We've met."" - and behind her is Meryl. She brings the mail up to our box
in Copperton. She's the one who gave me a ride.""Hi," the girl says and sticks out her big strong arm with a handfor Meryl to shake.
"Hi," Meryl says, in a voice as husky as dawn on a hot day, ina voice Zenith has only heard her use with her daughter Hattie,
before she married Lester and moved away. Zenith turns to lookat her. The spook has moved to Meryl's eye. She shakes the girl'shand lightly and nods. The girls are so happy with each other they
don't notice the tremor in Meryl's hand as she lowers it or the swea t
beading up over her eyebrows, but Zenith does.
"How's Rogers?" she asks as she opens her stamp drawer. She
looks up at the clock just to remind them, nods and then asks, "Hadany fires lately?"

65

"A few," Conkwell says .
"That so," Zenith says. When she shuts the window sh eturns to Meryl. The spook still has a hold of her. She looks likecracked glass. Zenith puts her hand on Meryl's shoulder. "What is
it hon, what is it?"
Meryl turns away and her body jerks a couple of times before
Zenith realizes she's crying.
"Oh now," Zenith says. "Here, honey." She pulls the full weightof Meryl to her. "You cry now," she says. "That's it, you have agood cry." She hums to herself. She is glad to get back to her usual
position, savoring someone else's foolishness. Her shoulder andneck are wet with tears and still Meryl's body trembles. "Honey,
oh baby," Zenith says. "You been holding some of these for a longtime. These ancient tears." She holds Meryl tight and rocks her likeshe did Hattie when she was a little girl.
"All my life I never - ""Never, yes, uh huh-""Never," Meryl says between sobs.
''Never what, honey.""I've never been loved," Meryl says and starts in again.
"Oh honey, think back when you were little, just the tiniest little
baby, didn' t your Mama an' Daddy love you then, didn't theywant the best in the world for their little Meryl?""I'm not talking about that kind of love.""Oh." The hum of the clock comes roaring in like a waterfall
over dumb rock.
Zenith hums too, but she's stumped. Of course there aren't any
men in town Meryl's age that are worth a hoot who haven't beenmarried or killed off, but even when she tries to think back to any
men in Meryl' s past, there aren't any. Even the boys seemed to shy
away from her, maybe because she was too much like them, big
and husky, strong and shy. She never knew w hat to say to them,she used to tell Hattie. Come to think of it, Hattie was the only one
Zenith' s ever seen her get close to. Then in their junior year
something happened, some girlish fight where they stopped
speaking and suddenly there was Lester, his arm slung around
H attie' s shoulder the same way that soldier girl had her arm
around Com ell.
Stop right there, Zenith hears her mind say. She is holding
Meryl; Meryl, who she's knoV\m since she w as a baby, in her arms,

66and she is crying her eyes out because she's seen two women'slibbers, one's arm around the other's shoulder. And she's neverbeen loved.
Zenith swallows, but there is nothing in her throat. Meryl?
Nobody else in town would have known what that woman's
symbol was. Her Meryl, who she has her arms around? Her handrubs across the strap of Meryl's bra but it does not console her.
Meryl?
Zenith remembers her the summer after graduation, her uncle
Gerald driving her to Lordsburg to catch the bus, a typing job
waiting for her in the big city. When she'd come back a few years
later and twenty pounds heavier there'd been that hollow look in
her eye. She'd never talked about those days, except to say how
good it felt to be back home where she knew everybody andeverybody knew her. But as her sobs begin to soak into Zenith's
dress and make the chain her silver cross hangs on lie damp on her
neck, Zenith thinks of all that can happen to a young girl in a big
strange city, all about Meryl that is unknown. Maybe she met some
women's libbers and they - they what?
A hollowed out tree wouldn't feel any emptier. This is Meryl,practically her own little girl. Meryl, who she wants to be happy.
Her arms tighten around Meryl, who is still sobbing, more likehiccups now or the soft sound of the river when the flood waters
go down. Meryl, her soft face cradled into the place in her neckwhere she splashes Jungle Gardenia every morning.
"Honey, you got to get ahold of yourself. What say I take youhome and make you some supper? Tonight's Chun King. You like
Chinese?"Meryl nods into her neck.
"Good," Zenith says, turning Meryl towards the door. "I'll have
us a nice dinner then." She gently pokes Meryl in the soft flesh on
her side. ''Those girls don't know what they're missing," she says
and closes the door behind her.

67

Helena Lipstadt

Wax Lips
You want the wax lips or the little bottles?
The wax lips.
O.K. Two wax lips, please.
I take the big, red, wax lips out of the tray on the counter andhand over the money.
No thanks, no bag.
I sniff the perfumey lips and push the sweet wax against myteeth. You are doing it too. These lips are irresistible.
I push away from the counter, my lips are in place. You areright behind me, your hair spraying out of your ponytail, and we
duck around the bobby pin rack, giggling wildly with our teeth
closed around our wax lips. The best part is turning around so that
other people can see us, when we can stop giggling for a minute,which is hard.
Here come two women. Let's look at them.
And we look over our shoulders as if we were just regular, till
our big red lips come into view, and they look startled and caught
in our joke and we turn back to the bobby pins, giggling, satisfied,and push our lips back into place.
They're getting soft now. My mouth is warming them up andthey taste sweet. It's hard not to suck them into my mouth alread yand chew on them, which comes next. But I actually like the way
I look in them, they're like a mask, and I want to wear them a little
longer. But they're getting sweeter and sweeter and you're alread ychewing on yours.
I suck them into my mouth, sweet and waxy and bulky and I
remember with my mouth full that there's nothing you can dowith wax lips once you've started chewing them and the sweetness is all gone, and the red color too, somewhere.

68

Tina Gianoulis

Perspective

It already wasn't being the best night; we had our usual act-right-

at-the-dinner-table fight, and Ricky just kept it up all night with
Dick and Lou. Ricky is my stupid little brother who hasn't figuredout yet that you can't win with them. Dick and Lou are my folks.
I call them that partly because it irritates them to death and partly
because it's just so not them, you know. Richard and Louise definitely just do not dig it. I used to fight with them all the time like
Ricky does. Now I just say, sure Dick whatever you say, and laugh.
They don't know how to take me and mostly just laugh too.
Anyway they are not in the real world when it comes toteenagers so I have to go to bed at 10. To sleep, for christ's sake. So
thank god for headphones, is what I say. Which almost got me introuble that night, because it was a long time before I heard themcalling me, just a teeny little shriek in the background of Shrunken
Heads. When I finally caught on and pulled the phones off and hid
them under the sheets Lou was bellowing right outside my door.
They have this thing about politeness and knocking on doors,which is lucky. So I went out, acting all sleepy and crabby, and it
was the phone. Which made my stomach drop, because all myfriends know you don't call my house after 10:30 unless you' redying. I was right; it was Geri.
Geri and I have a lot in common about our folks . I mean it's
where just relating to them is always this big ordeal. I mean it's sortof like you feel when you're walking down a long dark street byyourself at night. Like you know it's dangerous even if nothing's
happening at the moment. But at least Dick and Lou don't hit me
much. People always say words can be worse, but I don't believe
it. So sometimes Geri calls me when things are really bad. She
couldn't even talk to tell me what happened, she just kept sobbing
and kind of choking, "1 hate them, I hate them." Then I heard her
dad screaming right by the phone and then it just crashed down.
I had to think for a couple of minutes what to do. It was scary.
I didn't sneak out. I just didn't discuss it with them. I left aquick note: "Back soon, don't worry" (sure). Then I went straight69

from the phone out the back door. I took Lou's car, that's the only
one I ever get to drive. I let it roll to the bottom of the driveway
before I started it, very secret agent. Then I went to get Sue. I knew
I'd never do the whole thing by myself.
For a minute I thought she wasn't going to come, but she did.
"My mom will kill me," she whispered. I mean please, what did
she think D and L were going to do?
''Why do you think I'm playing Girl from U.N.C.L.E. down
here? Will you please just get your ass into the car?" Sue's been
taking care of herself longer than anyone I know. I think it's madeher a little timid. But she's real comforting to be around. Solid anddelicate at the same time, if that makes any sense.
We talked on the way over. Sue said Geri was thinking of
running away, being a hooker. I didn't know that, but then it
doesn't surprise me that she told Sue and not me. Sue had one ofthose great shoulders to cry on. Me, I get hysterical. I mean, I know
kids do that kind of stuff all the time and maybe it's ok, maybe I'm
a wimp, but it kind of makes me sick. I'll fight with Geri about that.
I said I was going to take Geri home to live with me, which isa little crazy. I mean even if Dick and Lou don't wet their pants,
which they will, I'm not sure how Geri would go for being told how
to brush her teeth all the time. It was a problem, but I couldn't think
about it then.
We got to Geri' s, which, even though it was past midnight, wasall lit up and noisy from screaming and the tv. We found Geri in her
room. Fortunately, her folks were screaming at each other down
the hall and didn't hear us.
She was in a state, waving a knife and her hands all bloody. I
freaked when I saw her hands, then she said she did it to herself,
which partly made me feel better and partly really freaked me out.
I know something about how you have to feel to hurt yourself likethat.
We pulled her out to the car and I got onto the freeway androlled the window down and screamed out of it like a rodeo rider.
Geri and Sue were laughing; we were all a little hysterical. Suestarted singing "Go Down Moses" and we all took it up, changing
the names to our own teachers and folks and la ughing to where we
couldn't stop. Once when they were roaring out the chorus, I stuck
my head out the window and yelled, "I love you both so much"into the wind.

70

{>{>{>

I hate them I hate them I hate them so goddam much I don't what todo. I hate that they can make me feel like this. I feel so powerless. I am
powerless. There's not a fucking thing I can do except kill myself.
Sometimes that feels like it would feel so good, just slice myself up andflush myself down the toilet. I hate dad - he doesn't care what he says
to me. And mom doesn't give a shit either - you'd think she might standup for me. Mothers are supposed to fucking kill anyone who tries to hurt
their kids . All she does is scream at me, "Now you've set him off again.
Can't you ever act right? "Although what" act right" means in this house is a question. Beingnothing, being dead maybe. They'd probably find something to yell at me
for if I was dead: "You little bitch, I'll teach you to bleed on my best rug."
I just hate their guts. The only thing that makes me feel better is toimagine bashing their heads in with an ax. Does that mean I'm gonna bejust like them? I'll never be able to have kids. I'll never know what! might
do to them. Fuck that, I'm gonna have kids so I can raise them right. I
know what right is better than anyone with decent parents. I know what
horrible parents can do to you. I'd rather die than be like them ...
Geri's door slammed open, the knob punching a ragged holein the wall behind it. In the doorway, her father stood, red in theface and breathing hard. "I knew it, you sleazy little schemer," hisvoice was loud, but measured, full of incisive scorn. "You sneak off
here and write about how much you hate us." He was across theroom in two steps, took a handful of Geri's hair and pulled herhead back. She felt herself start to sob, she hated how they could
always make her cry. Helpless, she stared into her father's face,
inches from her own. He looked dark red and dangerous. White
foam formed at the corners of his mouth as he screamed at her andNhen he said certain words, like "perfect" and "princess" a soft
spray landed on Geri's face. She closed her eyes and tried not tolisten. Kill him, kill him, kill him, her mind repeated like a prayer.
Eventually he let go of her hair with a jerk and slapped her once
across the face, almost casually, with the back of his hand. He left,
slamm).ng the door shut.
Geri sat heaving with sobs and anger until she felt sick. She bit theback of her hand until deep marks turned white, then red in her flesh.
Reaching across to her desk, she tore open the drawer and pulled out
her pocketknife. Without opening it, she grasped the handle andstabbed an imaginary blade into her pillow and mattress over and71

