Carolyn Gage
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Donna Allegra and "Dance of the Cranes"

3/7/2020

13 Comments

 
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Donna Allegra [photo from Lesbian Herstory Archives I believe]
In January, African American lesbian writer, poet, essayist, and dancer Donna Allegra died at her home Brooklyn at the age of 67. This blog attempts to commemorate her life and her writing through an exploration of one of her short stories,  “The Dance of Cranes,” which pulls together so many threads of Allegra’s own biography as well as the issues she faced as a black, lesbian, butch, feminist, working-class writer in the twentieth century.

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Allegra’s papers are archived at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture at the New York Public Library, and this is her biography from their website:

“Born and raised in Brooklyn, Allegra studied theater at Bennington College and Hunter College, graduating from New York University in 1977 with a Bachelor's degree in dramatic literature, theater history and cinema. She worked as a construction electrician to support her writing and dancing, reviewed dance, theatre and film productions as a freelance cultural journalist, and produced lesbian and feminist-oriented radio programming for WBAI from 1975-1981.

Allegra was an early member of the Jemima Writers Collective, the first black lesbian writing group in New York City. The collective grew out of the Salsa Soul Sisters, the oldest black lesbian organization in the United States, and was founded to encourage black women writers to share their creative work with each other in a supportive environment. Fellow members of Jemima included Candace Boyce, Georgia Brooks, Linda Brown, Robin Christian, Yvonne Flowers (Maua), Chirlane McCray, Irare Sabasu, and Sapphire. Allegra later joined the Gap-Toothed Girlfriends Writers Workshop.


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A prolific writer of poetry, short stories and biographical essays, Allegra has been published in over thirty lesbian and feminist anthologies and numerous black and lesbian journals and magazines. In 2001, she published her first book, Witness to the League of Blonde Hip Hop Dancers, a collection of twelve short stories and a novella about black lesbian dancers. In addition to her writing career, Allegra is an accomplished African folklore and jazz dancer.”

In this blog, I wanted to share excerpts from her short story “Dance of the Cranes.” This was originally published in the anthology Black Like Us: A Century of Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual African American Fiction. It’s also included in Witness to the League of Blonde Hip Hop Dancers. “Dance of the Cranes” is about a fourteen-year-old, black, lesbian butch who is struggling with issues of sexuality and gender, and also wrestling with the homophobia she is encountering in her community of dancers. In the story, this girl, Lenjen, finally sees someone who looks like her in her African dance class—an older butch dancer named Lamban, and the two are paired together by the instructor to perform the Dance of the Crane. As the pair demonstrate their dancing, the rest of the class bears witness and celebrates the tribal/familial bond of these two outsiders, and in doing that, Lenjen’s trauma and Lamban’s estrangement are healed.

This intersecting pain of butch-phobia and homophobia, coupled with racism, misogyny, and classism were familiar themes in Allegra’s life.

Writing in the late 1990’s when the Internet was still in its infancy, Allegra was ahead of her time in naming the specific intersecting oppressions that she faced as an emergent lesbian writer of color. Her exposés are exceptional in their candor about how these oppressions shaped her experience. In 1997, her essay, “Inconspicuous Assumptions,” was published in Queerly Classed: Gay Men and Lesbians Write About Class. In it, she ticks off these assumptions:

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Allegra was a familiar dancer at New York's Dyke Marches
  • One particular cultural base should define universal standards in literature.
  • The white male experience is central.
  • All lesbians are white and upper-class.
  • Writers have money, hence plentiful free time.
  • The playing field for publishing is level for LGBT writers.
  • Only white males take their craft seriously.

Fast-forwarding twenty-five years, it’s interesting to look at her list of “inconspicuous assumptions” and note how much more conspicuous they are today—thanks to the arduous efforts of writers like Allegra. It’s also interesting to note how many of the changes in the field of publishing have been superficial, especially with regards to working-class writing and lesbian-of-color representation. The lesbian butch voice remains underrepresented in all genres.

Here is Allegra, heartbreakingly candid about how the absence of kindred literary role models impacted her self-image:

"A telling marker of ruling-class viewpoint has to do with whose lives make it to the page and just whose story is told. The upper classes had their dramas enacted as the experience we were supposed to take as “universal.” Shakespeare’s leading characters were court royalty. Well, I’m not exactly the queen of England, but I first recognized myself as a lesbian by name in the story of a British noblewoman. Before I finished Radclyffe Hall’s The Well of Loneliness, I knew my common bond with Stephen Gordon made us sisters. I had all the symptoms of her situation. As a tomboy long past the age when I should have outgrown the “phase,” I waxed romantic over pretty girls; boys were fit companions, but of no interest beyond that. Clearly, I was destined to ride horses across the British countryside and become a champion fencer!

PictureLesbian pulp fiction of the late 1950's and early 1960's
My emotional identification with Stephen Gordon was so all-encompassing that it didn’t occur to me that my prospects as a nine-year-old Black kid from Brooklyn were not the same as a character like Stephen Gordon, who inherited wealth and class position.  I didn’t see my race and class then.

… Natalie Barney, Sappho, Gertrude Stein, and Djuna Barnes… wrote about the concerns of upper-class women. They who lived on unearned income would likely take one look at me and imagine a cleaning woman, or, at best, a housekeeper. Not much probability that they would recognize a sister spirit, because class identification is so much more rigid in the upper registers of the social scale.

The literature that spoke clearly of my possibilities was the soft-core lesbian porn of the 1960’s—writes like Ann Bannon, March Hastings, Joan Ellis, Dallas Mayo, and Sloan Brittain, whom I happened upon in the adult book sections of drugstores."


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“Dance of the Crane” is set in a community of black women taking West African dance classes in New York. It opens with a teen-aged, gender-non-conforming, lesbian Lenjen accompanying her mother to a class.

“Lenjen wanted her mother to understand how she drank from the current of energy that flowed from the dancing women, that they were the ones who enriched her blood. She wasn’t putting her passion on the floor for some mating game. But [her mother’s] mind was set, and Lenjen didn’t want to whine after her to explain.”

The girl has noticed an older woman at the dance classes, who has been away for a while but is just returning. She finds herself pulled toward this woman who “wore African pants and didn’t hold back from trying the men’s steps."

The older woman, Lamban, is an older version of Lenjen. I suspect that she represents the missing role model in Allegra’s own youth. In Lamban, we see the development of themes just emerging in the teenager and discover the secret behind her long absence from dance classes:


“She’d been through the fire, sorted through the ashes and determined she wouldn’t hurt herself again by denying her lesbian self. She’d tried hiding this truth from anyone who got friendly with her. When she couldn’t pretend anymore, instead of going to class, she stayed home and cried night after night for a week…

Lamban still grieved that being a lesbian could make her an outlaw to a group of people who did the most spiritually sustaining thing she knew in life. She’d needed all those months away to love herself again. The time in seclusion let her grow perspective, like new skin. That’s how lobsters did it—when the old shell became too small for the mature body, they’d go to a protected place where they could shed the old covering safely. In that haven, they could curl naked and vulnerable until a new covering grew in.”


The final dance of the evening is the lenjen, the dance after which the teenager had been named—the Dance of the Cranes. The teacher pairs Lamban and Lenjen. In the description of the solos, Allegra describes a deeply healing ritual between two members of a people who have survived a diaspora, but who are also survivors of a different kind of dispersement—lesbian butches unable to find their people and despairing of a home they have never known:
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Teenagers performing lenjen on MLK Day at the American Visionary Arts
“On Lenjen’s last go-around at jumping into the circle of paired dancers, she pulled Lamban in with her and danced elaborate patterns around her partner. In finale, she angled her body into a sequence of steps in which everyone could join, then broke off with a gambol like a kaleidoscope discovering it could also be a rainbow.

At the end of class faces glistened with the sweaty joy fashioned from something cleansed and set free. Lenjen and Lamban smiled at, looked away from and back to one another. Lamban pulled the girl to her and held her in a long, strong hug. She felt people smiling their way. And why not smile upon them? The community had just witnessed a mighty rite of passage. Two queer birds had stretched their wings, each finding a new level of flight in the dance of the cranes.”

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13 Comments

The Brilliance of Chantal Akerman 

10/22/2015

0 Comments

 
PictureChantal Akerman
Chantal Akerman died at the beginning of October. She was a Belgian lesbian filmmaker. Her film,  Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, is her best known. The New York Times called it the “first masterpiece of the feminine in the history of the cinema.”
 
Jeanne Dielman is an unusual film. It runs about three hours and twenty minutes, during which we watch a lonely World War II widow go through her routine of household chores: cooking, cleaning, and shopping. It appears to be making film history with the world’s longest dramaturgical taxi down the runway… until we realize that what we mistook for a numbing prelude is, in fact, the life-and-death conflict of the protagonist. She is imprisoned by her routines, suffocating from them, even as she leans into them to preserve her sanity.

At the end of the film, we discover that Jeanne is supporting herself and her son by prostituting herself in her apartment while her son is at school. There is a scene where she is on the bed, underneath the john. He appears to be hardly moving which allows the camera to focus on her agony, as she attempts to get him to finish and leave. After she dresses herself, she picks up a pair of scissors and kills him.
 
And then the camera cuts away to a scene where Jeanne is sitting at a table in her apartment, in the blood-spattered blouse. She just sits. For six or seven minutes, she just sits. And we sit with her.  After a few minutes, she shifts position. After another few minutes, she appears to stretch and relax somewhat. Something like a prototype of a smile crosses her tense face… and then the credits role. (Note: The above video clip includes the john and the killing. If you want to see just the final scene, it begins at 4:50.) 
PictureChantal with her mother
I am intrigued by these six or seven minutes. I watch them over and over. I suspect that these may be the raison d’etre for the film. Chantal’s mother survived Auschwitz:
 
“She never wanted to speak about Auschwitz… I asked her once to tell me more, and she said, ‘No, I will get crazy.’ So we could speak around, or after, or before, but the real moment, never. Not directly.”
 
I have the feeling that this Auschwitz legacy informs Jeanne Dielman, and especially the ending. Perhaps this is Chantal speculating on just what that “get crazy” might look like.
 
In any event, she spends a long time cinematically speaking, showing us the immediate aftermath. Watching the scene, I supply the narrative: “Oh, here Jeanne is in shock. Her heart is racing. She is holding her breath still. She can’t move. But now, three minutes later, she is becoming aware of some discomfort from not moving. She shifts position. There is a moment where she drops her head… is she assessing the blood on the blouse? Is she making a gesture of surrender? But her head is up again, the same expression. And then, about five minutes in, she shifts her gaze. She appears to stretch. Stretching: a good sign. People do that when they wake up. The do it when they are coming out of cramped positions. And when Jeanne comes out of the stretch, I swear I see a ghost of a smile. Or am I just imagining it? I keep returning to this scene to be sure. I would swear that she has arrived in her own life. Finally.

A friend of mine had set up a box with a monarch butterfly cocoon, so that she could watch the transformation. I happened to be visiting when the transformation began. It was a slow process, and at first the wings appeared to be flat and crumpled. What I remember most about the event was the pumping motion after the emergence.  The butterfly began to expand and contract in a subtle, rhythmic, pumping motion, and as it pumped, the wings began to fill out, as if they were inflating.

Watching that final scene of  Jeanne Dielman, I thought of that pumping of the monarch butterfly…  In the utter stillness of Jeanne’s posture and expression, I imagined a similar subtle pumping, something connected to her heart and to her breath, but now—post-emergence—with the special mission of actualizing some kind of mechanism for flight. In those endlessly intriguing six minutes, I imagine I am watching the incarnation of a woman with agency, a woman who has emerged, for better or worse, from patriarchy.
 
I have watched this scene a half-dozen times, and I feel an internal pumping in myself every time I watch it. I am studying Jeanne Dielman. Have I emerged? Am I arrived at myself?​​
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An Apology to Misty Upham

10/25/2014

4 Comments

 
PictureMisty Upham, 1982-2014
I just saw the film adaptation of Tracy Letts’ monstrously successful play August: Osage County. The thing that struck me the most about the film was the exploitation of the Native American character who has been hired to be the cook and caregiver for the family matriarch, whose cancer and prescription-drug addiction have rendered her incapable of taking care of herself. 

A caveat: In fairness to the playwright, it appears that the screenwriters reduced the role of Johnna Matevata, the caregiver, considerably. It may have been that the play was less offensive. I understand that the selling of film rights rarely, if ever, entails rights of approval for the author.

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Guess who's not coming to dinner...
PictureA shovel, because I could not find any shots from this scene.
In the opening, there is an attempt to ridicule the ignorant racism of the matriarch, but then director John Wells spends the next two hours perpetrating the same arrogance and erasure with his camera. If the racism of the family is supposed to be a “thing,” then there would need to be at least a token effort to present the impact of this racism from the point-of-view of the character who is the target. In fact, I kept waiting for that scene, but it never came.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the depiction of the family’s behavior was an example of “hipster racism.” 
And, yes, hipster racism is a thing. Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about it:

"Hipster racism… is described as the use of irony and satire to mask racism. It is the use of blatantly racist comments in an attempt to be controversial and edgy. Its irony is established in a somewhat post-racial belief that blatant expressions of genuine racism are no longer taken seriously and are an outdated way of thinking, thereby making the use of such overt expressions satiric."

