Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Naked in Norway, Maine

Friday
Susan and Janet have invited Eleanor and me to their lake house in Norway, Maine (not far from Paris, Maine.) It’s hot and sticky as we head north. Normally a three-hour drive, we stretch it out by stopping for frozen custard ice cream, for a home-baked strawberry-rhubarb pie (be still my heart) and then to the big grocery store for supplies.

There’s a lot going on in our lives. Susan has just celebrated her 60th birthday with muted bewilderment. Eleanor has been at her second home on Cape Cod for over a month and needs to settle back into Boston. Janet’s been working hard to get this lake house in order. And I’ve been sorting and cleaning 24/7 as I pack to move apartments in town. My timing is execrable – after virtually eight months of bitter, paralyzing winter, I am watching summer pass me by through the distorting blisters of bubble-wrap.

Finally we pass through the town of Norway and start circling the large lake, Pennesseewassee. A small, steep unpaved road cuts down towards the edge of the lake and bam! We’re there. The house is handsome with its dark wood and green metal roof, and it sports that most sought-after accessory: the matching boathouse.

We nibble on cheese and fresh bread, taking in the views of the lake. Eleanor offers me the big guest room overlooking the lake while she takes the cozy little third bedroom. Our hosts take a dip in their lake, but a thunderstorm quickly brings them back. Once in my room I settle into reading Gina Ogden’s fabulous new book, The Return of Desire, which I have just reviewed here, until I steal a very rare late afternoon nap.

Eleanor’s grilled fish (dipped in pancake mix), fresh salad and hand-picked corn dinner motivates me out of bed and into my seat around the table. Janet and Susan insist we play a board game they consider fun and benign called Carcassonne, after a French medieval walled city. I hate games but do what I often do when I’m forced by good etiquette into them – I win big time. I am awarded for my participation with a large piece of that tangy strawberry-rhubarb pie and now I’ll say goodnight.

I definitely feel I am on vacation.

Saturday
The pouring rain produces an all-night symphony on the metal roof and on the lake water below my bedroom windows. But in the morning, Eleanor has heard on the news that a couple chasing their dog outside in the storm to retrieve the eyeglasses of one of their three little children, which the dog had grabbed, were hit and fried by lightning. Sobering.

It takes four women with one bathroom a while to get organized, but soon we’re out tooting around Norway, Maine. First stop is Ordway Grove, one of the few remaining old growth forests in New England. We crank back our heads to try to see to the top of the astoundingly tall white pines, but the mosquitoes take such advantage of us that we must sprint back to the car. My elbow swells balloon-like from a bite and Eleanor nurses one on her scalp.

We pass a yard sale where, miracle of miracles, the one thing I am looking for is on prominent display: a white plastic table and chairs for the balcony of the apartment where I’m moving. It is a lightweight round table with two nice matching chairs for $20, but by the time Eleanor and I finish with the sellers, we walk away with the set for $13.

Next stop is the lovely McLaughlin Garden, known as “A Common Man’s Garden,” where we stroll among the blossoms. Built in increments by Bernard McLaughlin, at first a shipyard worker in Portland and then a grocer in Norway, his garden grew to 3 1/2 acres of self-taught flowering beauty. When McLaughlin died in 1995 at age 98, the townspeople formed a non-profit and bought the house, barn and garden to maintain it by volunteer labor. The barn is itself exquisite and hosts a restaurant and an art gallery – some unique photos are on display, while the house holds the store.

On the way to the indoor flea market – where I find a rare copy of The History of Henry Esmond by William Makepeace Thackeray for $1 – we stop so I can read the info plaque at The Weary Club of Norway. (The postcard on the left of the Weary Club is postmarked 1947.) Established in 1928 by a group of businessmen who wanted to meet for “cribbage, a little jackknife work and smoking,” my friends tell me it was a get-away for men “weary” of their wives. However, women have been members, not the least US Senator Margaret Chase Smith. Perhaps the club’s very New England subtitle tells it best: “Makers and Dealers in Cedar Shavings, Social Gossip, Political Wisdom and Yankee Philosophy.”