over, her whole body behind each thrust. Then she opened the blade
and almost defiantly buried it through the blankets into the mattress.
It was a narrow sharp blade and the hole it made was invisible onceshe pulled it out. Dissatisfied, she searched the room, then withsudden decision closed her left palm tightly around the blade andpulled the handle quickly with her other hand. The sharp sting chilled
her, but she smiled as she watched the bloodline form on her palm. She
held her palm open for the other cuts, watching the clean white slices
hesitate a second, then fill with blood. She felt calm, as if an emotionthat was too big for her body was being released. As if, like air froma slow leaking balloon, she had eased the pressure inside herself.
The sound of footsteps in the hall startled Geri and she rolled
over and lay on her stomach, hiding her hands under her. But
when she heard the door open, anger overwhelmed fear and she
whirled, raising her hands in front of her. "Get out," she screamed,"get out, I'll kill you."
When she saw Sue and May she laughed. Her bloody palms
embarrassed her a little then, but she felt almost drunk with powerand slightly proud of herself too. She actually felt lightheaded andstaggered a little as they hurried her toward the door.
Once in the car, it seemed to her they were all drunk, withfreedom and the impossibility of what they were doing. Sue
wrapped Geri's hands and she felt comforted and healed, as if the
crumpled bandanas were pure balm. She touched Sue's cheeks
gently, then turned the gesture into a joke by starting to sing, "Oh
Susannah, now don't you cry for me, I'm bound for Looziana, inDick and Lou's stolen car." Soon they were all singing, filling the
car with loud laughter that cushioned them as they slid along thedark silent highway. Geri felt safe, her arms around her friends'
shoulders, enclosed with them in a small bright cell of present time.
~~~

May nearly scared me to death that night. I don't sleep too well,
so she didn't wake me up exactly, but you don't expect your bestfriend to be throwing rocks at your window - if you hear rocks
flying into your room, you think something awful, scary. But May
has this Hollywood side, you have to tolerate it.
I had been up late helping Mom clean up the kitchen andmaking tomorrow's lunches. And listening to her troubles at work.
It's hard on her working so hard and being a mom too. Sometimes

72

I wish things were a little more normal around here, but Mom
depends on me. At least she doesn't let Dad come around any more.
For a while there, it seemed like every time things got kind of settled
down, he'd show up again, all sweetness and presents at first.
Gradually he'd get whiny and depressed,like a rain cloud in the den
watching tv all the time. Then either Mom would throw him out or
he'd go off in a huff for another few months. Three years ago Mom
said, "Enough," and I haven't seen him since, although one birthday
in there he sent me a card. I don't think Mom likes men muchanymore; she doesn't date or anything. Fine with me. I like taking careof her, though I worry sometimes how she'd get along without me.
So once I realized it was May and not some rapist or vampire,
I was a little mad at her. I mean, I worry about Geri all the time, butwhat are we supposed to do? May was really scared though andthat scared me; May's not always as brave as she acts, but she's not
the nervous type either. Also her parents are very tight-assed. For
her to steal their car to go driving around at a time of night she's noteven supposed to be up reading in bed, things had to be serious.
1've never told anybody this, but sometimes I think Geri might
kill herself. She's said some pretty desperate things to me. I told
May she was thinking of running away to be a prostitute, but I
didn't tell her how one time Geri and I stayed up almost all nighttalking about different ways to kill yourself. So I thought we'dbetter go try to do something, and I got dressed and sneaked out. I
always feel guilty lying to Mom, she's so easy to fool because shenever really pays too much attention.
At Geri's, things were really wild, tv blasting, people screaming at each other. I was terrified to go in, but we didn't see anybod yuntil we got to Geri' s room. She'd cut her hands all up with a pocket
knife, it was sickening, and she was wild, laughing like she wasdrunk, but it was just feeling she was drunk on. I jus t wanted to get
out of there before her parents came in, Geri was laughing so weird
and Maywas trying to have a conversation with her, for god's sake.
I practically had to drag them to the car.
It was funny though, once we were in the car, I felt really
happy. Not the least bit worried, though god knows there was stillenough to worry about,like how we were ever going to explain all
this. But, for a while, it just didn't matter, not at all, and I felt likethe most powerful person in the world.

73

Marcy Jacobs

One, Two, Three
After a long winter's depression, I look out at the light throughthe pouring rain and feel almost grateful to be alive. Anotherseasonal depression lived through. I don't know what my chances
are - might kill myself next January, but I am sure I will make itthrough the summer anyway. I ponder this aliveness, this springlight and wonder how long I'll have to kiss ass this time to getgrounds privileges. They don't like attempters up here - toomuch distraction, might have to hurry to an actual patient's - no,forgive me, resident's - actual need. Might have to explain to a
distraught middle-class parent how their seventeen year old (thatthey had given up on at thirteen) has been allowed to die in thisbarren hospital room. Shit, I want a cigarette and some sex. The
first time my genitals have felt anything in months. I tentatively
touch myself. Not wet but that's a lot to ask after so many months.
I start to fantasize in earnest. Perhaps coming can startle me intowanting to do something with this spring lease on life. Somehow
get outof here and by God I'll never be back in here again.
I lift myself off my knees and back toward the door. Later, inthe day room, a cinder block envelope for a scarred television andtired plastic chairs, I bum my first cigarette of the day from Vivian.
Vivian, whose husband sends cigarettes every week so he won't
have to visit. Viv and I agree it is a good trade-off.
Vivian helps me make a plan to get grounds privileges again. Firstof all, I must stop trying to palm my meds and getting caught. Next
I must voluntarily write or call my parents (oddly enough, staff
considers voluntary contact with family the highest good here; more
proof that they don't give a shit about my mental health), and finallyI must tell my doctor that I have some goal. We decide that's enoughwork for one day - we'll think of the goal later. It can't be to lay the
new night nurse or have three Mr. Goodbars for lunch.
I begin my campaign at noon. I thank the nurse for my meds.
She merely raises an eyebrow. The day nurse is so cynical. I will not
let her fucking attitude keep me from following steps one, two andthree: I'm outta here. I retire to the day room in my required longtimer's shuffle; a combination of meds and hopelessness make it74physically impossible for any of us to lift our feet from the floor. I
sit in one of the drooping orange chairs, I never sit in the green
ones. I try to think of what I will say to my parents in my voluntarycommunication. Well, I'll have to avoid the TOPICS, that's forsure. That leaves the weather and international politics. Has
anybody here got a US News and World Report? My father's fondest
fantasy is to invade some small Latin American country and get tokill a few communists or leftists or rightists or anybody who canreasonably be construed to be the enemy - except me, I'm the realenemy, but he can't dress in camouflage and machine-gun me.
Oops, maybe international politics are out after all. How long can
we discuss the weather? Hopefully for ten minutes or so. I look up
at the small square window - no bars. No, we're much too
modern for that, but just you try to break that safety glass. Even alarge crazy couldn't do it, let alone my skinny self. It is still
dripping outside. I heard one of the evening shift orderlies saythere are flash flood warnings. Rain, rain, rain - that ought to bego()d for two or three minutes of voluntary communication.
Bev comes by and grabs my hand - I've been picking my. cuticles again; I look at my bleeding finger tip. I do still bleed, thatmust prove something. I wonder if cuticle picking counts against
me as far as grounds privileges go. Probably every god dam thing
counts against me, including the head nurse's having a fight withher bitch lover. She hates itthat I saw them out necking behind Our
Place one night. She must have been really blasted. She laughedwhen she saw me watching. Now that I'm back in, she nearly popsa cork every time she sees me. I know the lady's a dyke, and she's
afraid I'll try to blackmail her or start some shit on the floor. Like
I don't have any goddam morals at all. Besides, who the hell would
listen to me? Head nurse is a lesbian says the notorious baby dyke
juvenile delinquen t schizophrenic. Hoo, I'm sure the New YorkTimes is waiting for that hot lead. Crazy lesbians, one and all.
I promise myself if I'm nice to her, despite her attitude at night
meds, I can masturbate after lights out - if I don't fall asleep fromthe meds before I can think up a good fantasy.
I walk to the pay phone and stare at the black and silver
dauntingness of it. They are at the other end. Waiting, waiting forme to call, to show signs of being normal. They, who burned all
Trice's letters, who keep locking me in here, who hate me, wait
nuclear-like in a subdivision of hell for me to wander back to the75fold, innocence restored, heterosexuality achieved, hair washed.
No, I'm not ready. Got to get in a better frame of mind. Neither
screaming nor standing frozen count as voluntary communication. The phone is right across from the nurses' station so they canwatch, and hopefully hear all patients' - no, residents' - attempts to make real (as opposed to delusional) contact with theoutside world.
I bum a cigarette off Georgia, the only decent orderly on days.
I smoke it in the short hall outside the OT room. My fingertips, allsore from chewing my cuticles, bump along the cinder-block wall.
I look down at the cheap tennis shoes mom brought the day after
they put me in the last time. Brought me down here without mydamn shoes. I'll bet Lisa doesn't wear cheap tennis shoes. She's
probably got Reeboks or British Knights. Lisa is the good daughter.
No, shit, I can't think about Lisa, or I'll never make this goddam
call. Got to get up for this, think about grounds privileges, think
about being gone, think about calling Trice from the outside.
"Hey, Mom, how ya doin'? ... Oh, yeah, when's he get back?
... Great. How's Lisa? ... Yeah, I miss her special apple cake. The
food here's not too great ... Sure, sure I know it's nutritional. Hey,
Mom, I'm working on some goals now ... Well, like working on my
GED, getting some job training, stuff like that ... Okay, don't want
you to miss General Hospital. Tell Dad hi. I'll talk to you later."Great! Two birds with one stone. Talking to my mother who
couldn't give a shit about my voluntary communication made me
think of goals constipated enough to please my psychiatrist. Now
all I have to do is wait for the staff to notice that I am a changed
woman and let me out on the lawn.
My next appointment with Dr. Rather is next Friday. Viv andI practice what I will say to him and how I will say it. Dr. R is Viv'sdoctor, too, so she has the skinny on what kind of stuff he likes. We
make a plan. One, two, three - I'm outta here.
"Hi Dr. R, how are you today?""Fine, Heather, and you?""Oh, I'm pretty good. Felt pretty good this week. I had a nicetalk with my mother.""Oh, yes?""Yeah, we talked about how Lisa's doin' in school, her cooking
class. We talked about my dad. And we discussed some realistic
goals for me to be working on."76

"What kind of goals did your mother have in mind?""Oh, really it was my idea, I just wanted to bounce it off her
before I asked you if it was okay. I thought that since they had theclasses right here at the hospital and all, I'd just as soon start trying
to get my GED certificate. You know, since I have such a hard time
staying in school and all.""That sounds like a good goal. What would be your first step
toward accomplishing that?""1 guess I'll ask Ben, the OT guy, if he'll take me down to social
services to get signed up. Isn't that what I do?""Yes, or one of the floor nurses could help you with that, too.""1 guess I'll ask Ben, since he's sort of taken an interest in myeducation and all."'Well, that sounds like progress, Heather. You work on thatand we'll see how you are doing a week from today." He wasstanding up so I'd leave. Shit, I didn't have all my plan out yet.
"Uh, Dr. Rather, there's something else, too."'What it is Heather?" He looked down at his watch. Probably
some damn golf date. He had golf trophies all over his office.
"Uh, I thought since Mom and I had such a nice talk, I'd like toplan for a weekend pass home soon."'Well, that may be possible down the road some. You'll needto take some steps to show you are ready for that." He stood again.
"Just one more quick thing, Dr. R. I've been looking out at thebuds on the trees and that really cheers me up. Do you think I could
have grounds privileges?"
He pulled the white prescription pad out of his top drawer andscribbled. He handed it to me and nodded toward the door.
"Thanks, Dr. R, see you next week."
When I got out into the hall, I read what he had written.
"Outdoor privileges, grounds only."
Mission successful!
The thing, you see, about my, urn, problem is that it's realseasonal. The depression part. The lesbian part isn't a problem,
only my family thinks so. Even Dr. Rather says that there are somewell-adjusted lesbians. Probably more than there are well-adjusted psychiatrists. Anyway, I get really down in the fall andwinter. It feels like when there's no sun I can't hardly think or feelanything but sad. I swear, it just goes away in the spring, when thesun comes back and I feel it soaking into my skin.

77

Others seem to treat seasons as a backdrop - as an excuse tovacation in another part of the country or the world. They act as if
the whole world around them isn't withering and dying as they
throw Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Superbowl parties. Celebrating that they live while everything else dies. How canhalf a planet think a savior coulq be born in late December? Noone
understands. People, especially my family, often think it' s the holidays themselves that depress me. My parents tell me not to expect
so much from Christmas. But then they buy a Christmas tree andkill the only thing with enough stamina to be green in cold white
December. I've watched it grow drier and browner as January
drew near. What did have the courage to live, my parents kill.
I can't believe the grass feels so soft, so alive under my feet. So
different from pacing the halls. The floor of Two West is dead,something more than dead, super dead. But here the air is softish
and humid. Wet, but not oppressive - caressive. The trees are so
still, not a breeze anywhere. The gray sky looks perfect against the
spring green of the trees. I refuse to look at the dead red brick to myleft. I had grounds privileges once before; I lost them by screaming
at an old lady and giving her the finger. Turns out she was t~e wifeof a board member here to do her monthly volunteer work.
Anyway, I remember the shortest distance to a spot not visible
from the gate house is to the left of the main building. Out past
Maple Cottage and Oak Cottage. Those are little house-like affairs
for the real long-termers. I trudge that direction trying to lookbored with all this living green and like I'm coming out of mydepression intent on being a good girl. I hear laughter from Maple
Cottage. Not the laughter of someone sharing a good joke with afriend, nor the maniacal laughter of the truly-out-of-touch,but that half-laughter of someone pretending they remember
what it was like to be amused.
I sit under the tree waiting, waiting to get the energy to face thenight alone and with no particular place to go. Maybe I'll go try car
doors until I find one unlocked. I sure don't relish sleeping outside; it looks like it might rain again. Shit, freedom means having
no goddam place to sleep and no money to eat on. I put my head
down in my hands and stare at the dirt and grass between myknees. I'm so tired and my feet hurt inside my squishy tennis shoes.
Worse and worse, gloom and gloom. It is the wrong season for
depression. I get up and start walking north on 117.

78

Country Cafe, the place still has several people eating lunch.
The curtains are red gingham and the screen door shuts with a loudaluminum bang. I walk in trying to see everything at once. Not
knowing exactly what the danger looks like, it is difficult to see it.
I sit down at the counter and pull a plastic-coated menu frombetween the salt and pepper shakers. Coffee is fifty cents. The only
other item for under a dollar is a bowl of oatmeal. Coffee andoatmeal it is. The floor is grayish tile and the counter top was red
when it was new. Now it is pink with spots washed completely
white. The waitresses wear their own shirts and jeans but havematching Country Cafe aprons. Then I see it, a help-wanted sign
beside the cash register. When the older waitress comes to take myorder, green pad in hand, I ask what kind of job is available. Shesays dishwasher. I ask for an application form. She snorts, "Honey,
we don't have application forms - you want to wash dishes, youtalk to Maidie. Do you want anything to eat or just a job?" I quicklyorder coffee and oatmeal and ask how I might talk to Maidie.
"Eat your breakfast first, then I'll get Maidie for you."After I wolf down my oatmeal and finish my second cup ofcoffee, the waitress leans over the counter at me. "You want some
toast or something? You stilllookin' hungry to me."
"No thanks, that's enough for me."She looks at me skeptically. "You ate that oatmeal like it might
get away from you - unless Raeann is putting something new inthe oatmeal, I'd say you were pretty hungry."I just grin and hope she'll get Maidie. I sure as hell don't wantto tell her that after paying for the oatmeal and coffee, I don't evenhave a quarter to tip her, let alone buy more food.
"Okay, have it your way. Come on back and I'll get you
Maidie." I follow her back behind the cash register to a tiny officecompletely filled with the largest woman I have ever seen. "Hey,Maidie," says the waitress, "this kid wants to have the dishwashingjob." She smiles at me and goes back to wipe off the counter. Maidie
turns her head and glances at me. "Go on out and sit at a table. I'll
talk to you in a minute." I trail back out to the front and sit downat an empty table for four. The tablecloth is plastic, red gingham tomatch the curtains. Sort of a homey look. I'm playing with the salt
shaker to avoid biting my cuticles when Maidie comes out. She
towers over me. Damn, I'd sure hate to get on the wrong side of thiswoman. She looks like she could level the place if she took a mind.

79

"So, what's your name?"''Uh, it's Heather.""Have you ever worked in a restaurant before?""No, but I've washed lots of dishes at horne." I stare at myknuckles and hope that isn't as dumb as it sounds. I catch myself
before my left middle finger gets into my mouth. I scratch my chin
to explain my hand's mysterious journey toward my face.
'What kind of work have you done?"''Uh, well, I worked in a hospital recently.""Doing what?""I was an orderly. Mopping floors, carrying boxes, bedpans,that stuff."'Why'd you leave that job?"'Well the hospital smell was beginning to get to me. And thecrazies were giving me some shit, too.""You worked at Ritenour?"I nod.
"Did you know Marcy Palmer?""No, what department does she work in?""She works down in supplies. She's an old friend of mine.
Worked there for years. Everybody knows her.""Oh, well maybe we worked different shifts."
Maidie looks at me. I can't tell if she believes me or not. I sureas hell hope she doesn't call Ritenour to check my story.
"You got a place to stay?"
Oh, shit, she's on to me for sure. How the hell did she figure it
out? "Not exactly.""Folks kick you out?""No, my girlfriend." I glance up at her eyes - no reaction.
''There's a cot in the box room you can use until you get yourfirst paycheck. It's hot as hell in the summer, but you' ll be out
before the worst. !fyou keep your nose clean and work hard, I'll seethat you're okay until you get back on your feet. Can you startright now?""Oh, yeah, great. Thanks a lot, Maidie, I really appreciate this.
I'll do a good job. I will."
She stands up and starts for the kitchen. "That's okay, Heather,
