Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Angelina Weld Grimké

I only recently heard about the writer Angelina Weld Grimké (1880-1958), a prominent figure in the Harlem Renaissance. She was mentioned by Kay Bourne in one of the events she and her collaborator, the photographer Craig Bailey, are doing around the Boston area about the local history of Black artists. Kay mentioned Angelina Weld Grimké at a celebration of LGBT Black theater people in honor of The Theater Offensive.

Grimké wrote with gut-wrenching intensity about lynching and racism and Black families. Her famous play Rachel (1916) was Grimké’s response to the call by the NAACP for work that would counter the racism of D. W. Griffith's 1915 film, The Birth of a Nation (1915).

I read her amazing short story “The Closing Door,” in the thick collection Black like us: a century of lesbian, gay and bisexual African American fiction, edited by Devon W. Carbado, Dwight A. McBride, and Donald Weise. This story knocked me on my ass. The characters are drawn with a humanity that makes them seem present in the room, not the least Agnes, the anchor of everyone else’s feelings. When one of her brothers arrives from the South with desperate news of another brother, Agnes is catapulted into a terrifying depression. The range of perspectives inside this one home is monumental. And the ending is a weighty comment on the bittersweet complexity of motherhood within an oppressive Jim Crow environment.

Because I have not yet read much of her work, this post will necessarily be short. I write to share in the off chance that, like me, Angelina Weld Grimké is missing from your shelves. Work of such power and import may be something you want to experience.

Book Review: Women Against Fundamentalism: Stories of Dissent and Solidarity

Women Against Fundamentalism: Stories of Dissent and Solidarity, ed: Sukhwant Dhaliwal and Nira Yuval-Davis, (Lawrence & Wishart, 2014) includes essays by 19 members of Women Against Fundamentalism (WAF), a remarkable secular, feminist organization in the UK. WAF was born out of the desire of women from the Islamic community to oppose the fatwa on writer Salman Rushdie. WAF rapidly attracted progressive feminists of every background and many nationalities - from Irish Catholic to Israeli Jewish to Punjabi Sikh to English Sunni Muslim. WAF shook up the British discussion of anti-racism when it challenged the misguided liberal "multi-cultural" approach, which assumes that the religious leaders of any particular community represent everyone in that community. WAF also broadened the feminist critique of Islamic fundamentalism by insisting that all forms of religious fundamentalism share an agenda aimed at controlling women and seeking political power.

Full disclosure: I was a member of WAF when living in London during the 1990s. I know several of the 19 women who, by writing in this book’s essays with candor about their lives and about their personal political development, illuminate the unique political contributions of WAF.

Pragna Patel (at left) opens the book with her chapter “Flying by the Nets of Racism: Patriarchy and Religion.” As a founder of Women Against Fundamentalism, her insightful overview of WAF serves as the perfect set-up for the rest of the essays. Born in Kenya in 1960 to Gujarat, Indian parents who were part of the influx of railroad workers to Kenya, she found herself at London’s Heathrow in a sleeveless cotton dress and flip-flops in December, 1965. As the eldest sister, she had to fight her way out of some constricting traditions, not the least forced marriage to a stranger. She was aided, she explains, by James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, in particular this line: “You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.”

Patel explains some of the complex concepts that distinguished WAF’s politics from those of other feminist and anti-racist groupings. WAF developed a politics and practice of solidarity across communities. This stood in contrast to identity politics. In WAF, Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Hindu and other women criticized the power structures inside communities while fighting racism outsiders aimed against those communities. The prevailing British “liberal” concept of multiculturalism erased gender and class differences by imagining each of these communities as homogeneous. Because much of the liberal “celebration of difference” was built around religious holidays, multiculturalism also sidelined secular members of those communities.

Patel ends her chapter with an examination of the difficulties in keeping WAF alive, not the least that most members had a primary political commitment outside of WAF and that Britain’s anti-racism actions were becoming increasingly dominated by fundamentalist groups, making the framing of WAF’s protests tricky.