I can’t seem to get past the “somewhat post-racial” part. Apparently, neither can Wikipedia:

"Despite its ironic intent and context, hipster racism still appears to perpetuate prejudicial racial ideologies."


The most egregious example of the exploitation and erasure of the Native character occurs in one of the film’s most climactic scenes, one that involves an attempted child rape. The adult boyfriend of one of the family members is attempting to seduce his girlfriend’s teenaged niece. The predator and the niece are both potheads.  Ms. Makevata overhears the interaction, and she races out of the house to intervene. On the way, she picks up a shovel, which she uses as a weapon, knocking the perpetrator to the ground and hitting him repeatedly. The family, alerted by the shouting, comes running and there is a showdown. Interestingly, they believe Ms. Makevata, and even though the perp’s girlfriend stands by him, the perp and girlfriend understand they are banished from the remainder of the gathering. They slink away at dawn.

Now, here’s the thing: The Native, working-class caregiver has assaulted a middle-class white man with a potentially deadly weapon. The family’s word could have sent her to prison for decades, if not life. She could have counted on, at the very least, losing her job. But they don’t fire her or report her to the police. They don’t thank her either. They act as if the perpetrator was stopped by divine intervention. They treat her as a bystander. They ignore her completely.

For me, as a viewer, this was a huge disconnect. The family (and filmmaker) validate her interpretation of events, and then they fail to acknowledge her role in saving the child. The camera tracks the perspectives of the white stars, apparently no longer interested in Ms. Matewata's responses now that her function as a plot device has been fulfilled. What that leaves viewers with are stereotypes of the caregiver:  the strong, silent, noble Native American who keeps her emotions to herself and  the stereotype of the domestic servant of color for whom no sacrifice for the white family is too much.


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This dynamic is repeated when everyone abandons the matriarch to her abusive, addictive ways. In the sentimental final scene, the drug-addled, lonely, old woman manages to crawl up the stairs and into the receiving arms of the caregiver she has taken so for granted. Ms. Matewata takes her abuser in like a child with no recriminations, forgiveness implicit in her bountiful compassion for the race that continues to colonize her people.

I hated the film. I hated everyone who treated Ms. Matewata that way… most of all the filmmaker. I thought about it for days… probably because so many of my own plays are centered on the experience and perspective of female domestic workers.

And then last week I read of the death of Misty Upham, the Native American actor who played the role of Johnna Matewata in the film. Her body was found eleven days after she was reported missing. It took five hours and ten men to recover it from the bottom of the ravine where she had fallen, been pushed, or jumped… depending on whose version you read. Myself, I think it was a suicide. Her purse had been left at the top. Her family had reported that she was suicidal the day before they filed the missing-person report. Her father claimed she had stopped taking her medications for anxiety and bipolar disorder. And, finally, there are elements of pushed/jumped/fell to all suicides.

What I want to say is that I am sorry. I am sorry that such a talented actor is no longer here. I am sorry that so many of the roles offered to Native American women suck. In an interview for the indie film Frozen River, Upham spoke passionately about her desire to play a Native role that was not stereotyped and to work for changes in the industry. I am sorry that she will not live to continue that work. I am sorry for all the ways in which Native Americans have been and continue to be colonized by my white culture.

Her last Twitter posting is a haunting image of a bird she found on the Muckleshoot Reservation. It had been tied by its leg, and must have died exhausted from beating its wings in vain. An outspoken animal rights activist, Upham had characterized the act as “barbaric.” For me, it reads as a painful metaphor for the treatment of talented women of color in film.

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Barbaric.
4 Comments

The Death of A Mentor

3/15/2014

2 Comments

 
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“Where is the love in this scene?”

This is a question familiar to many acting students. Novice performers who tear into a scene filled with dramatic conflict are brought up short by the criticism that all their effort is coming across as just so much sound and fury signifying nothing… because the audience is unable to discover the love between the combatants. “But it’s not there! They’re enemies!” I remember arguing. To which the response is, “Then you must find a way to put it there.”

Yesterday, I found out that my mentor in theatre had died. I had not seen him in thirty years, and I was surprised by the emotions that arose for me.

