Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

"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.

Mueller: A Successful Distraction

How did the Repuglicans most benefit from the Muller Report? The whole country sat and waited – dazzled by the promise that we’d be saved by this one “righteous, principled” white man, the former head of the FBI, for fuck’s sake. Mueller choked - but his whole remit was so narrowly focused on the Russian bit that tRump has been allowed these two years to destroy everything else. Meanwhile the country, including the Resistance, awaited the report about this sliver of the big picture. I said this many times over the last two years: Mueller was a successful diversion and pacifier.

London just had between 1 and 2 million protesters on the street in a country of 56 million (England). We, in contrast, have been awaiting a solution from the former director of the FBI, a body with the shadiest of pedigrees. Of course there have been many groups that have kept up their protests and expressed their outrage on the streets and through words, but too many have sat back awaiting the report of this savior who has spent his life supporting the Repuglican law & order agenda.

There are no saviors. Only we can do it for ourselves. For context, watch Stephen Colbert’s monologue from last night.

 

 

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:

 

 

Rear-Ended by an Entitled Driver – Again

I was just a few blocks from my home last night, stopped at a red light, when I was rear-ended. (I'm okay so far.) It had happened to me once before, a dozen years ago, with dire consequences: wretched whiplash problems that keep me in the permanent care of a chiropractor. Then it was a privileged young man driving his father’s huge Volvo station wagon. He told me: “I didn’t notice you.” I drive a Toyota Corolla, not a miniature toy. I spent many months in physical therapy trying to reclaim some measure of health and many, many years in litigation trying to reclaim justice.

The 24-year-old women who hit me last night jumped out of her car immediately. First, she looked closely at the bumper of her own car. Then she glanced at the bumper of mine. Then she climbed back into her own driver’s seat and seemed to be waiting for me to get on with my drive. I put on my hazard lights and slowly drove over next to the curb. She understood that she was to do the same.

I got out of my car and in a minute or so she got out of hers, puzzled as to my problem. “Human beings first, property second,” I said to her, ire in my voice. Still she was clueless. “You rear-ended me,” I stated the obvious.

“But I didn’t have any damage to my car so I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Why did you hit me?”

“I guess I may not have pressed my brakes as hard as I thought.”

“Give me your paperwork, please,” I said.

“What paperwork?”

I took a photo of her license plate, which seemed to scare her. I asked and received her driver’s license and she only had a photo of her insurance on her phone, and I photographed that. I asked for her email address as well. At this point she realized that there could be consequences, a concept with which she seemed to have only the slightest familiarity.

“I never rear-ended anyone before,” she said, as if that settled the matter. I did not respond that in 55 years of driving, I have never rear-ended anyone – or hit another car at all, although I have been hit numerous times.

Only as I was returning to my car did she finally say, “Oh, I’m sorry.” It took her 10 or 15 minutes for that insincere coin to drop.

Later, talking to my friend Barry, I still could not understand her behavior. “It could have been her parents’ car,” he suggested, “and all she was thinking about was getting in trouble at home.”

There are a lot of issues here –about her training as a driver, about her abysmal lack of concern for me, about her ignorance of procedure after an accident. Perhaps there is a singular explanation: It seems her sense of entitlement places her at the shielded center of the universe.

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.

Remembering Doreen Gordon who has died at 93

My friend Doreen Gordon is dead at 93. I met her when she signed up for my senior fitness classes at the Brookline Senior Center and she rapidly became the keystone to our community. Not only did she find ways to connect otherwise isolated seniors with each other, she inspired the personality of Lillian, the protagonist in my short story in the collection Lillian’s Last Affair. Well, in one sense. The old-woman-talking-like-a-sailor sense. More about that below. (From left: Doreen, Yolanda, me)

Doreen came from quite a posh South African background, lived a cultured life in New York with her late husband and two incredible daughters Jenny and Amy, and then moved to Boston to be close to one daughter and granddaughter after she recovered from being hit by a damned bus. Doreen was such a petite and put-together woman that between herself and the bus, it was not a fair fight.

To build connection among my students, Doreen began hosting high teas in her fabulous apartment, taking us group by group. Her closest friend from the class, Yolanda, often attended all the groups. We’d have finger sandwiches with salmon and the most luxurious selection of pastries known to human taste buds. I was often tempted to steal the leftovers – friendship be damned – but in fact she often made me up a care package with my favorites: the mini-scones and the crispy almond cookies. (Tea Party: Doreen third from right, laughing)

She used her baking skills to bring joy to every occasion we could find to celebrate, refusing to take money for the ingredients. She picked out the movies for us to see on senior discount matinee day. She told me privately when I was being too hard on someone in the class, or too soft. Doreen and I had what amounted to a secret consultation phone relationship behind the scene of our group. We talked about everyone and everything. She hooked me up with her daughter Jenny when I went to New Orleans for the first time, and Jenny pointed me to all the right places. Doreen invited me a few times to join her to watch the Boston Marathon on the sidewalk in front of her daughter Amy’s house, which is on the route. Amy would have oranges to peel so that we could hold sections in the flat of our hands for the runners to grab. It was on the way home from one such afternoon that my train was stopped at Kenmore Square and we all had to get off and run upstairs. The Marathon bombs had just gone off at the next stop. (Marathon day: Doreen and Amy in center)

But I digress. How did she inspire the character of Lillian? One day in the run-up to the 2008 election, we went to Trader Joe’s together (something we did a number of times). As we crossed the main intersection of Brookline at Beacon and Harvard, there was a man holding a huge sign, a large poster of Barak Obama with a Hitler mustache. Doreen walked right up to him, looked up to his face a good foot or so above her, and hissed, “Fuck You!”

I’m sure this man had already put up with plenty of abuse in that spot in the middle of a Jewish neighborhood, but he never anticipated such a curse from this tiny lovely white-haired woman. Later she told me that she had spent her whole life being prim and proper, but at this point she no longer felt the need to restrain herself. And with that sentence, the character of Lillian was born in my imagination, a woman who perfected swearing late in life.

Life is full of losses as we age, and this is a biggie. I’m only sorry that Doreen, with her love of humans and music and art and travel and good food, had to spend her final period under the regime of tRump. Many in the community which she built among my students pre-deceased her, but next Saturday I will be able to connect with dear Yolanda, with Doreen’s precious family, and with those of us who are lucky to still be around to mourn her.

Only Two Micro-Aggressions and One Irritation over a Whole Dance Weekend!

 

I think I’m going to start keeping a count of the micro-aggressions I receive at various dance events. Summer Hummer is my “home” event: it is local, it is run by my own dear teachers, and I know many of the other dancers and teachers, so they’re used to me. As the only 70+ out-dyke leader, this event is as “safe” and fantabulous as any I attend all year.

Here’s the count.

1^st Micro-aggression: At my very first workshop this weekend, one woman follower who rotated to me (we change partners every minute or so) flashed me a big, condescending smile and said, “It’s just adorable that you’re trying to lead.” I didn’t respond – didn’t give my usual answer that I’ve been leading partner dance since the late 80s. After we did the exercise, in which she realized that I was an experienced leader, she got completely uncomfortable and the smile was gone. I suspect she was furious that she felt ridiculous in her own eyes.

I would estimate that this same thing, more or less, has happened to me 150+ times in West Coast Swing, but somehow it still drives me mad.

2^nd Micro-aggression: We are lined up in the room off the ballroom waiting for our competition to begin. The followers are in one line; we leaders are in another. There are four more followers than leaders – generally the case. Some stranger man standing behind me pushes me sideways, saying, “Get over there and follow. The numbers aren’t equal.” I brush his hand off me (restraining myself from breaking it) and say, “Why don’t you follow, if it concerns you?” He can’t even comprehend what I am saying, and replies, “I just think you’ll have a better chance that way in the competition.” I’m starting to boil. “How long have you been leading partner dance?” I ask him. He refuses to answer. Just then we are led out on the competition dance floor where I am expected to do my best. Which I don’t.

What can allies do while I’m dealing with these things alone? Ask me to dance. So many dance friends purport to care about me but never ask me to dance. It’s all about the opportunities to dance, no?

Irritation: I have written about this before. Some male leaders experiment on me. They ask me to lead them. These guys do not ask male leaders. Are they repressed homophobes with secret desires to submit on the dance floor? Are they unwilling to publicly expose this desire by dancing with another guy? With me, it’s safe. I’m a woman. Inevitably for me it is like leading a truck with flat tires. They don’t know which hand to give me; they don’t know which foot to step out with; they don’t follow. Sometimes they’ve never followed before. They waste my time. They think I’m there to serve them. Afterwards, they’re just as pleased with themselves as can be: “Hey, I didn’t do half bad!” This happens most nights at least once or twice or thrice when I’m in a venue with strangers.

I shouldn’t have to add this disclaimer, but I will: There are many men who enjoy following and who also follow other leaders – and they are great to dance with. Some of my fave followers are men – because their aim is to improve their following and to enjoy the dance. They’re not acting out a subtext on my dime.

I shouldn’t have to add this disclaimer either, but I will: Summer Hummer was a major blast!

Now I have to ice my knee, soak my feet, and catch up on sleep after dancing until about 3:00am Friday and Saturday nights. I have another dance weekend coming up on Friday, this time in DC and focusing on queer dancers!!!

The Experience of Feeling Normal at Dance

 My dance friends are now used to having a lefty fat old dyke leader in their midst.

There are weekend-long dance retreats with workshops and competitions and social dancing somewhere in the country every weekend. On Saturday, I went to an evening of West Coast Swing (WCS) hosted by a teacher I respect and admire named Angel Figueroa (photo on left). The last time I competed was when I won 2^nd place in the Newcomer division on New Year’s, moving me up to the swollen Novice division – where many dancers get stuck for ages.

When I made the finals on Saturday, my friends all cheered and I was matched with a lovely friend named Brooke. We have studied together with our splendid teachers Bill and Yuna (photo left below) on Tuesday nights for a couple of years. Although we didn’t place – and hadn’t expected to – we had a grand time.

Because it was a local event, I knew many of the attendees. They are used to having a lefty fat old dyke leader in their midst. They no longer make me feel like a freak. Angel, the head judge and host, is a professional who has always encouraged me. Afterwards, two different judges – both pros I work with – gave me private feedback on where I should improve. I was honored to receive it.

When I am with strangers, I have to put up with endless micro-aggressions, from followers and others. People cannot get their heads around the idea that I lead exclusively. They think it is (choose one of the following): cute, creepy, adorable, impressive, brave, odd, repulsive, unusual – the whole gamut. I know this because they tell me so. They think they have the right to question me about why I don’t follow. Because they might have cross-role danced at a lesson or two, some folks lecture me about how I’ll never be a decent dancer until I learn to follow as well. One man in the crowd on Saturday gave me a condescending nod and a thumbs-up. If he was closer, perhaps he would have patted me on my head. Men often feel qualified to judge me because they believe that having a penis automatically makes them an authority on leading, even if they’ve been dancing all of three months. They do not point their thumbs at other men. Once I objected to a professional teacher telling us leaders in an expensive class to “Man up!” and to “Stop with the limp noodle.” Another student in that class gave me a dirty look over my objection and hissed: "Chill! Relax!" He has never walked in my shoes.

Here’s a secret I may be the only one to know. Many male leaders long to follow. They ask me to lead them and I always wonder why I don’t see most of them asking another (ie, a male) leader. Is there a fear of being in the arms of another man?

As my evening passes without aggro, I remember that I’m at an event that just a few years ago would not have allowed me to compete as a leader. On Saturday I felt normal, one of the crowd, just another dancer. Thank you to all my WCS friends who made that happen – especially Brooke, Yuna, Marcus (smiling in center of photo on left), and Angel.