Clara Connelly (at left) talks about the “twin influences of Catholic and nationalist ideologies on a woman growing up in southern Ireland in the middle of the last century,” in her piece “Confessional of an Anti-Clerical Feminist.” Despite many disagreements, some of them intense, she points to WAF’s precious contribution to the world of feminist thought. “…WAF filled a unique place in British feminism whose influence stretched beyond our numbers and our national borders.”

Julia Bard, whose activism in the Jewish Socialist Group overlapped with her membership in WAF, appreciated being with “people who were dissident within their communities in such a progressive way… People in the group were very courageous about challenging the Catholic Church, for example, or the Sikh or Hindu leadership, in situations where dissent was dangerous.” She herself was accused of anti-Semitism when she questioned the ancient custom of circumcision in her Jewish community. “There was a very strong sense of mutual support among the women. We did have some quite profound disagreements, and I think there were fault lines that we never managed to bridge.”

In “Made in Little India,’” Sukhwant Dhaliwal (at left), one of this book’s editors, feels that her family experienced its individual version of “the classic Punjabi immigrant to Southall story.” As the only daughter, “cultural reproduction seemed … to flow only through me” – from traditional clothing to religious education. She was lucky to have two brothers who supported her struggle to remain in the heart of her community without suffering the scary restrictions that hovered over her, such as arranged marriage. To avoid that fate, she made sure to get into a college and to stay on campus. That delicious taste of freedom led to her life of activism and intellectual achievement.  

Sue O’Sullivan’s (at left) chapter is entitled “Change, Chance, and Contradictions.” She joined WAF during its relatively short period of reinvigoration following a hiatus. Despite many decades of political activism around socialism, feminism, HIV, and anti-war work, she found it hard as a newbie to locate herself within the organization. She had long admired the sophistication of WAF’s analysis and the energy of its actions, but once involved with the group she experienced a crisis of confidence that was common to many newcomers: “I was anxious about saying the wrong thing.” Years after the end of WAF, however, she happily finds “WAF women as organizers and participants” in many of the struggles and political groups she is now working with.

Women Against Fundamentalism: Stories of Dissent and Solidarity provides an instructive sense of the WAF organization itself, by highlighting the process of political maturation through the essays of these 19 individuals. This important, compelling book delivers a taste of the unique experience of working with a truly international, profoundly cross-cultural group of committed feminists who, despite the end of this supportive organization, continue today to wrestle with the most troubling oppressions in Britain and abroad.

PRIDE: I loved this film with my heart and fist

PRIDE is the movie you will not want to miss. In fact, if it is playing near you, you will want to put down that fork/pint/keyboard/stress – and run your little ass over to the theater. Take a hanky because you will cry. Wear pants with an elastic waistband because you will laugh. Bring your phone because you will want to call friends afterwards – either to do them the favor of recommending the film or to organize a protest demonstration inspired by PRIDE.

PRIDE tells the true story of a group of London queers who in 1984 decide to form an uninvited alliance with the striking miners. When they are rebuffed by the union leadership, they rather randomly choose a tiny, isolated Welsh village in the Dulais valley to be the recipients of the money they raise at a Pride march. The raucous first meetings between the two groups, so profoundly ignorant of each other’s realities, set the tone. Their common enemy, Margaret Thatcher and the forces of British reaction, provides a steady bridge. Gay-bashing and union-bashing are siblings.

The miners’ strike – the longest in British history – was the defining struggle of the 80s. The defeat of the unions was the focus of Thatcher’s not inconsiderable hatred and power. It affected the politics and the economics of every generation  since. PRIDE, the film, is like a grand musical, which turns out to be a fitting way to express that magical connection among allies. A plethora of characters are drawn with incisive wit and strength (except for a couple of vegan lesbians – the only two-dimensional stereotypes) and the sub-plots are emotionally packed and politically charged.