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My relationship with Jack had been intense and transformative. For four undergraduate and graduate years I had tried to win his attention and his approval, and I had consistently failed. He had been the professor to please. The other professors were academics, but Jack had worked on Broadway for fifteen years. He had been choreographed by Balanchine, danced with Judy Garland and Ethel Merman. Jack had studied with Uta Hagen and taken classes at the Herbert Berghof Studio. He was carrying the DNA of Stanislavsky, the Group Theatre… and he had learned from the masters themselves the secrets of “the Method.” We all were competing to inherit the legacy.

Jack cast me in a lead role of a play that went on to win regional and state competitions, touring eventually to the Kennedy Center for the prestigious annual American College Theatre Festival. I remember the rehearsal we had the night before we flew out. Jack was giving little touch-up notes to the cast. When he got to me, he stopped, and then he said, “And as for you, I don't know what to say.” It was a devastating note. He had done it in front of everyone. I was, apparently, beyond help. My performance was hopeless. I was going to doom all of us to failure. I was the Jonah on board, but it was too late to throw me overboard.

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Today, as a director, I know that, if an actor is truly that hopeless, giving a note like that can only assure an even more abysmal performance. When I think of that moment, I realize that Jack’s animosity toward me and his need to humiliate me were so great, he was willing to compromise his professionalism to indulge them.

In spite of the fact he had cast me in the leading female role, Jack gave the final curtain call to the supporting actress. This insult was emblematic of our dynamic for four years. He could not ignore my ability, but he could and did take every occasion to withhold acknowledgement of it.

Jack was my adviser for my directing thesis project, but I could not get him to come see the play until right before it opened. When he finally did attend, he gave me a list of changes that were too sweeping to implement at such a late date, but that left me with the understanding that the production was terrible.

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I was on the verge of coming out as a lesbian and  I was twenty years younger than Jack. I had come of age in the era of the Women’s Liberation Movement. Jack had fled the oppressive Midwest with its suffocating 1950’s homophobia. His liberation had been the Broadway world of musical theatre, a world dominated by gay men. His heyday had been the era of post-war misogyny… the work of Miller, Williams, Albee. He either could not understand my restlessness as a woman wanting to be front and center, or maybe he understood it all too well for what it was: an assault on his refuge .

Jack and I finally came to a breaking point. It was close to the time of my graduation. I cannot remember the issue… it may have been one of my final attempts to get him to view my thesis work. What I remember was being in his office and breaking down in tears of rage and frustration. I remember Jack was appalled. It was if I had vomited on him. He didn’t know what to do, and I was beyond caring. I just sat there and cried.

Directly after this, I remember I went to a playwriting class. I was still crying, still sobbing. This is an odd memory, because I was normally a very reserved person. Whatever was happening to me that day was so momentous, I had become oblivious to my surroundings.

Jack personified the world of commercial theatre, and even though he had left it in the early 1960’s, and even though it was now the 1980’s, little had changed for women. In fact, today, thirty years later, there has still been little change for women. My experience with Jack, bitter as it was, turned out to be a blessing. It spared me years, maybe decades, of searching for a toehold in a male dominated industry that had a particular aversion to ambitious feminists. When I remember that afternoon with the out-of-control crying--which was a mystery to me at the time--I believe it signified my letting go of all my dreams of a career in theatre. I believe that I was understanding that there was no strategy that was ever going to gain me membership in this boys’ club of boys’ clubs, and that what I was experiencing with all those tears was grief, but also relief.

For thirty years I would struggle with the limited resources, the obscurity, and the internalized oppression of working in lesbian communities, but I was spared the dance of femininity and appeasement that engaged and exhausted the best energies of so many of my peers. I would never lend my talents to a “ladies’ auxiliary” in theatre. I would luxuriate in the freedom to write without compromise or censorship, and for a population of lesbians, feminists, girls, and especially survivors of sexual abuse whose stories are routinely appropriated, distorted, or erased in so-called “universal” drama of mainstream theatre.

So, Jack… I missed your memorial service.  I would have liked to have gone. And if there had been an occasion to speak, I would have made “Where is the love?” my text. I know where the love was for you. It was theatre, and good acting . It was the honesty of a scene, the integrity of the action. And I know from your obituaries that the love was also in the volunteer work of your post-retirement years. You worked as a counselor on a substance abuse hotline, an ombudsperson for eldercare, and as a Court-Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) for neglected and abused children.

And where was the love for me, in my experience as your student? Well, I will just  have to put it there.