Back at the lake house by early afternoon, the water beckons and Susan convinces me to join her in slipping off my shorts and bra while in the water for a daylight skinny dip, just 10s of yards from the neighbors. What a giddy feeling, taking me back to the childhood I wish I had had. Swimming off my friends’ own private dock, in the homeowners’ waters gives me an unaccustomed sense of entitlement – albeit neither mine nor lasting past the weekend in my case. Class politics aside, I believe I could adjust to privilege were it to miraculously come my way, but the best I can do in the real world is accept invitations from generous friends.

Dinner is a rich vegetable pasta by Eleanor and then once again Susan insists that we all play a game – this time, Bananagram. It has something to do with a Scrabble/crossword variation and I don’t play either. I refuse to play. Janet refuses. Eleanor agrees. She’s such a good guest. I’m busy icing my dozen puffy mosquito bites. All day they’ve been zeroing in on Eleanor and me, but tonight I was out learning how to get water from the neighbor’s well hose when I was assaulted big-time, resulting in freaky swollen welts. I look a bit like a piece of bubble wrap myself. Luckily, when we climb down the dock with the aid of flashlights to view the full moon, the bugs have decided they’ve had enough of me for the night.

But back to Bananagram. As the two begin to play, I lean over to help Eleanor when I happen to see the perfect word and the next thing I know we’re playing collaboratively. Janet agrees to help Susan. Breathless hysteria ensues. We make up words – not the least “anakedkinsox”, something that, with Susan’s munificent agreement, started as naked, became joined to kin and then to sox and finally absorbed the article. Despite our creativity, we lose.

Did I mention a new pie? Raspberry-rhubarb this time. Stomachs satisfied, we take a yard-long sparkler out to the parking deck for our last endorphin rush of the night; it starts like a pink sparkler and morphs into a lime green firecracker. It’s midnight.

Sunday

How hard can life be when the loons wake me up and fresh raspberry pancakes follow right behind? It is a relatively quiet lake as only one property per 200 feet of shorefront can be built and trees cannot be cut down although a third of them can be pruned annually. As my friends’ classic Victorian Maine camp was built in 1900, before such restrictions, they are much closer to the water than permitted today and their land has been nearly cleared down to the water. In short, they have a superior view of and access to the water.

I’m sitting on the house-length screened-in porch writing on my laptop, when a leak is identified. Looking up at the wood-planked roof, I’m startled to see a variety of thick metal hooks and eye-rings firmly embedded there. My friends deny knowledge of them and their placement rules out any porch swing or hammock. Is there a kinky past to this very private abode?

The rain never stops so it is a lazy day. I complete a bit of writing, pack and help clean up. We pile into the car for the return trip. This is the longest I have been offline in years – three whole days and nights. I’m curious if not anxious as to what I’ll find at home, but in fact, after a drive of several hours I discover that my town’s electricity is out due to a lightning storm. Somehow, roughing it in my hot, humid, crowded, crappy apartment is less amusing than life in the airy wooden house on sweet, warm Lake Pennesseewassee.

The Return of Desire by Gina Ogden

The Return of Desire is the second of three books that Dr. Gina Ogden – sex therapist, author and (disclosure) my admired colleague – bases on her large survey of what women (and some men) really feel about sex. Following the highly respected The Heart and Soul of Sex, this time she fearlessly confronts head-on the profit-driven medicalization of women’s sexuality, employing her unique holistic, positive approach to better understand the rich complexity of desire and sex.

Where do the frequently discussed claims of widespread women’s sexual dysfunction come from? Many are based on the accepted performance model of sex research, which quantifies sexual function. Since acts of penetration and numbers of orgasm are fairly easy to count and compare, the arc from desire/arousal/orgasm/resolution has long been used to measure sexual function and dysfunction.