You know me. I hate most films. But I love PRIDE with my heart and my fist. I can’t even pick which characters I love the most: Mark (Ben Schnetzer), the dashing young charismatic visionary; Sian (Jessica Gunning), a miner’s wife whose life is opened up by rubbing up against “the gays”; Steph (Fay Marsay), the quick-witted and hip dyke; or Cliff (Bill Nighy), the elder statesman of the miners whose dignity and humor cushions the over-the-top moments.

If you care about justice, if you ever loved a queer, if you want a chance to cheer, if you need a reminder that people give a shit, go see PRIDE.

Trailer
 

I’m So Over UMass Boston

Let me start by saying that I don't usually accost cops. Let me add that I’m a big believer in state public universities and I know that UMass Boston is highly respected. Some of my best friends studied or taught there.

I had my first and last visit yesterday, to read from Lillian’s Last Affair, and to lead a discussion on aging and sexuality at an event sponsored by the Osher Life Long Learning Institute. The class of about 50 older people was lovely; the session went very well; I sold about a dozen books. I forgot to take a photo.

But getting to and from the class was too nasty to bear.

I was told to park in the distant Bayside lot and take the frequent shuttle bus to Campus Central. My GPS led me right into the crowded lot where a guy in a fluorescent vest signaled me to go to the next section. There a guy in a fluorescent vest signaled me to go to the next section. This went on until I was at the end of the world. I had asked the second guy where the shuttle bus stopped and he told me there was only the one bus-stop – at the entrance to the lot. I had asked the third guy as well and got the same reply.

It was raining and blowing hard. I was wearing a porkpie hat and a silk jacket. I had a small wheelie full of books and a large bag with my other presentation materials. I unloaded and fought the rain and wind, holding an umbrella, and hiked over uneven gravelly terrain with a complaining four-wheel suitcase and got to the shuttle, maybe 3/4 of a mile or more.

At Campus Central I de-barked the shuttle quite far from the front door and made an awkward dash for the entrance as the weather was worsening. Inside the building I walked the equivalent of a few blocks to the elevators that took me to the second floor where I walked a few more confusing blocks through what they call The Maze and over a catwalk into the next building where I eventually found another bank of elevators. Here I took the elevator to the third floor where I walked more halls to room 207A – yes, 207A is on the third floor. Go figure.

All went well at my reading and I packed up and went to retrace my steps. I stopped by the office to thank the woman who had pulled together the event, but she was at a meeting. I returned the whole torturous way to the lobby of Campus Central only to realize that the woman had never given me the promised parking pass. Otherwise I’d have to pay.

By this point I’m weighing whether or not it is worth returning once again and I decide to do it. At the office I wait a long time as no one seems to know where the passes are – despite the fact that I had reminded them on my arrival.

Okay, I return the whole route back to Campus Central only to find that the rain has turned into a monsoon, with impossible winds (too much for an umbrella) and drenching rains. I beg a plastic bag for my hat, take off my silk jacket and stuff it in the suitcase, and then put the carry bag on my shoulder under my over-jacket (made out of absorbent cotton). I’m dripping just in the time it takes to rush to the shuttle bus. When we are dumped at the entrance to the parking lot, I realize that the hike to my car will cost me the 15 books I am carrying – they don’t fancy a shower.

I see a suspicious SUV about a block away and rush over. Yes, it is a campus police car. I pound on the passenger window. The cop doesn’t know what to do. I pound some more. He lowers the window an inch. “Open the doors!” I scream. He lowers the window another inch. “Open the doors. I can’t make it!”

He unlocks the doors. I open the back door and toss my suitcase onto the seat and jump into the passenger seat in the front. “I’m parked at the very end of the far lot and I simply cannot make it on my own. You need to drive me there.”

“I’ve never done that,” he says.

“Always a first time,” I insist, gasping and dripping and swearing under my breath.

He drives me while I blather about the lack of accessibility for people with disabilities, older people, exhausted people, people schlepping precious books in a downpour.

