Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Is This Karma or Clutter?

After my mother – a mean-spirited woman – died, my friend went through the jewelry she had accumulated throughout her life. Much was tacky mid-century plastic and gaudy Florida flea market stuff, but my friend did identify a few items with a bit of value: a gold chain, gold bracelets, a necklace with a diamond, some diamond earrings.

It was 2009, deep in the Recession, and selling/buying gold was big business. I contacted a gold-buying guy who had a big ad in a brochure featuring varied
Cape Cod businesses. He turned up with a tray, a special light, and one of those lenses (known as a monocular loupe) that screws into one eye and apparently lets jewelry experts see deep into the item. I was one of a bunch of such buying stops he was making that evening. It was his profession over many decades, but business had really picked up because of the Recession, he said with glee. If I recall, he gave me $250 cash for the lot and left. Two days later he called to say that he had screwed up on the assessment of one of the pieces and wanted to return to my house to take back $100. I said no.

After his call, I realized that I did not recollect what I did with the cash. I scoured my apartment but never found it. This loss has stayed in the back of my brain. My mother had treated me like crap all my life. Luckily I’m not superstitious or spiritual – or I might think she was messing with me from her grave.

Fast forward over a decade and I’m in the midst of a de-cluttering blitz. Among some very dusty papers, I found that Cape Cod business brochure. Inside was $350 cash. So it was more than I remembered and it was right where I had laid it over 10 years earlier. Now I have enough money to pay the woman I’ve hired to help me organize this attempt to tame the chaos of my tiny crowded apartment.

A Two-Stop Day-Trip from Boston: Wachusett Dam & Reservoir plus Tower Hill Botanic Garden

With so little to celebrate in this world, a warm Spring day is sufficient motivation to turn off the news, leave the computer, put down the protest banner, and go see the explosion of greens, as the flora awakens around us.

We head to Clinton, Massachusetts (less than an hour from Boston) for the Wachusett Dam, constructed between 1897 to 1905, and still the largest stone dam built by hand. It creates the magnificent Wachusett Reservoir, which supplies part of Boston’s needs. At nearly 7 square miles, it is the second largest body of water in Massachusetts. For those willing to descend a gazillion steps, one can tour the very base of the dam where the landscaping includes a handsome water fountain. But I found it plenty gorgeous from atop the dam as well.

From there it was a quick 5-mile drive to the Tower Hill Botanic Garden. Our state park pass got us in without paying the $11 senior entrance fee. Founded in 1986, the gorgeous visitor center is surrounded on all sides by assorted gardens, all of which thrive in New England’s variable weather – the Garden is only closed in January. Among the one dozen gardens are the Systematic Garden, Winter Garden, Cottage Garden, and Vegetable Garden. On this visit, the plethora of tulips – white and ruby – were a highlight of our visit.We were lucky to visit during the enthralling, mesmerizing exhibition of large stainless steel wind sculptures scattered throughout. Titled “Wind, Waves & Light: Art in Motion,” they are the work of George Sherwood, an engineer/artist who lives in Ipswich, Massachusetts. A 40-second video clip of the work is below.

The Tower Hill Botanic Garden center has a cool garden shop, a café (already closed when we arrived), impressive event rooms (where, for example, UMass Medical School holds its graduation), a library, and clean bathrooms. Tours are offered. Best of all, there are benches all over the place for relaxing amidst the different plants.

One of the charms of this one-day trip is that it can be as accessible, physically non-challenging as you want, while people with kids and energy can run up and down the steps of the Dam and to the furthest reaches of the 171 acres of Tower Hill. 

 

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

"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.