This quantitative approach is increasingly prominent. As Dr. Eleanor Roffman, psychologist and Lesley University professor, told me, “The push today, stimulated by managed care and pharmaceutical corporations, is towards evidence-based research – and only that which is measurable by their instruments.”

Feminism in the early 70s reclaimed the clitoris, challenged the myth of the vaginal orgasm and encouraged women to find their own routes to satisfaction. (So we all bought Magic Wand vibrators.) In reaction, the forces that make their living off sexual problems tried to keep control of the field. Ogden explains that in 1999 the Journal of the American Medical Association published an article declaring that “a whopping 43 percent of all American women just aren’t interested in sex – this based mainly on questions about how often 1,749 of them had intercourse.” This one act – some women may not like it, some men may be unable to perform, some couples may both be women – is a starkly insufficient standard by which to judge sexual health or thrills.

In contrast, from the 3,810 completed surveys she received, Ogden gained a nuanced and enlightening picture – one that reveals women’s sexuality to be far more complex than the arithmetic of penile/vaginal penetration, one that embraces their physical, mental, emotional and, of particular interest to Ogden, spiritual lives.

Despite what women actually say about their own sexuality, the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual identifies “desire disorder” by “criteria for sexual dysfunction [that] are all physical, and they all relate specifically to problems with intercourse,” Ogden writes. This despite decades of consistent research showing that “three-quarters of women are not actually satisfied by intercourse.” It’s the clit, stupid. And some lovin’.

Viagra et al has been a major contributor to the profits of the pharmaceuticals and now the push is on to “solve” the “problems” of women, especially older women. First they have to identify some problems and setting up narrow criteria with little relationship to what women really like is certainly one way. Already they offer us what Ogden calls “the so-called horny pills, creams and patches.” Moreover, she reports, the same pharmaceuticals that market products for doctors to prescribe to pep up “sexless marriages” are the ones that fund most research into hormones and sexuality.

The quantity of material Ogden gained through the huge response to her survey is unprecedented and she is making excellent use of it. She calls The Return of Desire “A guide to rediscovering your sexual passion.” Examining the impact of monogamy, affairs, childbirth and merging with your partner over time is just the beginning. There are other aspects of the kind of self-knowledge on which Ogden believes one builds sexual self-confidence, including an examination of “Living Curly in a Straight Culture: When Desire Meets Sexual Orientation.”

Finally, Ogden’s last chapter looks at “What Women Want,” in the context of the belief that desire doesn’t always bubble up spontaneously, but often requires “conscious preparation.” Based on her decades of therapeutic experience and nearly 4,000 completed surveys that reflect real women’s voices, Gina Ogden’s The Return of Desire offers valuable, compassionate and joyous direction for women rediscovering or reinventing their sexual passion.

P.S. The book's cover features the sexiest fruit photo ever. Your daily apple will never taste the same.

Dara Torres: Swimming Through The Boundaries

By now, anyone who is interested in swimming, in the American Olympic trials or in women athletes (or someone who is forced to overhear TV sports shows) knows that Dara Torres has qualified for an unprecedented fifth American Olympic team at age 41. On the way, she set another 50-meter freestyle record (she first set it 26 years ago at age 15) after having come in first the day before in the 100-meter, which isn’t even her specialty.

I was a professional martial arts athlete for nearly 20 years of my younger life and my limited experience of competition – nasty stuff – amplifies my awe of Torres’ achievements. In the early 80s, for rather superficial reasons, I masochistically took up weightlifting hoping to sculpt a body like, well, like Torres’. I was the only woman in the bodybuilding gym and the only woman in the first weights training certification course at Israel’s prestigious physical education institute, Wingate.

Despite low standards – all I wanted were some cut triceps and twitching forearms – I didn’t turn gorgeous (just stronger). I’ve simply been blessed with copious subcutaneous tissue – more each year, it seems. I gave up weights in frustration and abject boredom after a couple of years. Dara Torres, however, isn’t into fitness for the cosmetics. Despite retiring and returning twice to competition, she has obviously been willing to do what it takes to break national records and sculpt herself into an anatomical map of musculature.

The feminist blogosphere has paid attention to Torres. If you want to see an astounding photo of Dara Torres in all her hard-won glory (scroll down – you’ll know the shot when you see it – it makes me giddy) and to read more about Torres, check out Maggie Jochild’s terrific site Meta Watershed.

As an older woman who wins relentlessly, Torres has attracted unreasonable scrutiny and suspicions of illegal drug use. Journalist Christine Brennen wrote, “Torres said she has had both her urine and blood tested 12 to 15 times since March. That's a lot of drug testing, more than Bonds and Clemens likely had in their entire careers combined.” I should mention that Torres volunteered to be in an anti-doping program.

Some people have apparently found her incomparable sports accomplishments hard to swallow and so try to trivialize and diminish her identity as a sportswoman. Michael Phelps, boy wonder swimmer, heir to Mark Spitz, has the annoying habit of calling her his “mom” – not his colleague or mentor. (In my opinion, only her two-year-old daughter really has that right.) This tag has been gleefully picked up by numerous commentators.

Just today, Fox has a story listing the top 10 Olympic stories. Number 5 is entitled “Let’s hear it for mom.” Decades of success should qualify her to be noted, in the context of the Beijing Olympics, for what her appendages, lungs and devotion – not her uterus – produce. Torres explained the role in her career arc of her age and family to the Women’s Health Magazine, "They may be harder to achieve, but your dreams can't stop because you've hit a certain age or you've had a child."

She may be a mother – but the sports world should be concentrating on the fact that she is simply an incredible athlete who works her butt off. Of course having about $100,000 per year of support staff – trainers, masseuses, etc – is also helpful.

And that “intense and continuous exercise”, one Canadian publication pointed out, can be the key to continuing in sports past previous age barriers. The Canadian Olympic team has at least four athletes over 40 going to Beijing, including Susan Nattrass, a 57-year-old competitive trap shooter participating in her sixth Olympics.

The Canadian National Post interviews one Mayo Clinic expert, Dr. Michael Joyner, who convincingly argues that we’re seeing older women athletes now because they are from the first generation of girls who were encouraged and supported from childhood to get involved in sports. I would add that clearly Title IX, for which we feminists fought so hard, and which outlaws sex discrimination in educational institutions receiving federal funds, had its greatest impact on sports. For the first time, some women have had decent fields, decent coaching and a bit of social acceptance. Opportunity and support make all the difference.

Dara Torres is neither the first nor the only superb athlete to keep going long past expectations. Martina Navratilova, considered by many (including Billie Jean King) to be the greatest woman tennis player, won the mixed doubles at the 2006 U.S. Open just a month before her 50th birthday.

Now Navratilova is helping her fellow boomers. Having been named as AARP’s Health and Fitness Ambassador, I think it’s justified to show you the poster – evidence of Martina’s life-long work-outs. Navratilova’s retirement had been predicted for decades, but as she said, “I've been in the twilight of my career longer than most people have had their career.”

The Drive-In Movie: A Kinky Family Institution Celebrates 75 Years

The Drive-In movie, 75 years old this summer, has had a lot of different identities. In its heyday in the 1950s, the 4,000 theaters across the States served the parents of the baby boom generation as a place to watch a flick – or a double-bill – without the expense of a babysitter.

For $1 per car, my parents would load me and my brother into the back seat with blankets, pillows, favorite stuffed animals and a full picnic. As we fought over our salami-on-bagel sandwiches, we could be quieted with promises of a trip during intermission to the concession stand – the real source of the Drive-Ins’ profits. No other patron was bothered by our whining or when my mother reached over the back seat to slap us.

We’d arrive early, especially if the Drive-In had a playground, and await twilight, when the movies could start. Those tacky rectangular speakers would hook over my dad’s window and we’d struggle to hear the soundtrack. I remember with pleasure when the season was extended by the addition of individual heaters for the cars, so I was horrified to read in Wikipedia of the problems when some theaters stepped up the technology by installing “underground ducts.” “[D]ue to their frequency of becoming homes for rodents, many people actually ended up with a car full of mice instead.”

But it was in the 1960s, when boomers were teenagers, that we really got our money’s-worth out of the Drive-Ins. Known then as “passion pits,” Drive-Ins were the perfect date destination. Thinking back, the whole experience was quite kinky. The public/private boundary was blurred as we sat within our Studebaker or Dodge Dart, necking hungrily. We ignored the families all around us as we sank deep in the seats which, thankfully, were not encumbered by bucket seats or floor gearshifts (which were generally on the steering column then).

Often we were double-dating, so the Drive-Ins introduced us to exhibitionism and voyeurism too. Sometimes I’d be fighting off the unwelcome hands of a date I didn’t fancy, while my girlfriend was loudly sucking face in the front seat with some guy. As the edgy director John Waters said on a BBC report (which you can view here) about the 75th anniversary, “It was the only place you could drink and have sex.”

Today there are only 400 Drive-Ins left and they’re struggling. They are property-hungry, they can only operate in decent weather and after sunset, and new media have delivered many movie options to the public. Most Drive-Ins have Flea Markets, Swap Meets or golf ranges during the daylight, but that doesn’t ensure their financial viability. Apparently, though, boomer nostalgia is fueling a bit of a come-back. It’s not just a flash from the past though. The increased comfort of our cars; the freedom to smoke, burp, chatter or moan; and our renewed passions combine to make it once again the perfect boomer date place.

Here’s an evocative 10-minute montage of Drive-In Intermission Films. Watch a few illuminating minutes of it for a window on the social messages being pushed during the 50s and 60s: from cold war patriotism to urgings that you go to church and the PTA to proper drive-in etiquette.

 

Woman Busted Tricking for Gas. Why do I Feel Screwed?

A lot of publications jumped on the story about the woman arrested for allegedly exchanging sex for a $100 gas card. I found it interesting to see the range of headlines, the range of approaches to the story and the commentary that was missing.

Like Fox News, most outlets used something along the lines of “Woman Accused of Trading Sex for Gasoline.” Only one that I found, a TV channel in Indianapolis, mentioned the buyer: “Indiana Man Charged In Sex-For-Gas Scheme.”  Huntington, WV, news put their entire narrative into a title that was nearly as long as the article: “An Arm And A Leg And...: Kentucky Town Makes Prostitution, Business Without License Arrest --- She Traded Sex for Gas.”

Clearly, gas gift cards are at least as precious as actual (weakened) dollars. Free gas has replaced free toasters as the darling marketing ploy of the day, used by businesses from hotels to car dealers. Chrysler has taken a massive, if not desperate leap, according to the San Francisco Chronicle: “Starting May 7, the automaker began offering subsidized gasoline to people who buy new Chrysler, Jeep or Dodge vehicles. For the next three years, those customers will pay $2.99 per gallon for the first 12,000 miles they drive each year.”

But, back to Kentucky. While the police there are spending their time and citizens’ money on running this kind of sting (other women were also arrested for prostitution), and while the news outlets are pouncing on the story in great numbers, let’s try to remember who is really screwing consumers for gas money. The oil barons, the Halliburtons, the war mongers’ buddies, the national debt, the dictatorial leaders of so many oil-producing countries and the mortgage cowboys are all contributing to the necessity of the rest of us to do what we can to keep moving.

GLBT High Schoolers Fight for the Right to Party at the Proms

When I was in high school in the mid-60s, it never occurred to lesbians and gays to go to their proms with a same-sex partner. Usually they went with their “beards” – that is, their guy/girl-pals, their heterosexual accessories. The necessity to lug around a closet under one’s taffeta prom gown was challenged in 1980 by a Rhode Island high school senior named Aaron Fricke who was determined, despite administrative refusal, to swirl around under the glitterball in the arms of his date Paul Guilbert.

Usually kids have to get permission from their parents to go to a late-night event, but in Aaron’s case, he had to get a court order. According to the ACLU, the federal court not only agreed with Aaron’s case, but warned the school that it needed to provide sufficient security for the lads.

The law remains, although so does the struggle. In March this year the Scottsboro, Alabama school board tried to keep two young lesbians from attending the junior-senior prom, but luckily Jackson County Circuit Judge John Gram nullified the ban that Saturday morning, just hours before the event. The parents and lawyers talked to the press and ran interference, while the 17-year-old donned a fetching gown and was escorted by the 16-year-old in her handsome tuxedo. As one of the lawyers said, with more sense than hope, "This is just a dance. Adults need not get involved."

I had a long talk with a 17-year-old Seattle lad named Kyle Rapinan. As a kid who was homeless for a few years (he’s with a foster family now), who is out in school and who is a leader in his school’s Gay-Straight Alliance (GSA), he has been the target of a lot of scary bullying, he told me. This has involved everything from obscenities on the school’s bathroom walls, to mean and threatening postings on social networking sites like YouTube, MySpace and Facebook.

The cyber brutality has been particularly difficult, as Kyle sees academic achievement as his one route out of a difficult life. He’s worried about the impact of all this online junk on his professional life in the future. “Getting bullied,” he said, “was really depressing. If it wasn’t for the GSA at my school, I’d go crazy.”

He took his boyfriend to his prom a couple of weeks ago, despite the harassment. In fact, as soon as they descended from the limo at the venue, someone yelled “Faggot!” I asked him why he decided to make himself so vulnerable:

“I had to show that even though they hated me and told me I didn’t belong there, I am still a student in my school. I’m a senior, and this is my prom, too. I didn’t have a lot of fun, but I felt I would regret missing this rite of passage if I didn’t go.”

But this week he made up for his discomfort at the school event by attending the Pink Prom he helped to organize with support from the adult community. He told me:

“We got a grant for $700 from King County Community Organizing for our inclusive event because it was anti-violence and anti-drug. About 160 kids attended for free and we had 21 chaperones, including people from PFLAG (Parents Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays), Safe Schools Coalition, teachers from school and other supportive adults.”

From the West to the East, kids are standing up for inclusiveness. Recently, some Massachusetts gender-bending made the prom news. Last month a senior at Peabody Veterans Memorial High School, Deborah Lawson, invited her close friend – a gay guy who enjoys dressing in drag – to her prom as a substitute for her out-of-town boyfriend. The school principle said no, but when Deborah asked Fox News, of all people, to get involved, they called the Superintendent. Since the handbook says that “everyone must wear appropriate dress,” and a dress is considered appropriate for a prom, the Superintendent gave them the go-ahead. Deborah concluded: “I think what I’ve learned is that if you scream loudly enough, you’ll get what you want.”

They’re heroic in the Midwest too. This May, Mathew Pope realized his life-long dream of being elected Homecoming King. Openly gay since his freshman year, he had been aware of his sexuality since eighth grade. Matthew clearly refuses to let the very conservative atmosphere at Shawnee Mission East High School in Kansas shrivel his exuberance. He’s the only guy on the cheerleading squad, where he has been picked to be one of three co-captains. His victory against 11 other Homecoming King candidates the night of the prom was important to this sexual outsider. "It was the ultimate feeling of being accepted,” he said, “I'll be going on now for the rest of my life having that experience. Everyone accepted me, so it's really cool."

Fresno, California has its own prom history. Last month their unified school district changed their policies when Cinthia (formerly Cynthia) Covarrubias wanted to run for Prom King in a tux. He didn’t win, but building on the regulation adjustments, Crystal (Johnny) Vera, a former Homecoming Prince and yet another popular cheerleader, became the first openly transgendered student to win the title of Roosevelt High Prom Queen.

So while some things, like homophobic harassment, have not changed over the decades, at least today, young gays have a bevy of organizations out there offering help and support in navigating both school and alternative proms. For example, articles are posted on sites ranging from Lambda Legal to About.com to GLSEN (Gay Lesbian and Straight Education Network)

BAGLY is Boston-based organization working to support GLBT youth. They are renowned for the gay proms they’ve been holding for 28 years. This year on May 10th they hosted 1500 young people at Boston City Hall, the evening of the Youth Pride march.

Grace Sterling Stowell, the Executive Director of BAGLY feels their prom especially serves transgender kids. “It’s not very common,” she told me, “for trans kids to go to their own prom in the gender identity and dress they choose.”
 
One of the other prominent national organizations supporting GLBT youth is the Safe Schools Coalition (SCC). Co-chair Beth Reis tells me that SSC has provided intervention specialists to work with individual gay kids who become targets of attacks. She recalls the brave shock jock who knows how to pick a fair fight: he called for his listeners to picket the graduation ceremony of Krystal Bennett, a lesbian who was elected Homecoming King.

Krystal, however, countered with her far more sophisticated understanding of the intersections of gender and sexuality. Although she is an out lesbian, that’s not why she ran to be prom King, she said in an interview. She did it, “because prom king is the title I’m most comfortable under. Tiaras and roses don’t suit me. I have a problem with people being forced into gender categories, and to assume that every girl wants to wear a dress and have roses makes me mad.”

The proms organized especially for gay kids are an essential alternative, Beth Reis believes. “We have an obligation as an adult community to bridge the gap until such time as every high school prom feels totally safe and every same-sex date situation there seems totally unremarkable.”

However, she admires the kids who stand up to the opposition and attend regular proms with same-sex partners. “It’s incredible that some young people have what it takes to endure sometimes brutal harassment from peers and from the community.”

What we don’t hear about, she says, are the “cases where it is absolutely no big deal, where it’s taken for granted that every child has the same access to the prom.” So now the question remains: how many GLBT kids have been able to grab their honey, wear their sparkles or cuff-links and re-claim the Village People and Donna Summers with gay abandon?

This article first appeared on AlterNet.org.

FYI: I would make the font a bit bigger, but the host of my blog is working out the kinks (not the good kind) of their new system - and font formatting is one of them, unfortunately.

Easy Come Easy Go – Cuban Style

Cuba’s very first gay pride march was planned for June 25th, the Guardian, a British daily, reported, but the organizers were wary. It’s true that just a month ago Raul Castro’s daughter, Mariela (pictured below) spoke against homophobia at a public rally in her role as head of Cuba’s National Centre for Sex Education. Even though this seemed to signal a desirable attitude change at the national level, it’s certainly not queer heaven. Havana-based Aliomar Janjaque, a gay activist, pointed out that continuing discrimination towards LGBT people ranges from workplace bias to some folks still being jailed for same-sex passion.

The march was to be a collaborative project between Cuban gays in Cuba and in Florida. One key Florida supporter, Arturo Alvarez, was prescient in his concerns: “We’ll see with this parade if openness has really been achieved.”

Unfortunately, the Guardian reported in a follow-up story the next day, the event was cancelled “moments before it was to begin.” Aliomar Janjaque, the president of the Foundation LGTB Reinaldo Arenas in Memoriam, and his fellow activist, the president of the Cuban League Against Aids, were intending to deliver a set of demands to the Justice Department when they were arrested. They were asking for a governmental apology “for its past repression and, in some cases, incarceration of openly gay citizens, and the inhumane treatment of prisoners with Aids.”

The Cuban Catholic Church. the AP reported, had just a couple of days earlier complained about the government “promoting” homosexuality, in response to Mariela Castro’s speech against homophobia and the announcement of “government-paid sex changes for 28 people who have undergone extensive study after requesting the surgery.”

Instead of the cancelled gay pride gathering, Arturo Alvarez held a solidarity rally at his Latin dance and drag club in Miami. Ironically enough, the aborted march had been set to begin at Havana’s aptly named Don Quixote Park.