UMass, if you only want young, healthy people to darken your doorstep, then continue in your inconsiderate ways. If you want the whole community, add three or four shuttle stops inside the parking lot – a very simple, inexpensive solution for what is now an appalling situation. Until you do, hello and goodbye. We’re through.

Oh No, Not Again! The West Coast Swing

Basic Facts:

• I live a block away from a beautiful pond.
• I miss dancing on a regular basis something fierce.
• Now that I’m not teaching fitness, I’m not working out and partner dancing is the only thing I can think of that I’m motivated to do multiple times a week.

New Fact:

• There is a West Coast Swing school/club one block away from me, on the edge of the pond, and it has been there for a decade, unbeknownst to me.

Intermission: Here’s a couple of fab West Coast dancers:
 

I hear about it over the weekend and head down to the first possible lesson on Tuesday evening. Beforehand, I call the teacher on the number on the website. He is pissed off I am interrupting him but I want to ask, “I’d like to come take lessons, but I lead. Is that a problem in any way?” He purports not to understand my question. I repeat it. He says it’s not a problem.

More facts:

• I danced West Coast Swing in London for 10 years.
• My dance partner and I used to perform it in various queer settings in the UK.
• I was the first woman to ever perform an official Showcase as a leader, leading my teacher Ralf in a West Coast Swing.
• I haven’t danced West Coast since coming to the States in 2000 because the form they do here is different than what I know and people don’t find it easy to follow me as a result.

I chat with some of the other students beforehand, mainly because the lesson starts 20 minutes later than scheduled. It is held in a cramped room with a disgustingly filthy floor – but nothing as gross as the nearby bathroom I am to discover later. Eventually we get started. “Guys on this side,” says the teacher, “and girls on that.” I line up with the men. I get looks. I’m the only one crossing the artificial and ridiculous gender line of partner dancing.

As we rotate from one partner to the next, the older women have no problem dancing with me. The younger women are unhappy about it. The youngest – a college undergraduate – says to me, “What do you think you are doing?” “Leading,” I answer. “Why would you do this?” – her tone is very antagonistic. I lean in close. “You know, don’t you” I whisper, “that the only organ I use when leading is my hand.”

The teacher is hostile to me. He may be pissed off that he has to dance as a follower because there are three “extra” leaders. He may just find dykes repulsive. The first time I dance with him he tells me I have a violent lead and that I must be much more relaxed. The second time I rotate to him, he tells me my lead is too weak and how is the follower to know what to do. This becomes the alternating pattern throughout the lesson.

However, he is very professional, knows his stuff, and knows how to teach. We cover a huge amount of material and although I cannot get into the basic step he teaches, I think his system is impressive.

After the lessons (the advanced students have been having a lesson downstairs), there is a dance from 9:30 -11:30 in the main hall. It has a big picture-window view of my pond and a lovely clean wooden floor. I just sit and watch. The level is amazing – the crowd is huge (maybe 100+ dancers) – and as West Coast is a “Jack & Jill” competitive system, everyone dances with everyone else. (Jack & Jill means that instead of competing, as a couple with your own partner, you pick names out of the hat and dance together spontaneously.)

However, all the inviting is being done by the men. All of it. Four or five men my age ask me to dance and when I say that I lead, they act like a bucket of shit has been poured over their heads and they flee. There isn’t a single same-sex dance couple on this very crowded floor.

Intermission: Here’s what the scene (of which I was a founding member) looks like now, in one of the greatest dance venues in Europe:
 

I’ve been pioneering these kinds of things all of my adult life and frankly I am no longer in the education business. I don’t want to smash barriers or demonstrate a new way. I don’t want to battle heterosexism in the dance world anymore. I just want to study dance and then dance. I love to dance. I love to lead. And these two things have sent me right back to the early 1990s when I was, I believe, the first UK woman to officially qualify for bronze/silver/gold medals as a leader. Life is short. Been there, done that.

What to do now? Suggestions welcome.

Final Treat: Denise Jordan and John Lindo - one of the great West Coast Swing dancers and a frequent same-sex dancer - doing a slow West Coast: