Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Sharing My Dad’s Feet

I had a sweet dad and a dreadful mother. Saul didn’t protect me from her, but he stood up for me in other ways. He drove me to my black boyfriend’s house and then drove us around when Pittsburgh was too segregated for us, at 15 or so, to be open about being together, and he let us kiss in the backseat. Unlike my mother, he accepted my girl lover the next year and my lesbianism the rest of his life. In fact, we used to armchair cruise the passing women when we were hanging out together somewhere public. He was a brilliant dancer and in later years we used to lead the women at the elders’ tea dances side by side.

I used to look just like my dad – I have his beautiful eyes – and I loved that. But as I age, I look more and more like my nasty mother and that freaks me out. I see my hands and arms turning into hers – despite how much I loved my dad’s muscular forearms and veined hands.

For the last year I have been having terrible trouble with my feet and ankles. The result is that I can walk less and less and in fact at this point even a block or two does me in. I can’t stand in one place for more than a couple of minutes, which generally prevents me from attending dance lessons. I’ve seen six medical people, received six diagnoses, and been subjected to six failed treatments. Only one of these people has ever followed up to see how I’m doing after their failures. Combine that with a knee they say needs replacing, but which I can’t replace until a solution to my feet problem works, and you can understand why I am now the owner of two canes and one disability parking placard for my car. I am learning how to stay in the game of my beloved West Coast Swing, by perfecting a way to lead without really dancing, without really moving.

My dad died in 2004 and my mother three years later. I had three days in Pittsburgh to clear out their apartment and I took big garbage bags and emptied their file cabinets into the bags and threw them out. I had a charity come get all the other stuff. I made up two boxes of papers I noticed while dumping the rest that I thought I’d want and I sent those boxes home to Boston, where they have remained unopened.

This week I opened one of the boxes. First, I found a folder of interesting papers from my dad’s service during WWII. Underneath that was a manila envelope full of funeral stuff and obits. And then an astonishing two-page official-looking letter from 1996 turned up. It was from a vascular specialist physician to another physician, apparently my dad’s primary care person. It is titled “Saul Katz” and it describes him as a 78-year-old dancer with mysterious feet and ankle problems (the doctor calls them “interesting symptoms”) that the original doctor couldn’t figure out. The Dr. describes Saul as “overweight, awake, alert, and oriented” – which fits me too.

The vascular specialist did a complicated work-up on my dad but could not figure out the problem. He observes that the pain comes from walking or standing but that Saul, like me, is pretty much without pain while sitting. He writes: “I don’t have a perfect handle on this,” and goes on to make multiple speculations. In the end he says, “I’m sorry that I can’t give a definitive answer.” Nor have any of the six medical people I’ve seen. What a disappointment that medicine does not seem to have progressed around feet since the 90s.

I always thought that my love of dance was a reflection of my dad’s influence – and my commitment to leading exclusively as well. I am freaked that I have inherited this mystery disability as part of the genetic package. I am my father in so many ways, but at least I haven’t gone bald. Yet.

I write this at night, just as Father’s Day is ending.

Film Review: Amazing Grace: Aretha Franklin

Do you want to take a break? Do you want music that lifts you up, talent that brings tears, and comfort all around.

Go see the movie of Aretha Franklin: Amazing Grace, made in 1972 when she was already a massive star. I fell in love with her brilliant, warm mentor James Cleveland and was moved by his Southern California Community Choir. Most of all, I was transfixed by Aretha Franklin's transcendent voice, which is a crucial part of the soundtrack of my life – and that of several generations.

The film was shot during the making of "Amazing Grace, which was both Aretha’s biggest selling album and – to this day – the best-selling live gospel album ever. Sydney Pollack, who was directing for Warner Brothers, made a terrible technical error, which left the audio out of sync. Producer Alan Elliott devoted decades to saving the film, but faced a lot of resistance, including from Aretha herself. A new technical fix and Aretha’s death allowed him to bring it to us now.

It is raw and real and sweaty and full of bloopers, such as the film crew stepping in front of the camera by accident or turning up behind Aretha messing with wires. Interesting guests dot the audience – from her father (oddly invited last minute) to Mick Jagger, hanging out in the back of the room. The vast majority of the audience is members of a Los Angeles Baptist church where they filmed over two nights.

It's simply wonderful. “Don’t bother with tissues. Bring a towel,” said The New York Times.

An Interview with author Stephanie Schroeder, co-editor of Headcase: LGBTQ Writers & Artists on Mental Health and Wellness

Stephanie Schroeder – writer and peer advocate – and her co-editor Teresa Theophano – writer and social worker – have brought together 38 important pieces of writing on the topic of LGBTQ mental health today in their anthology Headcase: LGBTQ Writers & Artists on Mental Health and Wellness. Stephanie is known for her hard-hitting socially-aware journalism and one other book, her moving memoir.

The enthusiastic reception of Headcase is reflected in its reviews where comments call it “ground-breaking,” “poignant,” “terrific and essential,” and “a diverse democracy of voices.” I spoke to Stephanie Schroeder about the process of putting together such a pioneering work.

 

Question: How did you and your co-editor meet and decide to work together on this project?

Stephanie Schroeder: When Teresa read my memoir Beautiful Wreck: Sex, Lies & Suicide, it resonated with her. She had originated the idea of Headcase and then reached out to me. We hadn’t met before. We’ve been working on Headcase since 2014 and it has been a dream collaboration. We agreed on everything, from the vision to the submission guidelines to the final choices out of hundreds of submissions.

 

Question: Now that the book is out and you have just finished a national book tour, are you still friends?

Stephanie Schroeder (on left in black shirt): Yes! Not only have we stayed friends, we also plan to co-write another book focusing on LGBTQ suicide.

 

Question: How did you decide what to include in Headcase?

Stephanie Schroeder: We chose selections on the strength of their writing and content. We ensured a broad demographic around age, race & ethnicity, sexual orientation & gender identity, socio-economic status, geography, and diverse viewpoints. Some are grounded in an anti-psychiatry position while others are from a more conventional treatment viewpoint. We included essays, poetry, fiction, visual artwork, and a 13-panel comic written by a young transperson who documented their days in the hospital for mental health issues.

 

Question: Why is this anthology necessary?

Stephanie Schroeder: Because LGBTQ peers and consumers of mental health services are under-represented in the literature. Most books are written by professionals for professionals or clinicians for clinicians. We believe that LGBTQ peers are experts about our own care. And in fact nothing like this book has ever existed before. It is truly a vanguard work in the field of mental health literature.

 

To learn more, check out the Headcase anthology online and on Facebook:

www.headcaseanthology.com

Facebook: Headcaseanthology

One Day Mid-Cape Cod Loop without Walking Much

It’s hard to be on vacation when your bad knee conspires with your tendinitis-afflicted feet to keep you from walking more than a block or so at a time. What to do?

We started out from the exceedingly comfortable Hyannis Harbor Motel, and walked one block along the Harbor to fuel up with a fulsome brunch at the Black Cat Tavern. Besides the classic breakfast, the hamburgers are stupendous. A conversation with the knowledgeable manager, Paul Crosby, who was born and bred in the area, led to him sketching out the perfect car trip for us.

We first headed for the Chatham Lighthouse (above) where there is an exquisite look-out parking area overlooking a white sand beach. We had luck: the sky was blue and the sun was shining, so only some sand bars separated the identically sparkling azure water and sky.

Next, Paul had told us, put Brewster Sea Camps into your GPS, but once you get to the Camp’s entrance, plug in Scargo Tower. That worked perfectly, except that we ran into a locked gate at the entrance of the road to Scargo Tower, and we so couldn’t mount to the top. Instead we wound around the residential lanes to share the views of the lucky locals.

We headed to the next suggested stop: Millway Beach (left) on Barnstable Harbor. By then the fog was settling in and the view of the long stretch was dimmed and delicate. Standing there, the world felt calm and subdued and lovely.

The final destination was Sandy Neck Beach in Sandwich. This was convenient, because my favorite source of real scones, clotted cream, and jam – and elegant lunch – is the Dunbar Tea House. It may be a bit pricey, but it’s cheaper than flying to London.

For those with mobility issues, this is a loop that provided a perfect day’s drive. It is always best to ask local folks, especially those who deal with tourists all the time. Thanks to Paul Crosby and to the Atlantic Ocean for a fine time.

P.S. For a day when you are able to walk a bit, try the splendid Bass Hole Boardwalk at Gray’s Beach in Yarmouth Port. Parts of it were washed away in a flood in the winter of 2018, but it’s all fixed up again. We went on a drizzly day at low tide and the marshes were a strange but gorgeous sight, strongly reminding me for some reason of the lava fields of Iceland.

"Alleged Lesbian Activities" - a review

The New Orleans-based ensemble Last Call brought Alleged Lesbian Activities to Boston thanks to our incomparable The Theatre Offensive. This production asks: What happened to all the lesbian bars? And examines what our lives were like back when the underground bars – sleazy, criminal, and too often raided – were the only venues where we could gather.

Alleged Lesbian Activities drew sell-out crowds for five performances at Jacques Cabaret, a dive bar in what used to be known as Boston’s Combat Zone when it was surrounded by other queer bars, topless joints, and the sex trade in the ‘50s and ‘60s. I remember it well because I ‘grew up’ as a baby dyke in Jacques from the late ‘60s. At age 22, I met one of the great loves of my life in that bar, after secretly slipping her a copy of Lavender Vision, one of the first gay liberation publications of the new movement, put out by my collective. I haven’t been back there since the 1970s.

For the show, the place is renamed as Franki’s. We are introduced to a cast of seven lesbians – from the bartender for whom the bar is named (played brilliantly by co-director/creator indee mitchell) to the brash cabaret MC Privacy (played by Hannah Pepper-Cunningham who dramatically greeted audience members as we found our seats) to the predatory teacher Karen who brings her young students to the bar (played lustfully by Rebecca Elizabeth Hollingsworth) to the suave keyboard musician Slim (played by the talented Kei Slaughter.) Together they all try to navigate the reality of being squeezed into this one oasis. As there are no other options in town, they must sort out their issues around race, class, butch and femme. The economic realities of running a lesbian bar (while paying off the cops) is underpinned by the cluelessness of some of the white women, the threat of a raid at any moment, and the complicated inter-personals.

With talent galore, the members of Last Call sing, act, and invite in the recorded voices of old New Orleans dykes who talk about life in those bars. “The bars saved me. The clubs let you be who you were, not like the outside,” says one. “The bar was my safe haven,” says another. Says one black lesbian about the bar she frequented, “I never went there by myself: it just wasn’t comfortable. I didn’t want to be the only one.” Says another, “It not just about keeping the bar open: it’s about keeping it black.”

Last Call clearly listened to the women they interviewed, as they seamlessly touch on confusions about butch/femme identity in the days when it was illegal not to wear three pieces of “appropriate” gendered clothing; as they talk about exclusions from churches and the need to find a substitute community in the bars; and as Franki tries to impress on her patrons the proper codes of conduct when cruising in the bar.

I was amazed to read on the inside cover of the program the story of the first Gay Pride March in Boston in June of 1971 (lesbian liberation marched in Boston the year before), including the list of demands to Jacques that my friends and I constructed back then. These included a women-only space upstairs, unlocked fire escapes, and cleaner bathrooms (for after all, we made the acquaintance of many of our girlfriends in the line to the toilets).

Kudos to The Theatre Offensive for bringing us Last Call’s Alleged Lesbian Activities – for me it was an unexpected stroll down memory lane and for the friend I went with who is in her 20s, it was a peek into the life of generations past.

Confessions of a Young@Heart Groupie

Confession time. I am a groupie. I cannot resist a Young@Heart performance, even when it generally means driving 2+ hours to Northampton or, as was the case Tuesday night, all the way to Providence, RI, where they had been invited to the previously (to me) unknown Rhode Island College by the College's choir leader.

They gave a huge show, with two full halves, and the College Choir joining in for their signature song, Forever Young. To my mind, the College choir leader was trying to show them how a chorus can create an entire show full of costume changes, brilliant solos, strong group bonds, terrific staging, amazing conducting, all with a live band.

But during the intermission, in the line in the women’s bathroom (so much of my life has passed in such lines), I was behind one of the college girls who was about to perform with Young@Heart. I asked her what she thought of the show so far and she squealed, “They’re so cute!” We’re talking here about people in their 70s and 80s and 90s, many of whom have been singing for half a century or more. Cute? Then someone asked her if she’d be on stage with them and she answered with a giggle, “Yes, of course. And they’re such a sweet little bunch.”

I’m afraid her condescension, her stark ageism, and her inability to recognize talent and professionalism right before her eyes kinda dulled the second half for me. Young@Heart works their asses off to maintain the standards they have established in their 37 years of performing. They travel abroad. The 10-year-old documentary made of them is one of the 50 top docus of all time. They do new material constantly. What more does that little fool want?

Anyway, I’ve seen Young@Heart at least dozen times and I will continue to be a devoted fan. I started out as a journalist reviewing them. Once. Twice. Thrice. And then I had to admit it. I hunger for my twice yearly dose of their talent and their community. I’m a groupie.

Here's one of my favorite clips:

 

 

Film Review (brief) Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Well god-damn: Melissa McCarthy’s acting chops are something to behold in Can You Ever Forgive Me? For writers and readers, this film will charm the pants off of you. Based on the memoir of Lee Israel, a biographer of celebrities, we meet the exasperated agent (played by Jane Curtin, once of SNL fame), the publishing world that thrives on showy white men, and Lee’s one human friend, Jack Hock (Richard E. Grant at his best), an aging gay man who joins her in her desperation. Add two facts: one, she is a lesbian whose ex (played by Anna Deavere Smith of West Wing, The Practice, and Nurse Jackie fame) is sick and tired of her bullshit, and two, her best friend is the obligatory ill cat. Lee turns to crime and booze when her literary career is as moribund as the job she is fired from when she tells her boss to fuck off. Follow her life of forgery and fall in love.

The trailer:

Women of Hollywood: Cut it out!

The women of Hollywood are all about Times Up! and Me Too! and let’s have 50% of all crews be women and all that. Welcome to my world (one we feminists have inhabited since the late '60s).

However, as long they are wearing shoes that cripple them and dresses that don’t fit into limousines and need men to help them up a god-damned half flight of stairs to the awards stage, then something just doesn’t ring true. We know they are walking advertisements for diamond dealers and couture designers and plastic surgeons. But if you’re going to talk about justice, even if you’re only talking about equality and parity (modest goals), then wear stuff that allows you to get from A to B on your own.

I remember when the women’s movement was at its height, there were many stars who turned up in pant suits and jump suits and were actually able to ambulate. Even if the garb is silly and over-the-top like Streisand’s outfit at left, at least she can walk on her own. Cut the crap with all this foot binding and body squeezing and humongous skirts. Otherwise, we don’t believe for a second that you will walk your talk.

When a homeless person asks you for money...

I recently read an article about giving “directly and unconditionally to homeless people” in the UK – something I did when I was living in England and something I do now. For those who aren’t clear about how to respond to folks asking you for money on the streets, here is my take on the matter – including how to decide to whom to give.

Why are people homeless? Here are some theoretical examples:

Lindsay’s husband drained their joint bank accounts before leaving her and their infant twins. She could not pay the rent, so she and the children have become homeless, basically living in her unreliable car.

Timmy’s father threw him out of the house and disowned him when he found out that Timmy is gay. Without any resources, Timmy lives on the streets in a tent he shares with several other lads in a similar situation.

Maryellen only had catastrophic health insurance when she developed early onset Parkinson’s disease and her medical costs drained every cent of her savings after she could no longer work as a waitress. After crashing at one friend’s apartment after another, she has exhausted her list.

At 79, Aliya received a diagnosis of bipolar disorder but as English is her second language, she has been unable to navigate the complexities of Medicare. Without prescription coverage, she is unable to get her meds. Sometimes she gets taken into a hospital for a few days but doesn’t get ongoing care and lands back on the streets.

How I give money

When I got to London to live, at the start of the 1990s, I was blown away by the number of homeless people on the street. My work was in King’s Cross, at that time the center of drugs, homelessness, and petty crime. Every day, from the minute I got out of the subway car, I was being asked for money by people who needed it. I had to figure out how to manage the situation, how to balance my limited ability to give vs the huge need.

My friends were divided between those who said they did not give to individuals, but rather to non-profits serving homeless people, and those who did offer people money on the assumption that organized help was not reaching them.

My feeling is that people who are standing around in the cold (or heat) begging you for money are not on a lark and they are not stupid. They have run into the endless roadblocks to government or charity assistance and may simply not qualify. Homeless shelters are notorious for theft and assault and are often only open certain hours of the day. Services have been cut back and are difficult to access.

I made the decision in London – and apply it here now that I’m living in the States – to decide on a certain amount of money per day that I could part with. I was working a steady job in London and so I put aside £5 per day to give away. I got a ton of £1 coins and each morning would load 5 of them into my coat pocket.

I also decided to prioritize women and people of color, on the assumption that other givers might well overlook them. When my £5 was gone I would just smile, say hello, and say sorry to others who asked.

Here in the States, I am less frequently walking around, but people ask me for money while I’m in my car, stopped at red lights. I keep a bunch of dollar bills in my car to give to those who ask. I do not see very many other drivers doing the same, and almost never someone in a luxury vehicle.

My final word: Don’t be judgmental. Don’t be rude. Don’t make assumptions. If you’ve got a lot more than someone else who is asking the world for a dollar, just give it to them. Once given, it’s their money and not your concern about whether they’re going to buy a drink or milk for their kid. Naturally we want to make revolutionary changes in this country so that the majority of people are not impoverished while a few are unspeakably wealthy, so that people’s basic needs are met by the State when necessary, so that there is affordable housing. But until we succeed in achieving that, reach into your pocket if you are able.

Invisible Nation

I learned a great deal about homelessness, particularly among women and children, from this brilliant book by the author Richard Schweid. If your library does not have it, insist they order it right away – and they will. As one of the most captivating, skilled non-fiction writers in America, Schweid opened my eyes to the unseen impacts – especially on children – of this scourge of homelessness.

https://www.ucpress.edu/book/9780520292673/invisible-nation

Jake Katz: May, 1927 - November 2018

My Uncle Jake (Jacob) Katz has died. He is the last family elder of my parents’ generation. My dad, Saul, was always so proud of his "kid brother," who was born in 1927, exactly 10 years after my dad. My uncle was able, with support from the GI Bill and his older brothers, to go to college where he studied engineering and invented one of the first devices to improve the industrial environment by cleaning the emissions from the smoke stacks of the steel mills. (I think I have that right.)

Before he was born, the family looked quite different. My grandfather, a deaf immigrant cobbler,  was married to his first wife and together they had three sons named Harry, Ken, and Saul. When my dad, Saul, was a toddler, his mother bore twins, who quickly succumbed to the influenza pandemic. His mother died right after them. My widowed grandfather needed a second wife and so within a couple of years he married a newly arrived immigrant from the Ukraine, who embraced the older sons in varying degrees and gave birth to Jake.

Jake was a star in high school (Photo: high school newspaper about Jake) before he served in the Navy, got his degree, and began traveling for his work on electrostatic precipitators during the early 50s. While in New York, he met his future wife, Estelle, at a dance and brought her home. They were an outstandingly handsome couple. I remember the moment this show-stopping beauty showed me her diamond engagement ring and I asked breathlessly, “Is it real?”

A wonderful neighbor named Bess down the street made me the first new dress I ever remember owning (I always wore hand-me-downs), so that I could be a fancy flower girl at their wedding. It had a velvet ribbon that tied around my waist – quite the luxurious touch, I felt. The wedding was all the way in NYC, which explained the exotic accents we heard from Estelle and her family.

Jake was one of the few members of my family, along with my father Saul, who wasn’t outright homophobic towards me when I came out. He was a philosophical guy, generally reluctant to talk about anything resembling politics. He wrote a book about smart investing after his early retirement and encouraged me to follow his suggestions when he gifted me his volume.

He was the reigning prince of puns and I’m not sure anyone else will be able to scale those heights. Jake was one of the few relatives who always stayed in touch with me, and whenever I’ve been in Pittsburgh, I’ve never missed lunch with him in Squirrel Hill. In between those infrequent trips, we’ve talked on the phone, at least a couple of times a year, and always with mutual affection. (Photo: From left Jake, Saul, Ken)

It is sobering to lose the WWII generation. It is sobering to now be amongst the elders of my family. It is sad to have lost Uncle Jake.