I've lost a few girlfriends myself."

80

Katy
Beth Karbe81

Frances Negr6n-Muntaner

the wait
to l.c.
of all the stories
i created this memory)lou can't imagine

your trained back could not carry
all the fantasies
i kept in my purse
when at last i met you
to know you was to want
the solitude
the intimacyof when we abandon somethingor we are abandoned
i know of your arduous workto avoid being touched by anything
not even by the edgeof the blade
which you carry sideways on your hips
confusing it with the softness of fresh fruit
i know of your fragility
which is made of salt mostly during t~e night
when the threat is not of bullets
but of shy and consistent raindrops
threatening to dissolve your gazei know you in your scattered intelligence
without aim
which is my own daily agonyof possessing the right instinct
and lacking the neededmosquito net
we don't need to speak too longdesire has been solved between our bodies
with a glance
we will read what is ephemeris in our destinies
and readily forget this encounter:82

the obstinate need to satisfy
our story's ending
my body will arrive at your housewith the auraof distance, sea and nostalgia
the muscles of my chinwill be absent
because not even thenwill you invite me to strip off my leaves
over your face:at twenty i am impatientand for having jumped over so many steps
i am oldi beg that your stubbornness
does not delay you
repentance can be perverse
when something is promisedand only essences are as lightweightas verse
which however
step by stepin my life without scents
have become very heavy

esperaa l.c.
de los tantos cuentos
invente un recuerdo ...
no te imaginas
no podria tu espalda entrenada cargar
todas las fantasias
que en mi cartera llevaba
cuando al fin te conod
conocerte fue querer un pocolas soledad
la intimidadde cuando abandonamos algoo somos abandonadas
83se de tu arduo trabajopara que no te toque nada
ni siquiera el filode la navaja que sobre tus caderas cargas
confundfendola con la dulzura de una fruta fresca
se de tu fragilidad
que es de sal sobre todo en las noches
cuando la amenaza no es de balasino de tfmidas y consistentes
lluvias disolviendo tu mirada
te conozco en tu inteligencia dispersa
y sin objetoque es mi misma angustia diurna
de poseer instinto y carecer de mosquitero
no tenemos porque hablar demasiado
tenemos resuelto el deseo en nuestros
cuerposy con mirarnos
leeremos 10 effmero del destino
y olvidaremos este encuentro:
caprichosa necesidad de satisfacer
el final de un cuentollegara mi cuerpo a tu casa
con el aurade la distancia, el mar y la nostalgia
tendre los musculos de la quijada
ausentes
porque ni aun entonces
me invitaras a deshojarme sobre tu cara:
impaciente yo a los veinte anosy vieja de tanto saltar etapas
mego que por tu terquedad no tardes
puede ser perverso el arrepentimiento
cuando se promete algoy s6lo las esencias son tan livianas
como el verso
que sin embargo paso a paso
en mi vida sin olfato
se me han hecho muy pesadas

84Anne B. Dalton

Eidetic Images
Tonight, no place would be desolate enoughto quiet my desire for her.
The endlessly deep night sky,
the knowledge that everything, like fire,cannot be touched and held,
reminds me of how she left me, wanting.
Can you tell
I sleep with you and think of her?
It has been years now,
but too often, I dream she's come for me,
her every gesture shaped by desire
she can't imagine ending.
I listen to you, wondering what she might say.
I wake, surprised your hair is not a darker shade.
Remember where we sat beneath the jasmine vines?
The flowers, each a tiny star, kept falling,
their scent thicker than the humid air.
That's where I met her; we sat watching
the gnats become dark pillars of smoke
as they mated above the trees.
I spend my days remembering all I could forget:
how she turned towards me in the morning,
eyelids swollen from sleep,
how she could leave me stirred,as buds feel, surrounded by warm air.
By leaving, she has kept me faithful;
I'm full of the emptiness of her not being here.
In my one photograph of us, she stands holding me.
We lean together, trying to touch the sun's burning.

85

SDiane Bogus

HerSonA Story of Lust and Possession in Lesbian Passion
After we make love that way I always think of him, her son.
Something in her resistance to me, however natural, makes me
think of him. He is nowhere to be seen in our lives. He has no name,no face, but he is alive somewhere, somewhere himself wondering . ... Like I always wonder about him.
I'm talking to you about it because it's safer. Remember when I
started therapy I said I wanted a therapist who'd dealt with gay
people and didn't try to change them? I wanted one who understoodthe internal dynamics in our relationships. You fit the bill. Private,honest, clear and friendly - that's you. God, we've waded througha lot here - my break-ups, the ways I'm co-dependent, my incest
issues, and my general need to nurture myself. Five years. Holysmoke - we've cornea long way .. . I've come a long way! A new me-whole and in charge. Now I've even got a new lover. That's why
you haven't seen me in awhile. I came today as a way to nurture
myself, to talk to myself with someone listening who won't judge me,or make me feel I shouldn't be talking about this, who won't put mybusiness in the street. To someone who has no politic about this.
This? She and I talk you know, but this is different. Whatwould I look like saying I'm afraid of her son? Well, not quite
afraid of him. I resent and envy him. I resent him for the place ofsecret pain he left her; I envy him for his existence, for being an
extension of her before me, beyond me. And I resent his doggish
father for preparing the way.
Okay, okay. I'll be specific. But it's hard. It' s hard. You see, she
was raped. Taken by that sonofabitch fireman in her own house,in the middle of the day. Thirty years ago. It was thirty of her years
ago but I feel it. And it feels like it was yesterday. When I lie on her
belly, my nakedness sealed with hers in a black aura of connection,
when I peer into the darkness of that connection, I know her pain,
and I know it may take the rest of her life to allow me to love her
fully with my hands all over her body, in every opening, like mytongue probing her, caressing her with abandon ... You're right,
I'm getting poetic again.

86What I mean is when we make that kind of love there's always
unspoken reminders of her past in the bed with us. That kind of
love? It's the kind where I want to grab her up in my arms, squeeze
her tightly, pin her to my breast, allow her no retreat, make her mysexual prisoner as if she is bound by my will. It comes over me likethat. I don't know if it's the impulse of conquest or the impulse offierce passion. But when I feel like that and I try to make it so, mostof the time, I find her stiff and hard to move to my desire. She
won't submit. That's okay because I want to have her fight me,
and give in to me all at once. I want her to yield to me, to pretend
to accept what she cannot control. But it hasn't happened quite
yet. It's complex. Here's the real catch. I do want to take her andmove her to my will, but I'm always afraid of the feelings when I
want to make love like this. I mean is it okay to want to make love
like this? I don't want to do what the fireman did. I mean he tore
into the inner life of her body and strode unwelcome into the
sanctuary of her virginity, violated her solitary wholeness, her
oneness, and split her like a block of wood . Poetic again? I know. I
know, but can you believe, she was twenty-eight, never been to bed
with anyone, never. A precious precious woman. And she was pretty.
I've seen photographs of her smiling back then, standing in country
fields with cows and bulls, her curly hair caught in a playful breeze
that was passing over the farm. Her half-Cherokee half-African face
red gold, her eyes set deep like a seer or a monk. Her unmolested smile
broad as the milky way of light in her eyes. A beauty. She still is, butnow, she's more handsome than beautiful - the power of age andself-control. I like to think it's a way she recast her face to the dismayof men, and for the seduction of women.
Anyway, when I feel like making love to her in that way, youknow, possessing her body with abandon, with my dread power ofsexuality, I pull up short forfear I might be acting out some secret wish
to dominate her, to take her against her will, to control her or make her
an object of my fulfillment. That's not the whole idea. I want to submit
to her as well ... I do submit to her, but it's hard getting the same backas I give. No, we never talk about it. That's why I came here today. I'm
not safe talking about it. See, before she and I became lovers, andsince I saw you last, I've begun to masturbate - more correctly
mistressbathing - and think about being taken against my will by aman. It is so hot and juicy and rough - and easy. Now, I wouldn't tellanybody this. After all, I'ma lesbian. It's politically incorrect to think87

like that. So I've lived my secret sex life alone for years. It's not the only
fantasy I have; I have lots of others, some worse, some sweeter, butthat one is a favorite among favorites. Anyway, what I'm saying is I
feel guilty in two ways when I come to bed with her. I feel I ought to
not want to have sex in a way that reinforces the negative sexual behavior, that is male-identified in its aggressiveness and in its attempt
to dominate a woman. It is self-hating or woman-hating or something- isn't it? Or is it a kind of conditional vulnerability built into sex?
Oh, not for any pain. I want to make her feel good. I want tofeel good, but still, I want her to do it my way some of the time. To
let me control her, have her my way would be such a kick. But likeI said the guilt, the guilt creeps in, and when it does, I don't let go,
and I feel she can't let go either, though she tries. So, I feel guilty
for wanting to and trying to play out this scenario. And even when
we almost do, like we did last night, I come away feeling I've
touched something deep and untouchable in her past and in mypsyche that must be watched and kept back, kept secret.
How does she act? She says she's trying to feel me, and get the
fullness of the experience. She holds me and moans to my explorations and squeezes, to my strokes and grinds, but when I enter withmy thumb, it never really pleases her. She's been shut down for years.
She's never had it normally - I don't mean that - I mean, she's never
had sexual intercourse that wasn't rape. She's never let women
touch her that way either. Always before me, she did the loving, thepleasing. She had the control and the power of a woman's pleasure in
her own touch. She's been the consummate bulldagger, her loving thefiercest, most well-practiced. She's the most self-contained woman I
know. It's powerful. I swear it's powerful. When she takes me in herarms, I wantto surrender to her strength. I damn well better. But what
does it all mean? It's all so confusing. I can't sort out the garbage I've
learned from the world and what I really feel.
Yes, we do love each other. The other ways we show it? We cookfor each other, we buy each other little gifts, we hug and goose eachother or give each other a feel or caress when we pass by. We sleep
touching. We groom each other. I take care of her feet (because I'm
so happy she walked into my life) and she massages my backbecause it's the first place she ever touched on my body. We ... Well,it's good to know you see us as healthy. That is very good to know.
Still, what about this thing, this thing with her son, my obsession ofremembering the fireman, and wanting to take her myself?

88

I can't talk to her; I can't. That's why I came here. You know me.
You know how my mind works. I've been talking to you for years
now. I trust you. No, I don't want to believe her son will ever reallyshow up. How could he? She made sure he wouldn't. He probably
doesn't even know he was adopted. But what if he does know?
Wouldn't he wonder why she gave him up? Or want to know what
his biological parents were like? Even though he's thirty years old
now, and probably married with children himself (or if her genes
were stronger, he may be gay), his mind still wonders about her I'll bet.
And I know she wonders how he turned out as well. She never saysit, but I can tell. She takes an interest in everybody'S kid-baby to teen.
We can't go anywhere that she doesn't fawn over somebody's sonor daughter. It really bothers me to think that both of them aresomewhere in the world carrying secret longings for each other yet
lost and unknown to each other. And maybe, just maybe some day
the psychic connection will lead them to each other and disrupt mylife with her. I know I'm extrapolating a lot. That's why I really wish
I didn't know about him. I wish I didn't know he'd been born.
You see that's what really bothers me the most. The fact that
she had a baby. That she had a baby for a man, that man. And I hateit. I hate it. I do. I hate it. I want her to be untouched, withoutchildren like me. The one-of-a-kind unflawed lesbian woman. It's
silly I know, but I think a real bulldagger wouldn't have a baby fora man. A real bulldagger could make babies - parthenogenesis
extraordinaire. That's how tough she is. She makes babies. Okay,
okay, I'm joking. No, I'm not joking. What I really feel is displacedor unfulfilled or left out, or something ...
I never had a baby. I never wanted one with a man. I can't now.
I had a hysterectomy some years ago. Oh, I don't grieve that. I grieve
being able to have a baby for her. I want her child in the worst way.
Unreal, I know. But when she makes love to me, whether she's
wearing a dildo or not, I want to open like a valley and let the watersof her spirit wash over me, wash into the very center of me and deposit
her essence, like streams from rivers collect in ravines. I want to carrysomething of her with me like a prize and a symbol, like proof. Or if
not that, I want to give her my baby.. .. I've never told anybody that,except her .... You don't have to thank me, that's how I trust you.
I guess I'm jealous or envious, huh? I'm the woman who never
had a son by ra pe or by love. I never gave a woman one either. Men
have baby-making over us, but not with each other. If they can live89

with the limits of nature I guess I can, too. Besides, I would not havewanted to have a son. I don't envy them or her that; me and pain
are unacquainted. I can hardly stand a hair in my eye, a mosquito
bite. That she or any woman has had a child is a miracle ofendurance. I envy her that. But I hate the man who took her, who
forced his will on her beyond reason and consent. And he has madesomething in her, with her that is irrevocable and haunting. It is in
the bed with us every time we make love. It is the specter of lack of
choice, and the congregation of dismissed pain sealed between us
on those hot nights when we come to the place where my and herlove might make something new, a child of our own from the fierce
conjunction of our will and kisses, the juices that flow from us. It's
knowing that what he did cannot be undone, nor ever fully healed.
And I would heal her or, at the very least, myself.
I need to heal something so I can have her without these recognitions and guilt. I want her for myself, to myself. I am greedy forher. Selfish. I want her to be able to give me her love with noconstrictions of memory, with wet and seeking trust. I want that.
You really believe that she will? That's good to know. I mean it's
really good to know. Thank you. Thanks a lot. Yes, I can see how
she's growing, trusting me. I can trust the process to free us toreally come together, but, but what if her son should show up?
Okay, okay, okay, I know. We'll deal with that if and when it
happens. I have to quiet my imaginings and trust. It's been good
just airing these buried and secret feelings. I wonder if other gay
people feel this way? So you believe everyone grapples with issuesof lust, control and aggression. That's a thought. But doesn't being
gay magnify it? I mean as a lesbian I'm even more sensitive to myown internalized heterosexual behaviors. I spend my life trying toseparate them from me, the negative in their culture from thepositive. I wrestle with what's really male, what's really female,what's powerful, what's weak, what's control, what's vulnerability, and when and how to be these things. Talk to her about it? But
I just told you, I'm afraid .... Okay, okay, I'll do it, but look for a callfrom me if it doesn't work. God, I hope she'll understand. Be
positive? Okay, okay. She will understand because we'll talk justlike this. Remember, I may not be back - it's your income. But
then, we're friends, too - so call me if you get lonesome.

90Self portrait - Butch-Femme
Elise Dodeles
91

Winifred E. Eads

Durable Rustproof Saturday Night

20 October, 1984, Durable Rustproof Saturday Night up to herears in harlequins and full of seabody roars halftilt sunnysideup and prancing, she slides devil
rings on her fingers, she side-swaps shadows,
she teems with trouble, she sells trouble topassing itinerant farmers from out of her backkitchen door, they tip their hats to her, they tellothers, she picks up trade;from out of her front door she operates a waystation inn for
traveling sick children who mew and spew. She cures them withherbs and whatnots, she cleans their gills, she pulls out splinters;
one by one she wraps each child in scars and they lie with theireyelids under quilts while she plays music on spheres on baby
grand pianos that she seasons in her magnificent rose upholsteredbasement below her;on the other hand she's an ironclad megaphone woman loose on
the streets of big cities, she gathers personages into convoys andtakes them out to a site in northern Nevada where they areallowed to let loose the white strings that bind up their jubilation
into bundles of dread. She calls this her off-hand charity work. If
you peer into her eyes you see concentric rings of scarlet patinas
that look like a series of galaxies in motion;
if you ask her to give an accounting of herself she speaks in whizz
like a pinwheel in the hands of a small child on a crowded lateafternoon rush hour city bus:
"oh yes, it's me moving in red heats across red rivers for the sakeof talisman and redemption, I open floodgates,
I vituperate shadows, I unfurl flags along bastions, I run-run up tabulations of accounts andI redress grievances, I thwart damnations, I
blow lungs open into the spray of froth before
the onslaught of sharks, I redraft requests so themeaning of jackstraws reads clearlighted across92chasms like a strand of rope bridge, I fry duckeggs over camp-fires, I redistribute goods andservices like untangling an entanglement of aconvection current of mean-eyed snakes, I let
blood by blood until of itself blood becomes anopen frontier zone with clearcut sharp-eared
waves of red shakti sway trance, I dismember
fear with a knife so sectile as to be invisible to
naked eyes, I cook dinners in camp-kitchens forgolden hordes of spit-spit persons who appear
unto me as mirage of gypsy caravan, stop, look,
see me here among my cauldrons: I steep courage out of cabbage heads, and if I don't likewhat I cook, then I don't call it cooking!"

Witch EyeFrancesca Forte

93

Betsy Warland

cutting re/marks
lTI.arker. markher. mark my word. you toe the mark if you wantgood marks. if you want to make your mark - don't be an easy
mark. marked for life. marker - markher! X marks the spot. cut itout! chromosome contempt.

castrate, kes-, to cut. the cutting open of my bod y for the second timein less than a year. the decision, which i had to make overnight in
the hospital: hysterectomy or a "clean up." like - clean up yourroom. dirt. mess. carelessness. this one about the removal of myovarian cysts, uterine fibroids, and endometrian tissue. my gynecologist tries to present me with choices. she's aware of myresistances. i'm aware of her preference. there's only one reasonable choice as far as she's concerned. but, she tries: hysterectomy;
clean up; or go home and do nothing. nothing is not a choice: weagree on this. i could not accept a hysterectomy. would not allow,
as H.D. writes, my "other center of consciousness" to be lobotomized. hysterectomy, hysteria, udero-. uterus, venter, ventriloquism.
the art of throwing one's voice, or speaking from the belly, so that ourwords appear to be vocalized by a mechanical dummy. dummya practical substitute. why are there two of me and why this discrepancy? my womb: the" other center of consciousness" or "d ummy"?
my ovaries are being eaten up by a dis-ease my mother passed on.
she writes "so sorry the genes of your mom cause you to have allthese same problems." after the" clean up" all i have left are onequarter of my right ovary and two-thirds of my left.

incision, to strike, cut/type, to blow, poke, beat/write, to tear, scratch/: my body receiving its text

Due to the editor's suggestions, this version of "cutting re/marks" is slightly
different from the version which appears in Proper Deafinitions, a collectionof essays, prose poems, articles and prose pieces by Betsy Warland published by Press Gang Publishers in the spring of 1990.

94

the implicit violence of the written word
things die, are altered/issuing forthfrom every letter we inscribe
an inaudible little cry ...
my body struggling with its text. my first book. my mother determined to cut out the first suite of poems. words too graphic toohonest about the breakdown of my marriage. she wanted to
obliterate them. cut them out before she would let anyone see a
copy. my brother arguing with her that people would notice a gapof twenty pages: they would suspect much worse things and how
would she explain it. until then she had believed she could cut
them out and no one would know. no one would even notice.
"cut it out, Betsy!" only at 37 i begin to say "no."Cixous urges women to "inscribe" ourselves. mark of the spirit.
painted bodies. marked, ritual objects. sacred openings. thresholdto altered states. taboo, exceedingly marked, marked as sacred. permanent marks on my body. between my breasts. down to mynavel. across the top of my mound. my body accepting its text.
crayon held tight in small hand "don't mark on yourself!"
the boundary of my skin has been cut open. mark, mearc, boundary.
it has known long moments of meaninglessness. eventually, theskin reunites like lips. scarred mouths which need to speak out mytissue, teks-, text. i am making these marks. i am marking my words.
leaving my marks. my body has forced my surgery, ghesor-, hand.
ten months ago, following my gallbladder surgery i wrote: "each day,when Daphne cleans my incision, i cry. cry when she cleans the endof the incision - by my navel. it doesn't hurt - it's just that it makes
me feel so vulnerable. does this cut recall the original cut; my mothercut away from me? when she dabs the disinfectant on my wound it
trickles down my side and a horrible sense of repulsion shudders
through me - is it my tissue remembering my blood trickling during
surgery? i don't know. those hours in surgery and the recovery room
minutely recorded in my tissue but blank in my conscious mind. thesesensations lie like landmines buried within my own body."
I didn't want this strange woman to sit so close to us. we had
intentionally sought out the vacant corner of the waiting room sothat we could touch each other discreetly - hold hands as i waited95

to be"checked in." check, ksei-, to rule, Sanskrit, he rules, Old Persian,kingdom, king, shah. so alien - this kingdom. we huddle in thecorner with her sitting two chairs away at a right angle. we hesitate- should we let go of each other? there are numerous chairs here,
she can move if we offend her: it's her choice to be here. Daphne
holds on too, so she must have come to a similar conclusion. thiswoman seems so grey and tight with nervousness and she's sodensely clothed. they call her next: "Balantyne." we relax a bit
more as she walks heavily away. when she's asked to put down
next of kin, she replies "no one." to come into this kingdom
without an officially recognized advocate seems masochistic tome. we decide that i'll put Daphne down as my sister. "Warland."it's begun. "married ... children ... religion ... employer ... i'm
shocked to realize how my life cannot be registered in any of these:
how utterly outside the formulae i am. within a handful of thesequestions my life is rendered invisible. my "no" and "none" andstumbling hesitations puzzle my uniformed questioner.
in the elevator. we are being escorted by a bleached-blond, square
woman. our escort says "you're going to the same wing." clippedwings; wounded wings. the lone, gray woman stands small andheavy-coated in the corner. says to me "i hope they're not going to do
to you what they're going to do to me." her horror falls over me likea net. metal hospital green begins to slowly lift us up like pallbearers
lifting a coffin. once you've been strapped in and wheeled flat on
your back down these halls and into this cold-sided box - your eyes
fixed on its low ceiling - you know how like a coffin it is. maybe that's
why people are so uncomfortable in elevators, stare at the floor theceiling the numbers methodically flashing, anything, it's not simply
an uneasiness created by being in a confined space. with the closingof that door we hear the sound of the last lid coming down.
during the first night we share the same ward. inmates. our beds
place us once again in a diagonal position. we don't speak. both
enclosed by our beige curtains - the nurse respecting hers is
irritated by mine. both while Daphne is there and after she's gone,
the nurse continually pulls back my cloth wall despite the fact i've
told her i want it closed. she interprets my need as stubbornness:
an unwillingness to submit to her authority.
i hear the grey woman talking quietly with her resident doctor.
they are discussing her surgery and i hear the word "hysterectomy." she seems so alone with her fear. it throbs wordless from96

her veiled corner. i read Maria Sabina's chants and am calmed.
sleep well through the night with my earplugs. enemas and nowater or food past midnight. i have begun my rites. next morningthey come for me early. Daphne has managed to get me a privateroom, so i know i won't be coming back here after my laparoscopy.
i've been debating as to how i can let my sister-ward partner know
i'm thinking of her. finally, through the curtains i say "good luck,
Balantyne." silence. she's probably surprised i know her name ...
ar maybe I've transgressed her privacy ... then her voice comesback - "thank you."the next afternoon we walk slowly down the hall to the ward. i've
asked the nurses about her and they've all replied that she camethrough the surgery "fine." i need to get a sense ofit myself. the pallof curtains is drawn around her. all that is visible is the catheter, ye, to throw, abject, deject, ejaculate, inject, object, reject, subject, hanging
from the foot of her bed filled with blood and urine. we standwordless in the hall and watch this silent weeping.
have it out / think it out / figure it out / carry it out / keep it out/ check it out / cross it out / stake it out / act it out / pass it out /mark it out / hear it out / get it out / block it out / drive it out /cry it out / send it out / mail it out / hang it out / tough it out /tear it out / wait it out / work it out / write it out / put it out / strike
it out / stand it out / spell it out / fight it out / yell it out / rule itout / ride it out / reason it out / point it out / push it out / pickit out / hold it out / leave it out / move it out / throw it out / lockit out / lend it out / give it out / live it out / seek it out / cut it out
once we acknowledge it exists
it needs out
which out is up to us

hysteric, Greek hustera, womb. all women by nature are hystericalso the Greeks concluded and that is that. etymology is perhaps oneof our few true records of the evolution of our beliefs, assumptions,and struggles for power. this history-in-a-word slowly accumulating, "proving" The Fathers' right to dominate; enforce their values.
contemporary, correct usage obliterating or condemning those
who are not men not white not monied not heterosexual. Hillman
writes "We pass judgement upon people and their souls throughthis language, group them, and treat them as if they were these97things created by our words ... remember Freud, attempting toconvince his compeers that hysteria existed in men. But hysteria
could notexistin me, one scoffed, because hysteria means 'uterus'."it means what it means.
you can't fool around with language.
KEEP OUT" ... only the immature, underdeveloped nervous systems,such as
found in women, tend toward hysterical reactions.""Less than one hundred years ago, around the time Freud studied
with Charcot in Paris, Richer's treatment of hysteria , .. was focused on the ovaries. Mechanical devices were invented for compressing them or for packing them in ice."cool it baby
put it on ice"Hysterectomy is a major surgical procedure requiring the use ofgeneral anesthetic and can have serious complications, including
death.""In Germany, Hagar (1830-1914) and Freidrich (1825-1882) wereusing more radical methods, including ovarectomy and cauterization of the clitoris. The source of hysteria was still, as in Plato's time,sought in the matrix of the female body, upon which surgicalattacks were unleashed."
hysterectomy
his-tear-ectomy
his-to-tear-out-of-me" ... more than half the women in the United States have theirwombs removed. Imagine that! Every other woman over forty you
passin the street in the United States has no uterus ... It's America's
favourite operation."
not to mention breasts
so what we likely haveis over half the population of
women in North America
walking around with no womb andone or no breasts
we consider this to be normal
in the life of woman98we believe ourselves lucky
to be living inan era of advanced medicine
cool it
OR (Operating Room)cut it out
our other center of consciousness(hysteris, uterus, ventriloquism)
i was urged to have a hysterectomy to control" my endometriosis/I

HYSTERECTOMY = LOBOTOMY
ohme
ohmy
i'm a fool for you baby
i had gallbladder surgery in March 1983. I had gynecologicalsurgery (laparotomy) in January 1984. the same two major surgeries my mother had, though she is a meat eater and i' rna vegetarian,
she a heterosexual and I'm a lesbian, she a mother and I'm not, sheliving in the country and i'm in the city - my body is still held
fiercely. genetic patterns / tissue, teks-, text insists on its uninscribedstory. the small jar of odd marbles which i discovered in mygrandmother's buffet drawer: my child's astonishment when i wastold what they were. this story three generations old, perhaps it
spans over more - i do not know my great-grandmother' s text or
her mother's or hers ...
we think in images we remember in images images repeat reassert
themselves on us again ... again ...
the lab technician handed me the opalescent container. 'Warland,
Betsy" was written on it. when i saw the black stone through its
milky walls, i felt unnerved. it looked like it was from anotherplanet. egg shaped (2cm x 1 and a half cm), charred black with agreyish-white cap on either end flecked with gold that sparkles
when held in the sun. i had this overwhelming urge to throw it in
the sea. fear of the unknown. mother's darkness back to motherdarkness. i had never seen another gallstone like this. i had neverseen anything like this. when i visited my parents that summer, iasked my mom if she still had her stones. she returned with an
opalescent container. one charred-black, egg shaped stone rested
on its bottom. twenty-five years ago. twenty-five years later. theimage repeats itself until we tell its story until we let it out
99

two black planets thousands of miles apart yet held within thesame orbit
can you see in the dark?
hide-and-seek"you'll never find me!"endometriosis "end, inside + metrial, uterus." the image: inside
theuterus" .. . with endometriosis, it's a case of the right thing in the wrong place... the endometrial tissue is found growing outside the uterus. It may,for instance, be found on the ovaries or on the peritoneum ... eventhough the endometrial tissue has wound up in some abnormal
location, it continues to thicken, break down and shed each month,which .. . can cause pain and other problems ... These areas ... may
menstruate at first, but as the disease progresses, so much scar tissue
is formed that the endometrial tissue is compressed and can no longer
menstruate. Thus, there will often be puckered, clawlike areas ofendometrial tissue that are no longer active.""the tissue has wound up in some abnormal location"
abnormal, ab-, away + norma, rule
i thought i would never feel it; believed i would never want it; knew
i would never experience it. it never occurred to me that it would
happen with a woman. i waited to miss my period. believed inparthenogenesis. " ... with endometriosis, it's a case of the right thing
in the wrong place." my tissue refusing to "shed." but no second bodyformed. i only bled inside. bled in hiding. my scarred text. developing"clawlike areas." i read this description of endometriosis only today.
the image repeats itself. the body says "write this."
my father and i rushing my mother to hospital. cold-snow, dark
winter night. her pain in the back seat. the bucket on the car floor.
running out of gas two miles from town (her car - her always
pushing people, things to their limit). my dad unable to get anyone
to stop. i go out in the bitter-white wind. a young man stops almost
inunediately (this is what it takes: this wasn't what he expected).
her lying in the emergency room. the pain excruciating. she asks
for me. she thinks she's dying. we talk. emergency surgery. a burst
endometrial ovarian cyst .. . "chocolate cysts, endometriosis-type,with a very large cyst (5 x 4cm) on the right ovary and a smaller cyst
on the left, with scarring of the adjacent tissue." nineteen years
later my report reads "The ovaries were both cystic with prune100

colored cysts, the right ovary being approximately 2 and a quartertimes the normal size ... the ovarian size was about 4 to 5 cm." shewas 56. i am 37. she lost both ovaries. i have portions of both left.
i went into surgery preoared, but it was close. when they began towork on my right ovary, the cyst burst.
now i am on the birth control pill to "control" my endometriosis.
i am a lesbian. i want a baby from my lover. i almost lost my uterus.
i almost lost my ovaries, awi-, bird. my mother and me, nineteen
years between our surgeries in different countries yet both on the
fourth floors. the "gynie" floor - as my nurses say: the diminutives for woman insidious. the gynecological, gune, woman + -logy
wing. the clipping of ...
i am on the birth control pill to control my ... control, control. i willfind another way.
we think in images. we remember in images: repressed images
reassert themselves upon us again and again without our recognition- until we cease to leave them out; cut them out. until we tell the story.
the body says "write this"
we've never met. we're talking on the phone. this stranger's voicesays to me "i hate the thought of them cutting me up - invading
me like that." not cut but invade. rape, rep-, to seize; rapid, surreptitious. she is feeling what i felt too; what i've heard so many other
women speak of. being entered against our wills, even though weyield. "she must have asked for it."surreptitious, sub, under, secretly + rapere, to seize anesthetic, an-,without + aisthetos, perceptible
do men feel this way? i hardly know of any men who have had major
surgery. my parents seem the classic stereotypes: my mother having
gallbladder surgery and a hysterectomy; my father having a heart
attack and then a stroke. are there comparative statistics on this? iknow women have surgery much more frequently. the forced entry.
the flowing of blood. surgery. the breaking in of a virgin. the violent
rape. all routine. all very familiar. the way things are.
sitting with my mother over lunch, my father in hospital with astroke. she telling me all the major and minor surgeries she's had.
a long list unravelling over the years, over the dreary food. the dramasof her body. i saw then how she has always believed something iswrong with her: wrong from the beginning. her unexplained black-101

outs as a child. she has been trying to diagnose, dia-, apart + gignoskein,
to perceive what is wrong with her her whole life.
who is perceiving and who is apart? the disassociating of ourselvesfrom our own dis-eases. all the cutting into and cutting out makes
no difference. all these sacrificial organ deaths yet no peace comes.
there is no such thing as "routine surgery." a part cut out is apartfrom your body forever. the dead ovary. the dead gallbladder like
phantom limbs insist on living again; will not accept unmarked
graves. i inscribe them here. they have gone before me and lived
my death. they reincarnate on this page.
the stone in me was like myself: a solitary planet. it looks like aplanet. i know this stone is the sadness i buried deep ever since i
was old enough to know how to do so. the sadness of alienation (abnorm); my spirit always too large; my desires always too intensedisquieting for those i was intimate with. Daphne is the first lover
who meets me equally. no happenstance that the stone insisted onleaving: breaking its orbit. that sensation of inadvertently finding
evidence of my child knowing: the "odd marbles" in my grandmother's drawer as she lay in her paralyzed sleep in the next room.
my astonishment when i was told what they were. the yellow andbrown swirl-colored marbles. a small jar full of them. enough to fillmy 7 or 8 year-old hand. they felt like the sum of words never said.
the hardened secrets of her private melancholy, gall, yellow, gold,
gleam, glitter, bright, glad, glow. the sparkling flecks on the ends of
my stone. the stone cinder-black. the flecks. light forced to turnback in on itself?

hospital, ghost-ti-, guest, host, hostile: always on my guard against
my host's hostility. only a facial expression away. i am courteous
but i keep to myself as much as possible. stripped of almost
everything - i am too vulnerable to other people's energies. i am
getting ready to "go under" (Persephone and the pomegranateseed); be cut open. all my concentration is required to prepare
myself. i need to be ready for anything; at least the possibility of.
for anything is p.ossible. that strange saying "if something happens
to me ... " something is always happening to us: this isn't something. this is something else.
the night before my surgery both Daphne and i feel peaceful. the"prep lady" (far from being preppy) comes in to shave my mound.
she shaved around my belly button two days ago before my102

laparoscopy. there was no time left. "visiting hours are over" hadbeen announced several minutes ago and now the flat-toned nun
was smoothing out the grey blanket of her evening prayer over theentire hospital. we had to kiss and hold each other quickly before
a nurse turned the handle. we had to refind our own peace over the
next hours. before we could each fall asleep. in our separate beds.
in our separate souls.
the next morning i stood. waited at the guests' lounge window.
watched as far as the Burrard Street bridge for Daphne's faded red
toyota. colored metal streaming intently through concrete arteries.
i needed to see her out there. moving midst it and toward me. istood at that fourth floor window and when i saw that red, i vowed
not to do this again. i would find another way.
i've stayed away from this "piece" for a few days. stayed awayfrom these feelings; needed a "break" but my sleep-self has calledme back. insisted ire-turn. roll over in the night/ sharp pain in mydiaphragm, dia-, completely + phrassein, to enclose. day-self suddenly
face to face with night-self, forcing me to acknowledge the dreami just had . sitting up. trying to breathe. ease the pain. Daphne's
awake now. rubbing my back. i tell her the dream: "i was dreaming
about 'the line' - the long prose-poetry line. my lines - the ones
i've been writing lately. all the lines were forming into bars aroundme/enclosing me / constructing a cage. i felt so panicky: i didn' t
have much time - i had to find a way out or i'd be caught behindthese bars. trapped for .. ." writing is a constructing of the cage of
our own particular/peculiar reality. as i write line-bars graduallybuild their way down the open page. the dreaded Pan in thewoods. the woods at night the tree-trunk dark cage. trunk, ter-, passthrough, overcome: that moment when we knock the tower of blocks
over, when things we've constructed threaten to clone us. selfsurvival? non destructiveness? we must find our way out. overcome
our own trees, deru, truths. see the trees for the forest. the line mustnever stop rewrighting itself, as trees recede and re-seed.
Hillman: ''By conceiving symptoms as sacrifice, they take on newmeanings and receive soul." the symptom not "apart" or a "part" ora "piece": symptom, sun~, together + peptein, to fall. all the pieces falling
into place.. "Quantum theory thus reveals a basic oneness of theuniverse. It shows that we cannot decompose the world into independently existing srrWlest units." and if we are unaware that this is
not "routine surgery" but sacrifice - what happens then?
103

limb. the losing of a limb; not only an arm or leg (is that what it costyou?) but any part of us; any branch any root. limb/limbo.
bitter, to split, bite, bait, fission.
sitting in the waiting room. i recognize the woman sitting acrossfrom me; we have a mutual friend. after "hello" there's the inevitable "how have you been?" her face becomes in/ tense as i tell herthat i've recently had surgery. she asks me several questions about
it. no deflective "oh" and quickly moving on to another topic. so i
ask her if she's ever had surgery. her face gives me the answer
before her words: "Yes, several years ago ... I'll always be bitter
about it."now, when writing this frightens me; when i think perhaps i should
be writing "something" else; that maybe i'm simply being selfindulgent - i think of her limbo. i think of the great knot in her face.
being wheeled down to OR. life or ... entering the state of or, Middle
English, contraction of other. going to the place Of Other. Daphne
walking alongside, holding the chrome side of the Patient Lift (mymother's saying "it gave me such a lift"). lift before the fall.
at the double doors we say goodbye. i look in her eyes: "siempre."tears. blur of swinging doors and i'm wheeled into the Holding
Room. this is as alone as it gets. on the brink of ... the holding ofyour dear-one's hand - denied. yet, i choose to think of this nameas comforting - Holding Room - and feel myself gathered up by
a greater, disembodied tenderness. the nurse comes up and asks
my name and if i know what type of surgery i am having. she gives
me a paper cap for my head, which has a bizarre similarity to a
party hat, and asks me if i'm warm enough. she leaves, placing alarge clipboard on top of my legs: my storyboard. there are threeothers lined up parallel to me in the dimly lit room: i pray for eachone. i've intentionally not accepted sleeping pills or tranquilizers
and seem to be more alert than the others. i wanted the calming tocome from within my own body and soul, and it has. we are all
going in for different types of surgery (i hear the nurse speaking toeach of them). i wonder how Daphne is doing: send her my love.
then remember a friend of mine telling of how she was lined up
with seven other women, out in a hallway, who were all scheduled
for mastectomies. i rehear her indignity at the sense of a conveyor
belt lopping off their breasts: "It was like a god damned parking
lot!"
104

in my mind i talk gently to my ovaries and uterus. with my handon my abdomen, i prepare my body for the invasion, assuring it,
urging it to not resist, struggle against, but rather flow with thepresence of these others soon to enter me.
soon my skin will be rendered meaningless.
limbo, in, on + limbu, border.
soon i am going to the place of Other; my consciousness will betaken from me; my memory intercepted. only my tissue will voice
where we have been: pain its only syllable. memory a cry or moan.
''Betsy Warland?""yes.""I've come to take you to OR.""OK."

down the cool hall i think of Daphne. wonder if it isn't harder towait.
'We're going to room 9."
zenith number: death; enlightenment; fruition ...
it surprised me the first time - how empty these rooms are. how
narrow and cold the surface of the operating table is. two nurses
are in the corner counting out loud and in unison the sponges andinstruments (two and two makes four; four and four makes eight.. . it never stops) the anesthesiologist comes up, introduces himself and i check with him about the type of anesthesia i've requested. the resident doctor i spoke with yesterday comes up andsays "hi." the anesthesiologist asks one of the nurses to call on theintercom to see if Dr. Simmons is ready for surgery: "Yes, she's on
her way." the one nurse attaching the monitor disks on my torso
chats about how expensive they've become. except for the hugedisk light above me (which is not yet on) and the sound of thenurses counting, i can see no instruments or equipment: no evidence of what's about to happen. only people. later, after my neckhad been sore for two days, i found out that a tube had been stuck
down my throat. much later, i saw a series of photographs in a bookwhich recorded each stage of the elaborate "draping" the patient
before surgery. drape, der-, to split, peel, flay, derma, epidermis, trap.
the clock on the wall is at three minutes to noon. the anesthesiologist says "Betsy, I'm going to give you your first injection now. It
will come through the intravenous and you will feel your eyes

105

rolling back for a few moments. Are you ready?" "Yes." it hits
quickly. my eyes have a horrible fluttering sensation, futile fluttering
against glass my whole body in a slow motion backflip deep-pitfall .. . the next thing i know my eyes are opening to a clock on the
Recovery Room wall. it's three fifteen.
i immediately scan my body to assess how i am: can tell i've comethrough surgery all right. a nurse at my side now asks me if i know
my name. to her, this question is recovery procedure, to me it is asign of how radical these past three hours have been. how they've
altered me to the core yet all i can say is my name. and i'mgratefuli can: it's perhaps the lastthread that holds us here. the nurse is now
taking my pulse; blood pressure; asking me if i feel ok. my body is
shuddering inside. she brings me a warm blanket which feels
reassuring. i become aware of the other patients in the room. thedrugs are dulling my pain sufficiently and this particular pain ismore familiar this time. i remember being so relieved after i woke
up from my gallbladder surgery: the pain was not nearly as
excrucia ting as the attacks had been - which no pain killers could
relieve. why "killers?" when confronted with something they
don' t like; feel fearful of - violence seems to always be The
Fathers' first instinct and institutionalized response.
as i lie here now, i become more aware that "something" hasmoved through me; "something" that had total authority over mewhich altered my body, my spirit ... everything feels shifted
inside. everything seems to be trembling with shock. i lie very stilland say a prayer; know i have been held within the circle of light.
the anesthetic is the heaviest i've had. it has taken me near enoughto the threshold of death, near enough that my soul had begun toprotectively move a step before me. like incest - the emotions are
all here but the memories are repressed. it is now 4 o'clock.
"Betsy, we're going to send you back to your room now."
i smile with the thought of seeing Daphne and quietly holding her
hand. that connection - my arm, hand to her hand, arm: theumbilical cord birthing me back into this life. she's standing
outside my room door when i arrive. smiles. "hi love."i've seen her face 2 times now just back from surgery, returned toconsciousness, & each time it has seemed so intensely pure to me,
spiritual, as if her flesh has somehow lost its materiality - her spirit
there so gravely- a grave stillness in her face then as ifcleansed of106everything but pure being - conscious of just being - not ofwanting anything, or striving forsomething, just there and only there- fragile, yes, vulnerable because so self-revealed, but enduring,
not strong in the way we usually think of strength (assertive) but inpresence of simply continuing even within fragility - feeling very
close to her own fate (don 't know what other word to use - but itis that sense of shape not her usual identity (personality) but verymuch hers - where death defines her) & she looks then socompletely & purely herself - it is as if i see her again for the firsttime, fall in love again for the first time, seeing her so clear of
everything but her death, toward which she is moving & which also
allows her to be who she is.

twice i have had surgery. twice i have had my memories of thisprofound experience "seized." though i heard every word, every
sound, though my tissue felt every violation - those hours ofbroken boundaries within that clean room on that cold-narrowtable are a blank space in my conscious mind. an empty screen on
my black monitor. not even an A prompt.
only a com(m)a, koptein, to cut(what they don't know won't hurt them")
this is the cut that hurts mostthis is where the damage is doneI
and this is where the damage is heldcondensed on this page
like a tear in limbo
repressed images reassert themselves upon us over and over again
until we recognize them; until we cease to leave them out; cut them
out.
until we wake up from the com(m)athe woman who went from doctor to doctor, trying to find adiagnosis for the gnawing pain in her thigh. no relief. no accurate
explanation. the pain relentless. finally, in desperation ("it's all inyou head") she tried hypnosis (stop smoking after one session?)and there it was. the me;nory. intact. an intern leaning against her
as he observed a surgery which she had undergone. leaning
against her. making disparaging remarks about her body. the107insult the injury absorbed into her tissue her cells at the point ofcontact: his arm on her thigh. her pain the words she was denied.
after remembering - the pain vanished. she had needed to know her
story; she had needed to speak her anger; she had needed to haveherself back again. her body, in her own terms. intact, in-, not + tactus,

to touch.
Louky Bersianik's belief that woman is a victim of amnesia which is our genderization. our brainwashing so normalized that
we are barely aware of it. often our only tangible, tangibilis, to touch
sign is a gnawing, inexplicable pain. kwei-, penalty, penal, pine, punish. the penalty of our gender: the pain we catch a glimpse of in one
another's eyes?
the body says write thisi told Daphne about the seagull two days later. i had decided not
to tell her - didn't want to worry her. it seemed a private omen:
one i was to hold quietly to myself at the time.
at four 0' clock, on the day before my surgery, i was lying in bed. no
one else was around. suddenly i heard a wailing cry. outside thewindow i saw a seagull alone on the northeast corner of thehospital roof. it was the most poignant cry: it wailed out four times
into the southwest still-grey day. ifelt convinced that someone had
died and the gull was releasing their spirit skyward. an hour lateri heard a baby had died in its birthing "at four o'clock thisafternoon." it was the only death i heard of in the nine days i wasthere (dea th a taboo). the next morning a gull (that gull?) landed on
my window ledge. Daphne and i were astonished as this hadn't
happened before. it was so close. looked intent and straight at us
as we said "hi!" we were struck by its beauty but i watched insilence. it was here for me, there was no doubt in my mind. though
this frightened me, i felt more moved by its purity. it was amagnificent gull with intense, sweet-bronze eyes and sun-whitebreast. i knew it was waiting for a response from me. i addressed
it with my inner voice.
"why are you here?""i've come to see if you're ready.""no, i'm not ... i have work to do; work which i've committed myspirit to. you are beautiful, i would be honored to have my spirit
released by you, but it's not my time. go away in peace." and it flew
away immediately.
108

for several days after surgery that horrible broken feeling every
time you sit, stand, or roll over - your insides avalanching. thefear at first that if you move the wrong way or too much or too fast
everything will come undone. the unbrokens' illusion of theirbodies' indivisibility. their bodies as shields invulnerable against.. . shields, to cut, scalpel. "let's play Doctor." sugar daddies/ surgery daddies. the knife has two edges.
the boundary of my skin has been broken. cut open. it has known
long moments of meaninglessness. body parts of hundreds ofthousands of us are collected each day and burned to what god?
the skin reunites like two lips. tight lipped: "my lips are sealed."
out of these these scar-mouths our stories can be told - but thistime, we must open them ourselves.
LAPAROTOMY(Tubal ligation, removal of overy, tuboplasty, ectopic pregnancy,
removal of ovarian cyst)
Activities- no heavy housework for 4-6 weeks- gradually resume mild exercise, e.g. daily walk. Avoid strenuous exercise for 4 weeks, may swim after 2 weeks- will require rest period during day- no intercourse according to the doctor- may use seat belt
these hospital instructions have been handed out to thousands andthousands of women since 8/78 (the date on the sheet). through allthese years they haven't even bothered to notice or change themisspelling of ovary. "overy" - oh very nice of you to come, ohvery funny. ask the doctor.
"no intercourse according to the doctor." the gospel according to.. . yes, some women do feel better; freed from all that pain; freed
from all that anxiety ("something" growing in there - cancer?).
we're told we'll feel much better. just as we're told a hysterectomy
doesn't affect our sex life. some women, in fact, enjoy sex more
afterwards. but many more women find that their sensual andsexual sensations have been altered; diminished. sometimes draus this.
matically so. they don't
what they don't know won't hurt them

jell

109

"Men with the highest medical qualifications pontificated that thevery concept of female orgasm was a fantasy of depraved minds,
and beyond belief. Havelock Ellis quotes Acton, a leading English
authority of the day, who condemned the suggestion that women
have sexual feelings as 'a vile aspersion'."i grew up with this:"what's wrong with Mrs. So & So; is she sick?""oh, she just has women's complaints."
complaint, plak-, to strike. a man recently in the paper said he never
hit his girlfriend "hard enough to leave marks."
the mastery of making our pain insignificant: invisible.
no bruises = no abuse
how we still slink away in shame and silence (Balantyne). how wewear a fake breast to conceal our loss - what would happen if
every woman were to refuse this camouflage: walk out of her hometomorrow, fling it in the air and go to work; to the post office; to thegrocery store; to her exercise class; to a meeting ... what would
happen if the marks were made visible to other women; to men; tochildren? what would happen if men were brought face to facewith their institutionalized medical practices of defeminization?
what would happen if all these millions of women could suddenly
recognize each other - see the volume and strength of the alteredspecies to which they belong? what would happen? everything
would happen. and medicine would be forced to dis-cover other"cures" other "givens" other values.
and if we continue to accept "it" being cut out/ covered up?
nothing will happen, except what continues to happen in thegeneral routine of mutilating and mutating our bodies.
"The diagnosis of hysteria went through many vicissitudes ... but'hysteric' and 'witch' never lost their close association. For instance, in nineteenth-century French psychiatry, an old test for the
witch - sticking her with pins and needles - was used in clinicaldemonstrations of hysteria.""In his old age, and in a last, strictly psychoanalytic paper, Freud... concludes that one reaches 'bedrock,' the place where analysis
could be said to end, when the 'repudiation of femininity' in both
men and women has been successfully met. In a woman the
repudiation of femininity is manifested in her intractable penis

110envy; in a man this repudiation will not allow him to submit andbe passive to other men."" ... we have no evidence of Freud's ever having analyzed a little
girl." so it seems, that "Freud's fantasy of the little girl's mind
becomes a Freudian fantasy in the little girl's mind ."my mother writes, while under the hair dryer at the beauty salon:"I'm sorry that you have some of my experiences of my younger
years. I worked like crazy & on projects (really not considering
what my body could take & really abusing it). Then when all went
very well with what I was accomplishing & the months of work
were accomplished - I found it hard to lessen The Pace & whentrying to relax, I found I couldn't & health problems & mental
problems came. This showed me I must live a more regular &strenuous life." here she rereads what she's written and inserts"not such a" before "strenuous life." my mother, still struggling
with her hysteria. trying to convince me (convince herself) that a"regular" life is what she really wanted/wants. then, she writes,"your life will be more secure & gratifying." she says I should find"something that will enhance" my life. something ...
it was the only time I can remember her being happy, glowing.
when she was intensely involved with other women working on
church committees, community projects, conferences, radio programs .. . travelling here and there in cars full of women withpurpose. women who had a bit of time to experience their own,
independent identity. their own possibilities. their own potential.
but the pressures grew. things mounted up at home. she was gonemore and more and things got more and more behind and mybrother and i did more and more of the work. it wasn't a workable
life for a woman of her time and place. it wasn't a life she could
sustain. she could only justify her absence as a wife, a mother, anda daughter (to her ailing parents a mile away) for so long and .. . she
had to return to living "a more regular life." return to her lonelinessand frustration therein.
regular, regularis, containing rules, from regula, ruler. as soon as she
wrote "regular" she broke out of it away from it to "strenuous."

strenuous, strenuus, brisk, nimble, vigorously active, energetic,zealous.
my mother's hand moving across the page the first time tells her tru~h:
lets it out. on the second time - covers it back up. correct, com-, With111

+ regere, straight, rule. her body said "write this." and her guilt
corrected it.
''The hysterical reactions may be seen as desperate attempts torefind body, to incarnate, to find initiation into life."
HYSTERO-RULE
the best science has to offer
the female ovum did not exist until 1827. science did not confirm
the necessity of the egg's conjunction with the sperm until 1875.
conception, until that date, was attributed solely to the sperm.
"It is important to realized how very late in history our scientificunderstanding of female functioning is."ovary, awi-, bird, egg"Before the wind-borne bird became an attribute of goddesses ...
the Great Mother was represented as all-bird. She bore the egg ofcreation in her buttocks, which gave her an odd 'steatopygous'
look. Her face is beaked and neck elongated birdwise ... Many
cultures trace their origins to an egg cosmogony at the beginningof time."in the Tao, the ovaries & uterus are known as the Ovarian Palace,which is the source of Chi and wisdom.
this is not a piece of my mind
this is not a pieceand this is no dummy (udero-, ventriloquism) speaking
i acknowledge my sacrifice
and i embrace my source of power
these are my marks
and this is the writing bodyHD., Thought and Vision, City Lights Books, 1982.
James Hillman, Inter Views, Harper & Row, 1983.
James Hillman, The Myth of Analysis, Harper Torchbooks, 1978.
Lynda Madaras and Jane Patterson, Womancare, Avon, 1981.

112

Anne Lundquist

Small Girl at the Chesapeake(for lisa)

The house looms large behind her, old rooms full of old'ghosts.
The girl wanders circular down to the summer saltof the bay, stands at the edge, afraid. She wants
to immerse herself, feel the bluenessbuoy her up. She enters, the waves tossing her lightly, toying
with her, pulling and tugging. She feels the edgeof fear, but it subsides; it is just the outsideedge, not all the way in. Her head turns to the lonely squealof the dolphins coming in and she knows
she will touch them even before she sees their eyes.

They approach and circle her, unafraid, she treading lightly
in the blackening water, the sun dipping low
behind the house, her grandmother calling darling,
darling come in and she is, but not to the house,to the center of the dolphins who are circling, nudging, calling
one another and her. She pulls backthen reaches her small hand toward the fin.
It is soft, fleshy, slick as wet leather. She grabs holdfirmly as the dolphin turns, flips the dorsal fin
and slithers through the dark water. She rests
her body gently against the back, shapes
her stomach to the arch, imagines this one tossing
her young in the glistening waves. The dolphin coosand turns, the pacing quick as it pulls her.
out toward the open water and her body is still leaning close,
her cheek pressed tight against the pulsing airhole, her legs
resisting the rush of water. At the last moment
she releases, unwraps her hand from the fin, her numb fingers
spreading open in the black water, her feet kicking slowly
guiding her back to the shore, to her grandmother's voicestronger now, circlingJher with the thick towel, pullingher close, laying her down in the soft bed upstairs.

113

Revievvs _____________________________________

Making Face, Making Soul/Hacienda Caras - Critical andCreative Perspectives by Women of Color, edited by Gloria
Anzaldua (1990,402 pp., $14.95, Aunt Lute Foundation Books,POB
410687, SF, CA 94141)

Outshout a Waterfall
Art is a struggle between the personal voice and language, with its
apparatus of culture and ideologies, and art mediums with theirgenre laws - the human voice trying to outshout a waterfall.