2 Comments

Shulamith Firestone

11/11/2012

5 Comments

 
PictureRevolutionary Leader before capture
There is a revolution, and a young brilliant leader emerges in the struggle. She writes a book that makes a compelling, ardent, and persuasive case for the revolution. As a result, tens of thousands of women rise up, our lives changed forever.

Something happens to the leader. She is attacked, she is maligned. She shows some signs of fatigue, some signs of weakness. She falls into enemy hands, but they are careful not to make a martyr of her.

PictureRevolutionary Leader as incendiary author
What do they do? They administer massive amounts of heavily addictive, psychotropic drugs. The side of effects of these drugs enable multiple diagnoses that justify a perpetuation and proliferation of the drugging. The prisoner becomes numb, docile, apathetic, amnesiac… distanced from her former identity and alienated from her former causes. She identifies herself as a patient. The enemy’s mission has been accomplished… almost.

Underneath the prisoner’s drug-benumbed, listlessly synapsing brain, the spirit of the rebel lives on. There is something she needs to tell someone, but what is it? And to whom should she tell it? She can’t… quite… make the connections. It has something to do with what she is living, what she is experiencing. Must… make… observations… Must… tell... someone…

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Slowly, across a period of years, the prisoner begins, agonizingly, to write brief one- or two-page essays documenting her observations of her life and the lives of her fellow inmate/prisoners. Some of them are no more than a paragraph. There is no political analysis. There is no context, no induction, no conclusion. Tiny bursts of lucid observation, like matches struck in the dark. There is no candle to light. There is no fuse to ignite. Just these pinpoints of momentary illumination. Someone else will have to piece it together. Someone else will have to map out the cartography of the dungeon from these distress flares.

Two things stand out in the prisoner’s missives: the agents and the subsequent affect. Ativan, Haldol, Valium, Tegritol, Depacote, Trilifon, electro-convulsive shock… And then she describes the damage:

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“… due to the medication, her biggest trouble was she couldn’t care about anything, and love was forgotten. That left getting through the blank days as comfortably as possible, trying not to sink under the boredom and total loss of hope. She was lucid, yes, at what price. She sometimes recognized on the faces of others joy and ambition and other emotions she could recall having had once, long ago. But her life was ruined, and she had no salvage plan.”

“Every time she went in [to the mental hospital]… she felt submerged, as if someone was holding her under water for months. When she came out she was... helpless, unable to make the smallest decision, speechless, and thoroughly programmed by a rigid hospital routine, so that even her stomach grumbled on time… “

“Her indecision was awful, for no sooner did an impulse arise to do something, than it would be crossed by a contrary impulse; she was conflicted. (She watched herself undergo this in slow motion as it were, but was powerless to avoid it.) Or she was confronted by so many choices of things to do, that must be done, that she could choose none of them.”

“She could not read. She could not write… the words bounced off her forehead like it was steel; she simply could not care about the content of any written material, be it heavy or lightweight. Why? Why read it? Why absorb?”

“Once in a while she prodded herself to write, but the old excitement of creation did not return, or if it did, it fizzled by morning after her nightly medication.”


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Her former revolutionary comrades are confused. What has happened to their leader?  Why is there no naming of an enemy anymore? What happened to the call to arms?  Did she desert the cause? HAS SHE LOST HER MIND…?

Can’t they see that this little book is in code, that it has been smuggled out from behind enemy lines at great risk? Can’t they see that she is writing about the fact she can’t write? Can’t they see that she is naming the inability to name?  Can’t they see that this is the most dangerous and difficult revolutionary tract she ever wrote? Don’t they understand that she is no longer pointing out the horror, the endgame that awaits us in patriarchy, but that she has become the living manifestation of it?

The book is titled Airless Spaces. It was published, after many rejections, by Semiotext(e)  in 1998. The author is Shulamith Firestone, who, at the age of twenty-five, wrote The Dialectic of Sex: The Case for a Feminist Revolution, the book that changed my life forever.

In Orwell’s dystopian novel 1984, he depicts the endpoint of breaking the spirit to be the moment when the hero is threatened with rats eating off his face and he shouts out, “Do it to Julia!”—signaling his betrayal of his beloved, as well as his loss of humanity. But this is not the endpoint. Orwell’s anti-hero still loves his own life. The true endpoint is described by Firestone: “... hearing of a death, she often wished she could trade places with that person.”

The author of this fierce, unbearable book died on August 28, 2012. Her body was not discovered until almost a week later. According to the media, Shulamith Firestone died of natural causes.

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Frontispiece of Airless Spaces:

"I dreamed I was on a sinking ship. It was a luxury liner like the Titanic. The water was slowly seeping up from below, and the people aboard the ship knew that they were doomed. On the two top decks it was gaiety and mirth, with people dressed to the nines, eat drink and be merry for soon we shall all die. But a note of hysteria hovered in the merrymaking and here and there I saw strange goings on, like in a Grosz cartoon.

I fled down some metal stairs to where people were starting to get their pantslegs wet. Wasn't I looking in the wrong direction? But I desperately searched the equipment in the basement for something that would supply an air pocket, and I succeeded in finding a refrigerator into which I stowed myself, hoping to live on even after the boat was fully submerged until it should be found.

I woke from this dream in a panic that the disaster was real, and that I was picking all this up by e.s.p. I even called UPI to ask if there was any recent news of a sinking liner, and they said yes, but it was in the Bermuda Triangle, so no attempt would be made to find the ship."


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Tonia Thelma Grant (1927-2005)

12/10/2011

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Picture"In Memory of the Voices We Have Lost"
_ I have just discovered that Tonia Thelma Grant died in 2005, and I don’t remember reading any memorials about her passing, so I wanted to write something.

Tonia was born in Brooklyn on March 28, 1927, and she moved to Gilboa, New York, in 1971. Here she founded Damas Gracias Writers’ Workspace, where lesbian writers could offer workshops and retreats for women.

PictureOffice of the Amsterdam News
_The year before Tonia’s death, I had the privilege of teaching a lesbian theatre workshop at Damas Gracias, and one of my favorite memories is sitting around in the evening and listening to Tonia’s stories of being an early “out” lesbian in Brooklyn. I believe she said she had worked as a reporter for the Amsterdam News, one of the historic African American newspapers.

She had a passion for lesbian culture that was undiminished, and Damas Gracias, located on a beautiful creek, reflected the dream of a “room of one’s own.”

The one obituary I have, sent to me by Basil Kreimendahl, who attended my workshop, notes that “She is survived by two sisters, Hazel Chambers of Brooklyn and Ruby Grant of Gilboa; a brother, Edgerton Grant of Brooklyn; a son, Tonio M. Grant of Gilboa; and two grandchildren, Mychal and Amaya Grant of West Virginia.” And, it notes,  there was a service for her in Grand Gorge. 

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_Basil, who wanted Tonia to perform in one of her plays, added this:
"I also remember Tonia telling me how much she enjoyed every year going to the Carribean and that she had family there. She also told me that she had a brownstone in Brooklyn. At one point, she had a private club for women in it. This was when that was the safest way to meet. She was also an actress."

Because I am unable to locate more information about Tonia, I  want to turn to the land she chose for her dreams : the small town of Gilboa located in the Catskill Mountains.There are two facts about this small town that seem to me to stand as metaphors for the greater and seemingly lost story of Tonia’s life.

First, in 1926, the year before Tonia’s birth, the original town was razed and flooded by the damming of the Schoharie Creek. Many of the townspeople fought “eminent domain,” right up to the flooding and for two decades beyond. The project was built by African American and Italian immigrant labor.

PictureThe prehistoric trees of Gilboa
_Gilboa is also noted for the discovery in 2007, two years after Tonia’s death, of fossils of fern-like trees, named “Wattieza” which have been pronounced the oldest known trees on earth. How old? 385 million years.

Wow… an underwater town and the world's oldest trees.  Tonia’s history…  a history of African American womanism, of secret communities of lesbians of color… bars and private clubs and meetings in homes.  A history of displacement, of submerged identities, of the “eminent domain” of a white, heterosexist, misogynist culture. 

But something older, far older remains. The dozens of lesbian writers and writing students who passed through Damas Gracias will leave our writings, and our writings will influence other writings, and these legacies will continue to testify about a culture and a passion as old as human life… to the powerful love between women. These are our “fossils”… the artifacts that will bear witness to our lives.

Tonia Grant was here.  And she lived her dream against nearly impossible odds, and she shared it with the community she loved. “Damas Gracias” says it all…  “Thank you, ladies.”

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Remembering Barbara Grier

11/11/2011

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PictureBarbara Grier 1933-2011
_ “Hello?” I picked up the phone.

“Do you know who this is?”

I had to think for a minute, before I realized that the voice on the other end of the line was that of Barbara Grier, the publisher of Naiad Books. The year was 1987.

Did I know who she was? Well! How about, did she know who I was? More to the point, did I know who I was. I had just come out as a lesbian, and my world was upside down. Most of the patterns of the first three decades of my life made no sense in the new world I found myself attempting to navigate.

Did I know who she was? Of course I knew. She was the publisher of lesbian books. Everyone knew that. Especially lesbian writers.

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_Did I know who she was? Well, obviously. I had contacted her, hadn’t I, about one of the books she had published, We Too Are Drifting by Gale Wilhelm? I was itching to adapt the book for a screenplay, and I was needing the contact information for the author. (This was still about a decade before the Internet.)

It was a tough conversation, as I remember. Starting with that memorably abrasive opening line, right through to the end, where Barbara would contact the author on my behalf, but not entrust me with the information. She wanted to make sure I understood copyright law. She wanted to make sure I understood the long history of the novel, which had been brought back into print twice, decades after original publication. She wanted me to know that, unable to locate Wilhelm, she had still published it, hoping that Wilhelm would contact her. Most of all, she wanted to make sure that I understood the weight and the freight of lesbian literature and of those few who were called to work in what I was rapidly coming to understand was some kind of sacred field.  

PictureTee Corinne designed many Naiad covers
_Fast-forward two and a half decades. The screenplay for We Too Are Drifting is written, but still unoptioned. I never did meet Wilhelm, but I did eventually correspond with her partner and literary executor. Following in Barbara’s formidable footsteps, I publish my own books. Naiad never did take to the idea of publishing drama, and I was always a little squirrelly about my plays being listed with romance novels and mysteries.

Today I have just read of Barbara’s passing. I hear that voice again, “Do you know who I am?”

No, I don’t. I can’t. I came out in the 1980’s, not the 1950’s. I came out at a time when there was an openly identified, lesbian press—Barbara’s. I came out in the wake of the momentous Women’s Liberation Movement. I have read about the Daughters of Bilitis, but when I came out there were lesbian hiking clubs, and lesbian books clubs, and lesbian chess clubs, and lesbian festivals.  I can’t know what it was like to meet in secret, in private homes, knowing that DOB was the only lesbian organization in the country, the only meeting place outside of the bars. I’ve read about The Ladder, the first openly lesbian magazine. I’ve even read archival copies of it, including the articles by “Gene Damon,” which was Barbara’s nom de plume. But I can’t understand the courage it took to write for The Ladder, even under an assumed name. I can’t know what that publication meant to lesbians unable to locate any sisters in their hometowns. And I can’t imagine what she went through to establish Naiad Books. I came out amid a flowering of women’s presses.

I may not know who Barbara Grier was, but I would catch glimpses of her through the lesbian authors she published. Grier had rediscovered Wilhelm. She also dug up Renée Vivien and published translations of her work. I read the Naiad edition of Lifting Belly by Gertrude Stein.

Picture1952 edition, with Highsmiths' "nom de plume"
_Decades later, I called Grier again. I don’t remember the occasion, but both of us were considerably more mellow. The conversation drifted away from business and onto the subject of our mutual passion: lesbian literature. Suddenly, she told me she wanted to read me something. She asked me to wait while she found it. And in those few minutes while I held the silent telephone, I understood that I was about to have An Experience.

I want to share it today, because it stands as tribute to a woman who did not define herself as a writer, but who had the genius for discovering, treasuring, and gifting the world with lesbian writing.

What Barbara read out loud to me that day was the ending of The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith, a lesbian novel published in 1952—the year I was born.  Barbara would have been nineteen. It was the story of a middle-class lesbian whose lesbianism cost her the custody of her daughter—a story from an era that I will never know. But I appreciate the history, the struggle, the writing, and the passion of the woman who shared it with me:

Carol raised her hand slowly and brushed her hair back, once on either side, and Therese smiled because the gesture was Carol, and it was Carol she loved and would always love. Oh, in a different way now, because she was a different person, and it was like meeting Carol all over again, but it was still Carol and no one else. It would be Carol, in a thousand cities, a thousand houses, in foreign lands where they would go together, in heaven and in hell. Therese waited. Then as she was about to go to her, Carol saw her, seemed to stare at her incredulously a moment while Therese watched the slow smile growing, before her arm lifted suddenly, her hand waved a quick, eager greeting that Therese had never seen before. Therese walked towards her.

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    Carolyn Gage

    “… Carolyn Gage is one of the best lesbian playwrights in America…”--Lambda Book Report, Los Angeles.

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