Gloria Anzaldua
Closing the final page, el punta final , of Hacienda Caras I got up
from my desk and stepped into a hot shower. The water pouring over
my body released a multitude of emotions and I sat down in thestreaming wa ter and cried. Who am I? How can I testify to the elegant
and vivid truth of this monumentally important book? I am notformally educated enough to be a literary critic, not dark enough to bea visible minority, not white enough for the luxury of emotional
distance. How could my white mother know the cruelty of excising
my ethnic heritage? How could my Filipino father know the tragic
consequences of abandoning me to this no-where, in-between place?
In the steaming lap of the bathtub my fate overcomes me. A fate towhich I thought I had been abandanada until now. Now I remember
myself. I am of la raza c6smica, la cultura mestiza.
The new mestiza copes by developing a tolerance for contradictions, a tolerance for ambiguity. She learns to be an Indian in
Mexican culture, to be Mexican from an Anglo point of view. She
learns to juggle cultures. She has a plural personality, she
operates in a pluralistic mode - nothing is thrust out, the good,the bad, the ugly, nothing rejected, nothing abandoned. Not
only does she sustain contradictions, she turns the ambivalence
into something else.
Gloria Anzaldua, from "La conciencia de la mestiza:
Towards a New Consciousness"
It is from the point of view of the mestiza that I approach the contentsof this diverse and illuminating collection of poems, stories andessays by women of color.
Hacienda Caras is a challenge to white women as well as womenof color to listen, and listen carefully and deeply, to what has been
lovingly framed and articulated within this book.
114

I wanted a book that would teach ourselves and whites toread in non-narrative traditions.
A book that would deepen the dialogue between all womenand that would take on various issues - hindrances and possibilities - in alliance building.
from the Introduction by Gloria Anzaldua
For this kind of reading we need time and courage, the kind of
courage exemplified by the writers gathered in the book. The courage
to speak about ordinary, difficult and painful issues. Issues of beinga refugee, an alien, an immigrant, a prisoner, an "other," an "outsider"- "el barco que nunca atraca" (Lorna Dee Cervantes). Dangerous
issues in a culture that tries to dominate and subsume everything
different, helpless or not easily understood .
... what I write and how I write is done in order to save my own
life. And I mean that literally. For me literature is a way ofknowing that I am not hallucinating, that whatever I feel/know
is. It is an affirmation that sensuality is intelligence, that
sensual language is language that makes sense.
Barbara Christian, "The Race for Theory"
It is apparent that a great deal of time and effort have gone intobringing this material together as a resource - as a source of inspiration and knowledge its value is immeasurable. It deserves to be readwith the depth of feeling normally reserved for our closest friends.
We must commit ourselves to learning about each other so that
we may accomplish our goals without paternalism, maternalism
or guilt. This requires a willingness to explore histories, novels,
biographies and other readings that will help us to grasp therealities of class, race and other dimensions of inequality.
Zinn, Cannon, Higgenbotham, Dill, "The Cost of
Exclusionary Practices in Women's Studies"

Each of the pieces presented in this book reveals a creative way oflooking at the world, a way of addressing catastrophic experience that
we cannot afford to ignore or abandon. No matter what our reasons
may be: inertia, frustration, ignorance or fear. Certainly, none of thewomen writing can tolerate the spiritual and psychological wreckageof silence.
We must face the Medusa,the unfaceable in ourselves, in orderto have access to the powers we require. Mistakes must be
forgiven. Everyday repeats an opportunity, for beginning anew.
Chela Sandoval, "Feminism and Racism"

115

Hacienda Caras seems to me to be a manifesto, a call to action, an
agenda for dismantling walls of silence. Prohibitive habits of language do not serve the soul's need to rejoice and invent itself.
Exclusive and artificial habits of social interaction eliminate spontaneity. '1 want my identity to start with each moment." (Edna Escamill)
But this ironic desire presents a dilemma. The reader must disentangle herself from preconceptions about race, class and gender while
she can never forget her status as a mestiza. This means she must allow
herself to be situated in a landscape where there are no familiar
landmarks, where no thing can be predetermined, where her languages may fail her, where faces and voices often slip into mysteryand contradiction. This is terrain the writers in Hacienda Caras know
very well. It is a meeting ground, the encrucijada" where love begins
and honesty is essential. Maria Lugones in her essay ''Playfulness,'World'-Traveling and Loving Perception" suggests a remarkably
oracular vision of this crossroads:
The Playfulness that gives meaning to our activity includes
uncertainty, but in this case the uncertainty is an openness
to surprise. This is a particularly metaphysical attitude
that does not expect the world to be neatly packaged, ruly.
So, positively, the playful attitude involves openness to beinga fool, openness to self-construction or reconstruction and toconstruction or reconstruction of the "worlds" we inhabit
playfully.
1/

Hacienda Caras is an opportunity to lis ten to the multidimensional
voices which are the beauty and music of our "worlds." At the sametime it leads us to understand the brutal consequences of exiling theserich voices to silence. As Chrystos writes, " ... if I don't make manifest
the beauty I carry in my heart, use my gifts - the regret and anger will
poison me." Esta es fa Verdad.
It means I am entering my soul in a struggle that will mostcertainly transform all the peoples of the earth: the movement
into self-love, self-respect and self-determina tion is the movement
now galvanizing the true majority of human beings everywhere.
June Jordan, "Where is the love?"

Hacienda Caras is a map, a record of places familiar, strange,celestial and geographical. It is a starting point and a steady compass
reckoning. Read this book. Sit down with the brave women who haverevealed their faces; women who have offered their voices so thattogether we can laugh, cry and touch each other.

116

In the Introduction, Gloria Anzaldua writes,
Let the reader beware - I here and now issue a caveat perusor:s/he must do the work of piecing this text together.
However, much of the work has already been done. This collection isa labor oflove beautifully and strategically organized from beginningto end. We have only to open our hearts and read.
- Sharon (nee De La Pena) Davenport

LaveandPolitics-RadicalFeministandLesbian Theories by Carol
Anne Douglas (1990,363 pp., $12, ism press, POB 12447, SF, CA 94112)
In her 1982 novel To the Cleveland Station Carol Anne Douglas
wrote: /II am an ex-Catholic who looked for another faith and foundit. That explains so much about me./I Today she identifies as both aradical and lesbian feminist. As much as anything, her new book Love
and Politics, Radical and Lesbian Feminist Theories is an attempt to explain to herself and others the tenets of Douglas' current faith.
As well as a personal synthesis, Love and Politics is a retrospectiveof the last 25 years of radical feminist and Lesbian feminist (primarilyU.S.) theory. Carol Anne is in a good position to take on such anenormous task: for over 17 years she has written for off our backs,
reviewing books, reporting on conferences and interviewing numerous feminist philosophers. Consequently she is able to show how
both individual theorists and feminist theory itself have developed
over time. She augments theory taken from books and speeches withinterviews she conducted as well as personal conversations andcorrespondence. For instance, Carol Anne demonstrates how Adrienne
Rich was influenced by Susan Cavin's theory of sex differences whenRich was Cavin's thesis advisor for Lesbian Origins. Such examples
make Love and Politics engaging to read and show the cross-pollination of radical Lesbian and feminist theory. While tackling hefty
theoretical subjects, the writing is often anecdotal. Particularly when
discussing Mary Daly and Simone de Beauvoir, Carol Anne paraphrases and explains - something many readers will find helpful.
Carol Anne identifies the following as sources of contemporary
radical feminist theory: mid-tJ entieth century African-American
movements, existentialism (particularly de Beauvoir), anarchism and117

Marxism. I agree these are all important, though I would place muchless emphasis on de Beauvoir than Carol Anne does. But I am
surprised to find no mention of the first wave of American andEnglish feminism, the anti-slavery movements or the early homosexual rights movements in Germany and the US. More recently,
neither the old nor new US left is credited as influencing radical
feminist thought. (''Marxism'' for Carol Anne consists of applicationsof the writings of Karl Marx and socialist-feminism.) In fact, thephrase "male chauvinism" comes from the American Communist
Party. Both the emphasis on the political significance of interpersonal
relations and the necessity of forming an autonomous women'sliberation movement in the face of leftist male intransigence towirnmin's demands for justice stemmed directly from radical
wirnrnin's experiences in the New Left. (See for instance Daring To Be
Bad: Radical Feminism in America 1967-1975 by Alice Echols.) And
neither world-wide anti-imperialist national liberation struggles nor
the his tory ofresistance to tyranny radical feminists brought from our
ethnic histories as Jews, Irish, Hawaiian and Chinese (of course there
are many more, see, for instance "Red Roots of White Feminism" in
Sinister Wisdom 25 by Paula Gunn Allen) are credited. (I in no way
disagree with Carol Anne's observation that African-American
movements of the '50s, '60s and '70s were where many radical
wirnrnin learned the theories of non-violence, armed resistance andseparatism. I wish she'd included the importance of African-Americans
as models of strong, powerful womonhood for young white wirnmin
active in the civil rights movements, which Sara Evans so eloquently
documents in Personal Politics.) I was glad to see such ideas as leaderless collectives, alternative institutions and egalitarian personal
relationships given their rightful source (anarchism).
In a section called "Theory Under Fire" Carol Anne raises criticisms of the "universalism" of early feminist writing: often wimmin
who were white and middle-class wrote as though their experience
were universal. Carol Anne consistently credits wirnrnin of color withcreating theory much more rich and diverse than what came before.
Unfortunately, she omits analyses by fat wirnrnin, disabled wirnrnin,mad (I use the term "mad" loosely to describe a heterogeneous groupof wirnrnin critical of psychiatry and some or all of therapy - not allthese wirnrnin in fact call themselves"mad") wirnrnin and old wirnrnin.
These writings have been widely available for many years, including
within the pages ,o f oob. Certainly looksism was a target of early118feminist activism (Love and Politics contains a picture of a Miss
America protest). Fat, old and disabled wimmin have challenged not
only societal standards of attractiveness but also Lesbian feminist
internalizing of these standards. As Vivian Mayer (Aldebaran) points
out in Shadow on a Tightrope, fat wimmin's liberation stemmed fromradical feminism. Disabled wimrnin's writings have broadened feminist understanding of reproductive rights and female sexuality. Also
they have challenged ableist language and led the push to create
greater access within the wimmin's communities. Judging from theableist and mentalist language (using words like "crazy" and "sane"with no analysis regarding their functions within patriarchy to keep
radicals in line) in Love and Politics Carol Anne is either unaware ofthese challenges or dismissed them. Although she states that "anytheory that proposes a psychological or individual solution to the
problem of women's oppression is not radical feminist," this does not
speak to the effects that "therapism" (this word comes from Jan
Raymond) has within our communities. Nowhere does Carol Anneacknowledge the stultifying effect the fear of being locked up has
upon both theory and practice for radical wimmin. In her "Notes for
a Magazine" (Sinister Wisdom 36) Elana Dykewomon writes: "Next tothe physical war against women ... there is the psychological warthe war against women's minds." How can we make revolution
without claiming our minds and bodies? Again, quoting Dykewomon:"(A)lmost every womon I've ever met has a secret belief that she is juston the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her,that she must be on guard constantly against 'losing control' - of her
temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings ... of her mind."
Carol Anne identifies the origins of male domination as a primary
question for feminists. She locates a major distinction between the"classic" radical feminists and what she describes as "focus on
women" (or focus on Lesbians) theorists. The "classic" radical feminists' "politics (were) articulated in the late 1960s by such groups as
New York Radical Women, the Feminists, Redstockings, and individuals such as Shulamith Firestone, Kate Millett and Ti-Grace
Atkinson .... The impetus for radical feminism developed among
women who believed that women's and men's biological differences
did not determine personality traits and should not be sociallysignificant." The "focus on women" theorists (surely she could havefound a better name) who emerged in the the early seventies believe
there are greater biological differences between men and wimmin

119

than radical feminists acknowledge. (Some believe that men andwimmin are different species.) They hold that "women have developed a culture that is separate from male culture and more nurturing.
Women can gain more from being with one another than with men."
This group includes Mary Daly, Jill Johnston, Elizabeth Gould Davisand Susan Cavin. Carol Anne cites a variety of sources for bothgroups, again showing how individuals' ideas developed and influenced each other.
The section on ''Love, Sex and Sexuality in Radical Feminist
Politics" chronicles critiques of heterosexuality raised by Lesbians.
She charts as well the development of the idea that Lesbianism in itself
is political. I take issue with a number of her statements here:
Generally, only those who believe that lesbianism can be chosen
see lesbianism as part of a political solution for women .... The belief
that sexual orientation is genetically determined or instilled ininfancy is more commonly held by gay men than lesbians ...Lesbians
who see their lesbianism as predetermined ... identify as gay
women.
I find this an appalling overgeneralization, quite irresponsibly given
with no citations. You can "be" a Lesbian but live as a heterosexual
due to various societal disincentives ranging from lack of information
to death. Does any gay or Lesbian person believe China ever had "nohomosexuals"? Creating a world in which Lesbianism is available asan option for all wimmin who experience themselves as Lesbians is apolitical goal; living as a visible Lesbian, expanding our ideas of how
Lesbians look, act and create culture, are political tactics. This is true
both for Lesbians who experience their Lesbianism as choice and as
innate. Both gay and Lesbian activists have criticized focus on the
etiology of "homosexuality" because it stems from a disease model,
an attempt to find the cause so "science" can find a cure. Some radical
Lesbians neither know nor care whether their Lesbianism is innate orchosen.
Carol Anne also discusses love itself, and what impairs Lesbian
love from flourishing. Amazingly she mentions addiction not at all
and abuse only in passing. I believe the awareness of how widespreadchild abuse and addiction are, and various strategies utilized byradical Lesbians to recover from them, are central issues in current
feminist theory. Nor does she discuss the move toward individual
recovery from abuse and addiction through 12-step programs andtherapy and the accompanying move away from critiques of the120

institutions which perpetuate abuse and addiction (in particular thefamily) and their place within patriarchy. I consider this an enormously
important development of the '80s within the wimmin's movements
and think it must be discussed as both part of feminist theory and areason for the erosion of radicalism within the wimmin's movement.
The final section of the book is entitled "Goals, Strategies andTactics: A Radical Feminist Weakness?" Here Carol Anne discusses
separatism, coalition, violence and nonviolence. She discusses how
we can get what we want. I found the discussion of separatismbasically fair, providing a good overview of the variety of what
separatists themselves define as separatism, a history of separatism
with criticisms from non-separatists and responses from separatists.
Although Carol Anne makes clear the work on race and class done byseparatists, she undercounted by half the number of Lesbians of color
who contributed to For Lesbians Only (a major separatist anthology
edited by Sarah Lucia Hoagland and Julia Penelope), thereby contributing to the lie that separatism is for white wimmin only.
Carol Anne says "We're mostly some mixture of separatist andintegrationist." This statement is characteristic of her own pluralism
and the thrust of the book. She wants multiple strategies, multiple
goals, multiple outcomes. I believe this is in part due to Carol Anne's
being raised Catholic, coming from a tradition which considers itself
appropriate for all people and has no compunctions aboutproselytizing the "one true faith." Certainly Carol Anne does not carry this tothe extremes the Catholic church does. But a primary criterion for her
evaluation of tactics is how successfully they can be used for recruiting new wimmin to the movement. And, in the section on universalism
cited earlier Carol Anne says "(T)here are some women whomfeminists must speak for, until they are in a situation where their
voices can be heard. Only people with a greater share of liberty may
be able to say what they need .... We must ... make even more speculative assumptions based on our own experience." This makes me
nervous. If Carol Anne ignores the writing of US wimmin (mad, old,
disabled and fat) chronicled in her own newspaper when writing
about "love and politics," how can we assume she can theorize
meaningfully about the needs of Lesbians in East Timor or sexist
division of labor among the Tasaday? Carol Anne says, "All ...
feminisms should be universal... all of them should address the situation of all women in some way." Does this mean Lesbian separatists
must address the needs of straight married women? 'That socialist-121

feminists must address the needs of successful self-professed "capitalist-feminists" who think all we need is to pass the ERA?
In fact I do find something catholic about feminism. I also believe
my understanding of feminism deepens the more I read and heardifferent wimmin testify for themselves. Part of my job as a radical
Lesbian feminist is to make room (in my heart and in the world) for
their testimony and to explore with them whether or not we can makemeaningful coalition.
Love and Politics is an ambitious undertaking. There is much morein the book than I can discuss here. Despite its shortcomings, it's animportant document, particularly for wimmin new to feminism. Love
and Politics will make an invaluable addition to many women's
studies classes.
- Barbara RuthMy Jewish Face and Other Stories by Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz(1990,234 pp., $9.95, Aunt Lute Foundation Books)
In "Dance on the Face of the Earth," Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz
writes, '1 didn't know yet about ebb and flow, that life is not a river
but an ocean, fathomless, nothing if not contradictory, tugging you
this way and that so you cry yes and no at the same moment."
This and other stories in My Jewish Face and Other Stories focus on
the moments of yes and no, the courage it takes to recognize and act
upon them and the profound shifts such choices make in the lives ofJewish women: feminists, activists, scholars, lesbians, comrades,
sisters, lovers and friends.
In her first collection of fiction, Kaye /Kantrowitz, who from 1983
to 1987 edited and published Sinister Wisdom, chronicles these moments in a voice that is unerring, subtle and true. She insists oncomplexity, contradiction and ambiguity - even welcomes theirrichness and unexpected force.
The title story, "My Jewish Face," describes a riveting moment in
the heat of a confrontation by Jewish activists challenging the performance in which there is a joke about the Holocaust. A young woman,a member of the theater troupe, chooses to align with the protesters- insisting on her "proud, angry Jewish face." The narrator, an122

activist at a Conference not unlike the National Women's Studies
Association, is reminded that we ail, as Jewish feminists and lesbians,
activists and organizers, socialists and religious women, announce
and insist upon our Jewish faces in each moment, that courage is nota given, but a gift.
There are taut and urgent war stories which mirror the experienceof women working in the anti-violence movement. Snapshots of ayoung woman, her face burned by an abusive boyfriend, anotherraped by her lover's friend only to have him doubt her; the slyly
crafted pair of stories "The Day We Didn't Declare War and The Day
We Did," about a possible murderous retaliation by frustrated andenraged feminists.
In "Our First Talk" the narrator is a middle-aged activist returning to a community in which she was a passionate young organizer
and activist. Now softer, perhaps wiser, she has patience with theinevitability of the falling away of certainty; seeing both repetitionand change, understanding that more and more complexity is needed
to stay connected with each other in love and activism. In "Vacation
Pictures," a woman reflects on the subtlety and emotional fluency
required to love another woman with grace and with kindness.
My favorite story in the collection is "The Woman in Purple,"whose central character is a 63-year-old woman who, while standingin line in a supermarket is drawn to Nellie, a consumer activist.
Through her she is swept up into a political landscape filled withdemonstrations, lesbian couples and the yearning this creates, efforts
at creating Jewish ritual and political community in a time of AIDS.
It's an extraordinary story about passion and risk, about motheringand loss, about the courage to enter when life unexpectedly offers
new openings, about aging with its disappointments and freedom.
In the final story, "In The Middle Of The Barbeque She Brings Up
Israel," a young woman breaks through a companionable but careful
gathering of old friends and generations of family to insist that theytalk about Israel. In her desperate raging, she insists that thosegathered honor what they have always taught her.
The lessons of equality, peace and justice run through thesestories like a prayer. There are no conclusions, no epiphanies, nocertainties: There is only history standing on our shoulders, unbidden,
daring us to show our proud, angry Jewish faces to each other, to ourancestors and to those who will come after us.
The conversations are urgent, raw, honest. Some of the stories are

123

frightening, violent as nightmares while the first autobiographicalsection is familiar and warming in its Jewish shorthand. Her language
is not manicured but ragged, truthful, puzzled, demanding, painful
and, finally, trustworthy. Kaye/Kantrowitz sees our lives with wry
humor, sometimes with impatience and often with sophisticatedastonishment. This is political fiction at its best. It is an offering madewith insistence and with love.
"It was all far more complicated than I had thought. The only
things that seemed simple were kindness, and dignity, and life itself,delicate and besieged." (p. 107)
-Sandra Butler

Enter Password: RECOVERY -Re-enter Password by Elly

Bulkin (1990, 110pp., $7.95, Turtle Books,POB 9141,Albany, NY 12209)
Recover: To get back something lost, stolen, etc.; to regain health,balance, control; to make up for losses; to save oneself from a fall;
to reclaim useful matter from waste - Webster's Dictionary.
"Recovery" is a charged word in 1990. It is the name of a lucrative
industry; a loosely-defined, sometimes unstated philosophy; a way oflife. People are for it or against it.
Most people use "recovery" to mean some combination of 12step programs and shrinkery. Not all are clear about the differences
between the two, or about the history of the term. "Recovery" started
with Alcoholics Anonymous, with the assumption that alcoholism is
a disease, incurable except through divine intervention. "Recovery"
started with medical and spiritual meanings. It became a metaphor.
People now say they are "in recovery" from compulsive gambling,
going into debt, and being molested as children. Some think any
obsession or compulsion is an addiction and/or disease, and don't
bother with other analyses, political or scientific. The pseudo-medical
meaning persists; people suffering from "diseases" seek doctors.
Thus "recovery" usually means careless misuse of medical metaphors, a dangerous habit of calling feelings and actions "diseases," analmost automatic dependence on state-licensed "healers." Even
members of 12-step programs (such as myself) can find the recovery
industry terrifying.

124Nevertheless, "recovery" still basically means what the dictionary says. It has no necessary connection to addiction or disease, toshrinkery or rejection of politics. It is a necessary, basic part of humanexistence. Elly Bulkin's book, Enter Password: RECOVERY, is almost
unique in sticking to that basic meaning.
It is a personal story, one which took years to write. It centers on
two aspects of recovery - regaining the lost or stolen past, recovering
what's useful from it. It is both the process and product of Elly
Bulkin's recovering the ability to write after several years of silence.
This meant remembering things deliberately forgotten, breaking
silence, first with herself and then with others. It meant learning- nothonesty and courage themselves, but new habits of honesty, newstyles of courage.
The writer "throws balls for (her) self to catch," hints explained
only many pages later. Although she starts with memories of childhood sexual abuse, secrets of all kinds keep unfolding throughout.
The theme is not childhood sexual abuse but learned secrecy, alearned habit of isolation; the theme is recovery of the person she wasbefore learning secrecy and isolation as a way of life.
The "plot" begins with betrayal - but whose? Some of Elly
Bulkin's friends and colleagues publicly accuse her lover of writing
an anti-semitic book - and implicitly call her a traitor for having sucha lover. Is it anti-semitic to write a Jewish character who isn't admirable? Her "friends" insulted her in print before a wide audience insuch a way that she couldn't defend herself. Have they betrayed her?
Or has she betrayed her people? Did she betray her people (and herparents) by being a dyke? Or did the Jewish community of her birth
betray her by rejecting dykes? Did her parents betray her by teaching
her to meet shame with silence? In this case, silence means notwriting. The story of family silence is intertwined with the trashingstory. She can tell neither alone.
She feels unfit to represent Jews. At the end, invited to co-edit a
Jewish feminist magazine, she can't do it without explaining thewhole story to the other editors - giving up control over who knows
the secrets of her birth family and those of her dyke family. Now she
has the habit of being out, not only as a dyke but in all things. Is
publishing this book a betrayal of her birth-family, her ex-lover, theircollege-age daughter? Failing to publish would be a betrayal ofherself, of the work she can do in the world.
Enter Password: RECOVERY takes the form of edited journal

125

entries - not my favorite genre. It has intrinsic faults: we don't know
enough about her daily life, how she makes a living, which names
belong to important others. Writing for oneself, one doesn't explain.
A dream about cancer passes without comment. Twelve pages (oneyear) later comes the information that gives the dream meaning - forany readers who still remember it. The entry makes no reference to the
dream. These unmarked connections are common. One has to readthis book as a mystery, remembering the clues, or lose much of theinformation. The structure is often self-defeatingly subtle - anaccurate reflection of the confused process of remembering, but
frustrating to read. I would prefer greater clarity over this degree ofauthenticity. All these, however, are generic faults, which further
editing could have reduced. The essential virtue of the journal form
is more important for this story: it frees the writer from creating
characters, from trying to tell anyone else's story.
I would have liked to know more about her spirituality. For many
revolutionaries, spirituality is so connected with politics, not religion,
thatthey don't recognize it in themselves. Elly Bulkin is one of the few
who do. Anyone's recovery story is a guide to someone else. This one
is especially valuable because the writer doesn't abandon her politics
and values for a life of permanent self-analysis. Judging from a
passing comment, she apparently didn't spend time or money on ashrink, although she bought books produced by the burgeoning
recovery industry. As one of the major tenets of the industry is thatrecovery requires shrinkery, I find the lack of discussion frustrating.
Did she make a political decision, or simply never feel the need? Did
she end up paying for a shrink after all but never mention it? (I hopenot!) Judging from the book, she learned to trust by talking not to ashrink, rather with a network of feminist friends also in recovery. If so,
this is important. Others may not know it's possible.
For the same reason, it would be useful to know if she had morethana nodding acquaintanceship with 12-step programs. If not, that's
important encouragement for others who need something but don't
find it there. If so, that's just as important. How does a political dyke
journey through such a relentlessly apolitical milieu?
But this is her story and she chose what to tell, guided always by
respect for the privacy of others. I hope the questions she didn't
answer in this book will start discussions elsewhere. And I (belatedly
but joyfully) welcome her back to the world of writers.
- Rebecca Ripley126

Lizards/Los Padres, short stories by Bettianne Shoney Sien
(1988, 122 pp., $7.00, HerBooks, POB 7467, Santa Cruz, CA 95061)
Julia Penelope has a theory that there are two types of people:"those who crave reality at any cost, and those who have to escapereality also at any cost."· I put most lesbian fiction writers in the latter
category. Lesbian fiction writers, in general, do to the reality oflesbian
experiences what Kraft does to cheese. When I read, I do not want myattention diverted by apolitical happily-ever-afters, with Joegaywoman filling prince charming's shoes. I am a reader who prefers
truth to entertainment. I read to know the real experiences, thoughts
and feelings of real women and dykes who are struggling, surviving
and inventing under real, oppressive circumstances. So I mostly readfeminist and dyke theory, where lesbians speak the truths of theirlives with political consciousness.
In Lizards/Los Padres, a collection of short stories, Bettianne ShoneySien writes lesbian fiction, but sheis clearly a writer who craves reality
at any cost. Lizards/Los Padres is a rare blend oflesbian feminist theory
and well-crafted fiction. This blend made me realize what theory
alone cannot say, and what a powerful medium fiction can be forgrasping political realities.
When I say Lizards/Los Padres is political I do not mean to suggest
it's soap-box-fiction that begins, "once there was a girl named Jane.
Jane was oppressed ... " and ends, " ... and so Jane and her therapist
lived happily every after." Bettianne Shoney Sien' s stories are politicalbecause they are real, not just believable, but real. Her characters havegotten inside me with all their secrets and scars, hatred and hope,memories and desires. This is not spectator fiction. The charactershave allowed me in to witness how the heteropa triarchal poison leaks
into their lives. They are cautious; they don't tell everything.
In "Ida" a farm girl tells the s tory of her 12th summer when she's
hired out to Ida to bail hay, and the following fall when her school
counselor arranges for her to move in with Ida. Much of her story isconveyed in her straight-forward description of the new situation,
Well, I was pretty.wound up in the beginning. Ida's house wasso clean. Quiet, too. No brothers around to watch out for, no one,. Julia Penelope, "The Mystery of Lesbians," Part III, Lesbian Ethics, Vol. I, No.
3, p. 11.

127

sneaking into my room pestering me nighttimes. No one tellingme what to do all the time.
I pitched right in. Started taking my workboots off before I
came into the house, started looking out how I dressed (cleanjeans).
I liked cooking for Ida' cause she always said how good thefood was. I followed Pearl's recipes, all neatly printed and filed
in a little painted wooden box. We had chicken a lot; though I
didn't like butchering, it had to be done. I feathered and gutted
them, loving the silence of a quiet, clean house.
Bettianne Shoney Sien writes this story so we can hear the voice of one
who would be silenced. This is political.
In "Wishing on White Horses," we get insights from Caroline andLinda (characters who are familiar from some earlier stories) near theend of their relationship.
The cars, bumper to bumper, have stopped. Linda rests her
chin against the steering wheel before reaching over to change
the tape.
She'll explain it all to Caroline tonight if she ever gets out of
this traffic mess. It was just a rotten day all around, yesterday.
Linda imagines taking Caroline in her arms, pulling her down
across the bed and forcing her to see: I'm sorry. It was wrong, but

you wouldn't talk to me. My frustration level had been exceeded. You
should have talked to me, I needed someone to talk to. It was such a badday, no one else understands. Work was terrible, and then Lily
brought all this candy, I ate a ton of it. I even threw up. I felt like I wasgoing crazy all afternoon, I think the sugar just got to me. Did you
know my period started last night after you went to bed? I love
you and I'm embarrassed, and I don't care if you want to go
away this weekend. Go with my blessings, and when you come backit'll be like a new beginning.
***
She [Caroline] sat in her parked car on a gravel pullout
overlooking the hills.

Hills don't have fog like mountains where the top disappears
off into the sky, and a woman just has to be patient to see it comeback into sight again .
Sometimes fog helps; if there was fog, I might be able to cry. But
there isn't any.
Is it true, what Linda always says, that I don't trust anyone?
No . There's a good reason not to trust Linda.
Then why not leave?
I'm scared to go. I'm scared to stay.

128

'1'm scared as hell either way." Caroline spoke out loud. She
watched the fog her words formed. She wanted to walk
into the hills, but it was fall and the echo of gunshot in the
distance kept her behind the glass.
I have read mounds of theory about battering and abuse. I know
about patterns and escalation and the reasons that it is hard forvictims to leave. In this story, Bettianne Shoney Sien takes theseskeletons of reality and gives them flesh and breath, pain and will,complexity and depth. Theory does not grasp the rawness of thisexperience. This is political writing.
These are stories of girls and women and lesbians who are caught
inheteropatriarchal traps, but they are not stories of victims. Bettianne
Shoney Sien creates characters who draw their strength from resistance, from identities they have chosen for themselves, from theirintimate connections with the women in their lives. Like most of us,
they are not warriors, or (s)heroes, or ideal Amazons, but they are
more than survivors.
In ''My Mother Played the Accordion" a lesbian, alone, works
through the terror of the past to get to the truth about her mother andherself,
I think of my mother's act of rebellion: shewouldn' tlive for them.
I think of my own and know: I won't die for them.
it is not because i don't lave my life it is because i lave it very much
I don't know what they see; I see my mother. No one tuckedaway hankies that day and said, ''But what an accurate portrait
Vera could draw, a born artist she was."No one recalled, 'Vera played a fine tune, that you could counton. That you could remember."
Maybe I was too young to know. After all no one really is a born
artist. More than inclination it takes hours, money, and for a woman
a voice in her own time that reminds her, '1t is right to want to do
this above all else."

Lizards/Los Padres has left deep impressions on my lesbian feminist consciousness. It stung me, soothed me, at moments it delighted
me and it reminded me about the origin of my vision: experience. Thisis political writing.
- Amber Katherine

129

Books Received ______________
Making Face, Making Soul/Hacienda Caras - Creative and Critical Perspectives by Women of Color is an important and wonderful new collection ofwritings edited by Gloria Anzaldua (co-editor of This Bridge Called My
Back), and reviewed in this issue. 1990, $14.95, Aunt Lute Foundation
Books, POB 410687, SF, CA 94141.
Lesbian Philosphies and Cultures - 23 dykes,87 opinions in this engaging,important collection of lesbian thought edited by Jeffner Allen. 1990,$14.95, SUNY Press, State Univ. Plaza, Albany, NY 12246.
Confessing Excess - Women and the Politics of Body Reduction, a straight,
scholarIy, useful discourse on the weight reduction themes of confession
and surveillance by Carole Spitzack. 1990, $14.95, SUNY Press.
Speaking Freely - Unlearning The Lies of The Fathers' Tongues - an important and exciting analysis of how English developed to express andenforce men's domination by Julia Penelope. 1990, $16.95, Athene Series,
Pergamon Press, Maxwell House, Fairview Park, Elmsford, NY 10523.
Whence the Goddess - A Source Book discusses the history of goddesses
and their functions throughout ancient Europe, India and the Mid-East,by Miriam Robbins Dexter. 1990, $18.95, Pergamon.
The Reflowering of the Goddess - essays on how the power of the goddess
is linked with and re-emerging in contemporary art,literature, spirituality and politics, by Gloria Feman Orenstein. 1990, $17.95, Pergamon.
The Black Women's Health Book - Speaking for Ourselves - is crammedwith information, essays, poems, advice, examinations of almost every
aspect of Black women's health issues, ranging through childhood
abuse, stress, diabetes, cancer, sickle-cell, sobriety and lesbian healthissues, among others, edited by Evelyn C. White. 1990, $14.95, The Seal
Press, 3131 Western Ave., Suite 410, Seattle, WA 98121 .
Out of Time is a lesbian ghost story moving between the '20s and thepresent, Paula Martinac's first novel. 1990, $9.95, The Seal Press.
Voyages Out 2: Lesbian Short Fiction - exciting short stories by Julie
Blackwomon and Nona Caspers. 1990, $8.95, The Seal Press.
Dykes To Watch Out For -1991 Calendar -12 months of new cartoons by
Alison Bechdel- get it while it's hot. 1990, $8.95, Firebrand Books, 141
The Commons,lthaca, NY 14850.
Scuttlebutt, a first novel on the world of women & lesbian Naval recruitsin the early '70s by Jana Williams. 1990, $8.95, Firebrand.
Night Train to Mother, a panoramic saga of four generations of Jewish
women, is Israeli author Ronit Lentin's first novel. 1990, $9.95, Cleis
Press, PO Box 8933, Pittsburg, PA 15221.
130

The Lesbian Survival Manual - hints in cartoon form by Rhonda Dicksion.
1990, $8.95, Naiad Press, POB 10543, Tallahassee, FL 32302.
Club Twelve - patriotic lesbian espionage, a new thriller by Amanda
Kyle Williams. 1990, $8.95, Naiad.
Priorities - the first in a sci-fi adventure series where women fight robots,by Lynda Lyons. 1990, $8.95, Naiad.
Theme for Diverse Instruments is a fine earl y collection of Jane Rule's shortstories, originally printed in 1975. 1990, $8.95, Naiad.
Murder is Relative - family skeletons and living nuns entwine in thisBrigid Donovan mystery by Karen Saum. 1990, $8.95, Naiad.
A Room Full of Women is a novel of contemporary lesbian life and relationship dramas by Elisabeth Nonas. 1990, $8.95, Naiad.
Murder at Red Rook Ranch - 65-year-old Poppy Dillworth accepts her firstmajor case, by Wilderness Trek author Dorothy Tell. 1990, $8.95, Naiad.
Secrets - a second collection of good lesbian short stories by Leslea
Newman. 1990, $8.95, New Victoria Press, Box 27, Norwich, VT 05055.
Mari, chronicles the relationship between an Argentinian activist and a
NYC musician in the ' 70s, by Jeriann Hilderly. 1990, $8.95, New Victoria.
A Captive in Time is the fourth of the engaging Stoner McTavish dyke
mysteries by Sarah Dreher. 1990, $9.95, New Victoria.
Rapture and the Second Coming encompasses the full spectrum of a young
woman's acted out sexual fantasies, by Wendy Borgstrom. 1990, $7.95,
Lace Publ. (a division of Alyson), 40 Plympton St., Boston, MA 02118.
Doc and Fluff - The Distopian Tale of a Girl and Her Biker - a new,sometimes violent novel by Pat Califia. 1990, $8.95, Alyson.
New Italian Women - A Collection of Short Fiction, 24 stories by 17 Italianwomen, edited by Martha King. 1989, $14.95,ltalica Press, Inc., 595 Main
St. #605, NYC, NY 10044.
Coming Home - peace without complacency is about an activist's five-year
battle to regain U.S. citizenship, by Margaret Randall. 1990, $5.95, WestEnd Press, Albuquerque, NM 87125.
The Safe Sea of Women: Lesbian Fiction 1969-1989 is the first in-depth
analysis of our "second wave" literature - destined to be a classic, by
Bonnie Zimmerman. 1990, $24.95 (hardcover), Beacon Press, 25 Beacon
St., Boston, MA 02108.
The Queen of Swords is a play which bends language and minds, coupledwith several,long poems, by Judy Grahn. 1990, $9.95, Beacon.
House of Light, beautifully made poet's poems by Pulitzer Prize winner
Mary Oliver. 1990, $14.95 (cloth), Beacon.

131

America and I - Short Stories by American Jewish Women Writers - goodwriting, a few lesbians, ed. by Joyce Antler. 1990, $19.95 (cloth), Beacon.
Returning Words to Flesh - Feminism, Psychoanalysis, and the Resurrectionof the Body is a series of essays attempting to re-value the body itself by
Naomi R. Goldenberg. 1990, $19.95 (cloth), Beacon.
The Butcher's Wife is the story of a traditional Chinese woman whose
husband's brutality drives her to murder, by Li Ang, trans. from the
Chinese by Howard Goldblatt. 1990, $9.95, Beacon.
Proper Deafinitions - Collected Theorograms addresses incest, racism andthe nature of language itself in a series of reflective texts by Betsy
Warland. 1990, $11.95, Press Gang, 603 Powell Street, Vancouver, BC,
Canada V6A IH2.
Stonewall Riots is a first collection of cartoon panels by Andrea Natalie.
1990, $4.95, 7100 Boulevard East, Guttenberg, NJ 07093.
Before We Were Born - although the lesbianism is coded, these are
beautiful new poems by Carol Potter. 1990, $8.95, alicejamesbooks, 33
Richdale Ave., Cambridge, MA 02140.
Women with Disabilities: Issues, Resources, Connections - annotated anduseful new package by Rannveig Traustadottir. 1990, $5.70, Center on
Human Policy, Syracuse Univ., 200 Huntington Hall, Syracuse, NY 13244.

»>s-l-o\;, >I

from The Adventures of Miz Willoughby
Dean Brittingham132

- - - - - - - - - - -_ _ Contributors' Notes
Sine Anahita: I live on lesbian land in rural N.C. where I garden
and live in social isolation. Besides ink drawings, I paint, doetchings and lithographs, wash drawings and collage. My radical
politics and wild dreams mesh well with my status as a poor
student and artist.
SDiane Bogus would like to thank you for reading her work andfollowing her career. She requests your support for W.I.M. Publications (2215-RMarketSt.,SF, CA 94710,) and her poetry press (seead on p . 136).441/2, Aquarius, Buddhist, Black, Ph.D. and authorof six books, the latest two: Dykehands and The Chant of the Womenof Magdalena.
Dean Brittingham: I am a 40-year-old radical lesbian, and I like tohave fun. I love being a Lesbian cartoonist and photographer, andenjoy the irony, satire and beauty in life.
Sandra Butler is a community activist and workshop leader. Her
current work is with Jewish survivors of family violence andpartners of women with life-threatening illness. She has written
Conspiracy of Silence; The Trauma of Incest, and, with Barbara
Rosenblum, completed Cancer In Two Voices, the chronicle of alesbian couple dealing with terminal illness.
Lisa Carlin: drummaker to the revolution. She believes in collectives, consciousness raising and the evolutionary superiority ofplants.
Michele Connelly works for the Artist-in-Residence program in
New Mexico.
Anne B. Dalton: I am currently teaching Women's Studies at the
University of Rochester and have recently completed a book on
Djuna Barnes and childhood sexual abuse. Writing poetry has long
been one of my greatest pleasures.
Sharon Davenport is an ex-angelino who has lived in the Bay Area
for 28 years and has raised a beautiful boy. She is part-owner andfull-time worker at the lesbian owned and operated Brick Hut
Cafe. She has published two chapbooks of poetry, Mountain
Singing and Between Us .

133

Elise Dodeles: I am a 26-year-old artist living and working in
NYC. These early drawings helped me through a difficult period
in my life when I was first exploring my lesbian identity. My
drawings now continue that initial exploration, but with a great
deal more acceptance and love.
Winifred Emily Eads: I am a 44-year-old white working classlesbian. I am surprised to be becoming the person I was born to be.
I like to write, draw, pick wild roses out of hedges, dress up in
inflorescent costumes, I like to watch how I converge as I go along.
Ruth Farmer lives in Brooklyn and is inspired by walking throughthe Botanic Garden, riding on the subways, and the ordinary
things in life.
Francesca Forte (aka Fran Roccaforte): b. NYC 1956. Bay Area
photographic-artist healer, videographer and wordsmith. Currently living and working in T.V., attempting to produce choicescenes from her cultured existence.
Tina Gianoulis: I'm a fat southern dyke of Greek heritage. I've
written stuff off and on for years and have been lucky enough tohave friends who've given me support to keep doing it.
Marcy Jacobs is a 31-year-old white lesbian from Illinois who loves
reading works by other lesbians.
Beth Karbe: I've been a lesbian for as long as I can remember and,as a photographer, I make images of lesbians exclusively. My
desire is to assist our individual and collective healing by putting
to paper our beauty, our strength and our power as lesbians. (I'malso networking with other never-het dykes. My address is: 213
NW 4th Ave., Gainesville, FL 32601.)
Amber Katherine: I am sort of a dyke philosopher. Recently, mylover's crab cat, Kitte, has been amusing me with a piece of string.
Kitte is a separatist also.
Helena Lipstadt: I live in Philadelphia and am studying to be a
rabbi. Before this I lived for eleven years in coastal Maine on land
which I owned with a group of women.
Anne Lundquist teaches English and Women's Studies at Elon
College. Her work has appeared in Hawaii Pacific Review, Sow's Ear
Poetry Review, Women of the Piedmont Triad and others. She lives inGreensboro, NC with Lisa, Drew, Chelsea and their cats, Zora andChristopher.
134

Jasmine Marah - enigmatic, eclectic, elastic, eccentric, enthusiastic, fat, forty, furious fotomaker.
Melizma Morgan: I was born in 1966 and became a radical lesbian
feminist when I was 14. I have lived in Northampton, Mass. since
1985, and have recently begun half-heartedlypursuing a bachelor's
degree at UMass. My dearest ambition is a feminist revolution.
Nancy N achum: I' rna 43-year-old lesbian, originally from Montreal.
My son will be drafted into the Israeli army next year. I've had
poems on this theme printed recently in various feminist and leftist
magazines.
Frances Negr6n-Muntaner is a Philadelphia-based Puerto Rican
writer and filmmaker. She has published in numerous journals
and newspapers in Puerto Rico and the United States. She is also
a founding member of the Philadelphia Latino Writer's Collective/Journal, Desde este [ado/From This Side.
Ellen Oppenheimer: I am a lesbian and I make art which meansthat I have gone against the odds twice.
Deb Parks-Satterfield is a thirty-nine year old Black lesbian writer /poet/actress living in Seattle, Washington. ''More Hair" is dedicated to her mother, Gladys.
Sudie Rakusin: I'm a lesbian and an artist, six planets in fire, livein the woods with my four dog companions doing some sort of art
every chance I get.
Rebecca Ripley isn't writing much due to having injured both herarms. Her brains remain naturally curly.
Ruthann Robson is a white lesbian who recently moved fromBerkeley to NY. Lesbian Law is scheduled to be published by Firebrand Books.
Barbara Ruth still believes in propaganda by the deed, revolution
within the revolution and that patriarchy, in all its incarnations
and infestations, is not good for Lesbians and other living things.
An eco-anarcho-Iacto-ovo-feminist, she advocated/agitates onbehalf of prisoner rights, animal liberation and a revolution she
can dance to. And that ain't all.
Sapphire ·is a poet, short story writer and novelist who lives andworks in New York City. She is the author of Meditations on the
Rainbow, a book of poetry.
135Sue Sellars: sculptor, illustrator, painter-was born April 20, 1936 in
Berwynn, Md. She's been an artist all her life. The study and observation of biological structures in nature coupled with a preoccupation
with metaphysics has given her a very strong personal style.
Thelma Seto: I am a mixed-race, multi-cultural Japanese-American Eurasian born in Syria, raised in Lebanon and Iran. I am trying
to bring my cultural selves out of the closet - a lifelong ordeal. I
live in LA with my young son who keeps me honest. And poor.
Christina Springer is an African-American lesbian mother, writerand filmmaker. She is a co-founder of Back Porch Prod uctions: A
Women's Media Collective whose first film Out of Our Time isreceiving international attention. Her screenplay, Creation of Destiny, has just received its first investors and will be in production
shortly. Her work can be read in numerous periodicals including:
Sojourner, Mothering Magazine, Athena, New Directions for Womenand Shooting Star Review.
Proper Deafinitions is Betsy Warland's fifth book. She recently coedited Telling It: Women and Language Across Cultures (Press Gang,fall 1990) and is currently editing an anthology of U.S., Canadianand Quebec lesbian writers writing on their own work.

SDianeBogus

The Chant of the Women of Magdalena
andthe Magdalena Poems
TIlt Chant of tht Women of MogdD/miJ and the MagdDJm4 l'o<msrecount In a dnemagraphlc lyric of rhymed sestets anddramatic monQlogue ho .... a band of women: Spanish, Engll.!h,African, IrlIh, Italian, Portuguese, Ollnese, French, Creek,
Pequot-from all walla of Iif<>--Ullpe an Engll.!h ,ail andmake their way aaO$! the sea to an uninhabited mountain.
There with gifts and abilities natura~ practical and paranormal
they become the "Yt\:)men of Magdalen .. " Thl.! ,tory of thesea, fresh, precise, engaging, Juxtaposes good with evtl, honorwith dl.!hono. sdence against the ,upernatural, colonization
against exploitation, power agaln't wll~ male domination andwomenls response to It.
$9.00 paper (S7.00 prepubllcatlon) ISBN ()'93S172-16-1$12.00 cloth ($9.00 prepublication) ISBN ()'93S172-14-5
400& off for 5+ copies " With preface by the author
Publlcadon date August 31, 1990

. .0
•.•

Women In the Moon (WIM) Publications
3601 Crowell Rd. SUite 100, Thrlock, CA 95380(209) 667.0966

136

_ _ _ _ _ _ Announcements and Classified Ads
YUBLICATIONSV OUT/INSID E, A Women's Newsjournal Focusing on Lesbian Prisoners. Bar£ara Ruth, ed . $6/ yr, $1.50 sample (+50¢ postage). PO
y ox 282¥Jakland, CA 94609. /I HIKANE: THE CAPABLE WOMON - disabled wimmin's newsletter for lesbians and our wimmin friends. Available in print or
cassette. $4 sample, $14 indiv. subscription, $24 inst., sliding scale
available, f7e to wimmin in prison. Hikane, PO Box C-9 .,Hillsdale,
NY 12529.
V
BRIDGES: A Journal for Jewish feminists and our friends has published its premier issue. Editors include: Ruth Atkin, Elly Bulkin,
Rita Falbel, Clare Kinberg, Ruth Kraut, Adrienne Rich and LaurieWhite. $7.50 an issue, $15 year sub. (2 issues). PO Box 18437,
Seattle, WA 98118.
IKON #12, out in Dec. 1990, will focus on Coast to Coast: A Womenof Color National Artists' Project. #11 is a compilation of radical
work from IKON in the '60s. Write PO Box 1355, Stuyvesant Station, NY, NY 10009 for rates and more info.
CALLS FOR SUBMISSION

BUTCH/ FEMME - all forms, artwork, cassette tapes sought forinter-generational, multi-national lesbian anthology edited by
Joan Nestle (co-founder of the Lesbian Herstory Archives of NYC),
pub. by Alyson Press. Send work or queries to 215 West 92nd St.,
NY, NY 10025. Deadline January 1,1991.
SEVERED TIES: LESBIANS LOSING FAMILY, LOSING FRIENDS- anthology of losses incurred by coming out. Send submissions
or queries to Lynne D'Orsay, PO Box 332, Portsmouth, NH 03801.
HURRICANE ALICE'S RESTAURANT- on the joys and pains ofeating and preparing food - is the Spring 1991 theme. Submit inany form up to 3,000 words by December 15th to: Hurricane Alice,
207 Lind Hall 207 Church Street SE, Minneapolis, MN 55404.
BROOMSTICK WRITING CONTEST: all women over 40 invited
to participate. Prizes, publication, subscriptions. Deadline: March
30, 1991. Guidelines: Broomstick, Box 251 RD #1, Uniondale, PA
18470.
137

LESBIAN MOTHERS' experiences in all forms for a pair of anthologies: Sweet Woman-child Mine and This Little Man I Love,edited by Christina Springer (see bio note this issue). Queries orsubmissions to appropriate anthology at 502 Livermore St. #2,
Yellow Springs, OH 45387.
SEX/SEXUALORlENTATION WORKPLACE DISCRIMINATION
anthology - stories of fighting back through the legal system andother means sought. Send to: PO Box 14313, SF, CA 94114.
WELLNESS: Optimum physical, mental and spiritual health. An
anthology by, for and about women. All forms. Deadline June I,
1991; queries w /SASE by Feb. 1 to: Susan T. Chasin, c/o Visibilities, Dept. WI, PO Box 1258, Stuyvesant Sta., NY, NY 10009-1258.
BI-NATIONAL AND/OR BI-CULTURAL LESBIAN PARTNERSHIPS: Who/Where/How are you? Find the Lesbians anthology islooking for you! Write for guidelines to: Kate Pickford, #204
European Haitsu 15 Ban-Kan, Shinade 21, Yawata, Kyoto 614,
Japan. Deadline: August 1991.
CONTESTSPINSTERS' LESBIAN FICTION CONTEST 1991 entries must be
submitted between Jan. 2 - Feb. 28, 1991. 1990 winner: Mary
Morell's Final Session. Guidelines from Spinsters Book Co., PO Box
410687, SF, CA 94141.
CONFERENCES
NATIONAL LESBIAN CONFERENCE: DIVERSITY - SOLIDARITY-EMPOWERMENT: APRIL24-28,1991 in Atlanta, Georgia. They'relooking for workshop and panel facilitators, caucus organizers,
fund raisers, go-getters, workers and troublemakers: here's yourchance. For more info & to register: PO Box 1999, Decatur, GA
30031, (404) 373-0000.
8th ANNUAL GRADUATE WOMEN'S STUDIES CONFERENCE- Plots and Plans: What's Cooking in Feminist Scholarship, at theUniv. of Mich. in Ann Arbor, March 8-10, 1991. For info andregistration write: GWSC, 234 W. Engineering, Univ. of Mich.,
Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1092.

138

SUPPORT(THE LESBIAN HERSTORY ARCHIVES NEEDS A BUILDING
and we can make it happen! For 16 years the Archives has beenhoused in a NYC apartment and must move. Wouldn't it help you
sleep at night to know there's a lesbian building where our work
is preserved and cherished? The goal is to raise $1,000,000. Can we
do it? If every lesbian who reads SW got ten of her friends to send
$10 we'd raise over $300,000 for opr Archives. Le~ try! Send
donations to: LHEF, PO Box 1258j-NY, NY 10116./
THE WOMYN'S BRAILLE PRESS has just celebrated its 10th
Anniversary! Mazel Tov! If there are books or periodicals you wantto make sure print-disabled womyn can hear, want to make acontribution to this great organization, or want to receive theirquarterly newsletter, write: PO Box 8475, Minneapolis, MN 55408.
(AD)VENTURES
MT. MAMA PACKING & RIDING CO. - Horse pack trips inbeautiful mtns. of northern New Mexico. Rustic bed & breakfast.
Harpy, PO Box 698, Tesuque, NM 87545, (505) 986-1924.
CELESTIAL REASONINGS: astrology for women and children.
Sliding scale. Casey Fisher (415) 601-0371.
EARTHLIGHT VISUAL PRODUCTIONS - specializing in video
and photography. Write or call for rates and special projects.
Francesca Forte, PO Box 11511, Oakland, CA 94611, 415-531-2309.
fESOURCES
v'~ATIONAL WOMEN'S STUDIES ASSOC. SCHOLARSHIPS for1991 include awards for book-length ms., graduate interdisciplinary and Women's Studies work, graduateworkinJewish Women'sStudies, Lesbian Studies, the Pat Parker Poetry Award, and afellowship to a visiting Chinese scholar for research on women.
Deadlines in Feb. 1991. For more info: NWSA, Univ. of Maryland,College Park, MD 20842-1325.
AD RATES: Classified: 35¢ a word, $5 minimum. Display: $150
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139

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sinister wisdom
Current & Back Issues(partial list of contents)#411Italian-American Women's Issue. Guest edited by Denise Leto and Janet Capone.
• Azpadu, Guido deVries, Tavormina, Capra, fides, Cuomo, Veno, Tornatore.
#40 / Special Focus on Friendship. Essays, fiction, editorial discussion transcript.
• de la Pena, Hardy, Svirsky, Gray, Stinson, Dambroff, Mi Ok Bruining, Hauptman •#39 / Special Focus on Disability. Testimony in all forms by disabled womyn.
• Freespirit, Winnow, Sorella, Edgington, Rome, Lauby, Folayan, Koolish, Cardea •#38 / Emphasis on Lesbian Relationships. Fiction and poetry.
• Jewell, Clarke, Anzaldua, Gage, Schaffer, Spisak, Taraba, Devora, Louise, Knight •#37 / Emphasis on Lesbian Theory. With work on consumerism, spirituality, politicaltheory, children, racism, anti-Semitism, lesbians in prison.
• Lee, Tallen, Evans, Pratt, Robson, Quinlan, Livia, Hardy, Gray, Green, Justicz •#36 / Special Focus on Surviving Psychiatric Assault/Creating Emotional Well Being
in our Communities. Includes testimony, prose, poetry and essays on getting lockedup, getting out, community, therapy and therapism .
• Hope, Aal, Caicedo, thundercloud, Robson, Sien, Moran, Ward, NiHera, Willcox •#35 / Special Focus on Passing. Includes work on/ by Black, Jewish, Native American,
Latina, Italian, White, disabled, working class, butch, fern lesbians.
• Jewell, Frye, Pratt, Rosales, Bogus, Ruth, Gage, Barrington, Davis, JEB, Romano •#34/Special Focus on Lesbian Visions, Fantasy, SciFi. Includes work on Separatism,
Disability, Building and Transformation .
• Katz, Ortiz Taylor, Hoagland, Allegra, Livia, Louise, Rios, Danaan, Marah •#33 / Special Focus on Wisdom. Lesbians of Color, Non-violence, War Stories, Incest,
Leaving a Will, Assimilation, Fat Poems, Coming to Terms.
• Anzaldua, Ruth, Rich, Chrystos, Kaye/ Kantrowitz, Hardy, Gilmore, Brody, Rakusin •#32/Special Focus on Illness, Death, Mourning, Healing, the Disappeared, Hunting
Season, Dealing with Suicide, Cancer, New Ritual Observances.
• Maia, Allegra, Sears, McDonald, Waters, Hansell, Rosenblum, Butler, Stinson •#311 Special Focus on Sex and Fiction, Coming out in the South, Found Goddesses,
Waiting, Bobe Mayse, Sex and Socialist Feminism.
• Smukler, Blackwomon, Romano, Davenport, Dykewomon, McNaron •#27 / Special Focus on Girlhood, Sexuality and Violence, Office Work, Navy Dykes,
White Trash, Women of Color/ Women in Israel/Women in Lebanon .
• Adnan, Felman, Grahn, Schalet, Bogus, HaMa'avak Touch, Quintanales, Anzaldua •#26 / Special Issue: To Go To Berbir by Jill Drew, a book-length journal written by an
American nurse working in Beirut during the 1982 Israeli invasion.
#25 / Butch / Fem in the 50's, Native American Roots of White Feminism, Haitian, Palestinian, Puerto Rican Struggles, Jewish Radical Identity, Welfare Life .
• Allen, Cotrell, Root, Stecenko, Love, Paz, Smukler, Hall, Lipstadt, Brant •#211 Separatism Revisited, Jewish Survival & Defiance, Black Lesbian Writing, Photos
of Dykes in Drag, Suicide, Bars, Letters about Anti-Semitism .
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BOOK ORDERS: SINISTER WISDOM BOOKS HAS CLOSED• All orders for The Tribe of Dina: A/wish Women's Anthology, edited by
Melanie Kaye / Kantrowitz and Irena Klepfisz, should be sent to Beacon
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Lesbian voices ...
"When I lie on her belly, my nakedness sealed with hers ina black aura of connection, when I peer into the darkness ofthat connection, I know her pain, and I know it may take therest of her I ife to allow me to love her fu Ily with my hands allover her body, in every opening . . . "- SDiane Bogus, from Her Son"Jerusalem, I tell you, is a city made only for women. Only
women deserve her soft hills, her low valleys, her night skies.
Only we can keep peace when our anger's withdrawn frommen's arsenals. Only we can be trusted with her old age, herfrail shrines, her lost graves."- Nancy Nachum, from Peaceniks"Want you to be fierce
virtuous in presencerighteous in thought
imperious in spirit.
Want you to be
nappy, kinky, out of control& threatening.
-Christina Springer, from Wishlist" . . . I needed a politic to justify my body's desires. I thought
radical feminism was that politic; I thought lesbianism was'only' the body's desires. But . . . as my daily life organizes
itself around doing lesbian legal theory, I strengthen my commitment to lesbianism as theory, as politic. .. . Not lifestyleor sexual preference/orientation/persuasion. Not radical
feminism. Not even lesbian-HYPHEN-feminism. Lesbianism :'-Ruthann Robson, from Looking for
Lesbian Legal Theory: A Surprising Journey$5