Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

The 10th Anniversary of Boston's LGBTQ Elders of Color

 

My piece in the revived Z Magazine that I wrote for many times in the past. Now revisioned as ZNetwork and online.

 

Read it HERE.

 

 

 

 

The Queen’s Funeral and the Lesbian Avengers

I woke up shortly after 5:00am and stumbled to my computer, turning on the TV for the news, as is my wont. And kazam, it’s the Queen’s funeral. I’m afraid I got completely captured and continued to keep it in the background for six hours as I did my morning ablutions and various tasks. I ended up writing a blog about fascinators, of which there were a plethora among the dignitaries in the churches, and other memories from my decade in England.

However, I cannot for one second allow anyone to mistake me for a Monarchist. To the contrary. The splendor of this imposing day sparkled with jewels and gold ravished from colonized countries. Clearly no cost was spared in marking the moment, despite the disintegration of Britain’s economy and especially of its health system. It was truly a Royal affair, that is, a let-them-eat-cake moment, full of quite excessive pomp to shore up a family who INHERIT their roles and their lands and their bank accounts. Some say princes; some say parasites.

This long day was soaked in two British colonial bulwarks: Christianity and military. These have been among the main tools in imperial British rampages and they were on proud display today. And who does military drag better than them? Feathers and gold braiding and dazzling regimental colors and drums and more drums. The choreography was mind-boggling – not a mis-step among the participants despite it being such an excruciatingly complex set of endeavors.

The guys whose specialized task was to carry the coffin around, put it in/out of the hearse, in/out of churches, up/down steps, no less, had their steps impressively coordinated, like a refined martial arts kata or a well-rehearsed line dance. And then the coffin was towed by ropes by 142 members of the Royal Navy in fancy outfits through the streets of central London as it sat on a gun carriage.

And yes, I appear to hold a minority view. So many hundreds of thousands of people lining the streets and the miles-long driveways to the castles, for a glimpse of a coffin on which sits a crown that embodies everything stinky about colonizers. And many people spent the night on the street to hold their places, and no one minded at all.

Things that stood out to me:
1) While the crowd had all the feels, none of the participants – from the King down to the drummers – showed even a drizzle of emotion – no tears, no sobs, no celebration, no amusing anecdotes. For myself, if I might paraphrase the anarchist Emma Goldman, If you can’t dance at the funeral, it must not be mine.
2) I did not see a single person in a wheelchair, not among the thousands with a role in the day or the throngs along the way.
3) The new Prime Minister fit right in with her dry monotone.
4) If it had rained, nothing would have been different.
5) I thought curtseying was no longer in vogue, that neck bowing like the boys was the done thing. Apparently everyone is watching too much historical costume drama.

My favorite part was when they circled the Queen Victoria monument at the end of London’s Mall (not the retail kind). It reminded me of the time we had the first London Lesbian Avengers demo there in September, 1994. You’ll find me right under the E in Lesbian.

Discovering Camp Life

I'm staying on a lake in mid-Maine with sweet friends. It is another world for me – but a staple of New England culture. I am a stranger in a strange land, but I put aside the irony of celebrating “independence day” in a country built on the theft by white men of everyone else’s independence. As white men shoot up the world, steal our bodies and our wealth, and face little effective opposition to their increasing fascistic success, I am learning of a part of American culture that is rather new to me.

Yesterday morning we were part of a festive July 4th parade of residents' boats - pontoons (especially ours full of varied queers waving rainbow flags, wearing sequins, and blaring Whitney Houston), row boats full of kids being pulled by parents on a jet ski, speed boats, a big boat captained by a loud Santa Claus, and two dozen more lake-worthy vehicles.

In the afternoon, we were invited to a BBQ with our pontoon posse, at their “camp.” A camp is a lakeside cottage suitable for summer holidays. Many of these were built by grandparents or great-grandparents, originally without electricity or plumbing. Usually they were located fairly close to the family home. Subsequent generations added power, dug a well, or built on a bathroom. Many are remodeled with great charm, while only a few have been sold to people who turned them into McMansions. These camps are not connected to a water or sewage grid, so the water in the sink and shower is directly from the lake and people who don’t have a well, bring in their drinking water.

Between one’s camp and the water, everyone has a dock with a boat or three, a deck with lots of chairs, and a fire pit. The homes have a sun porch with screens and maybe windows, often just yards from the water. My friends also have a hammock and a little motorboat from the 50s that is a wonderful ride, as long as the wind isn’t churning up the lake. Late spring and dusk and nighttime are plagued with mosquitoes, but that’s what the sun porches are for – escaping these ravenous creatures.

With the addition of Wifi around the lake, families were reunited during Covid, as it was the perfect spot to build a small, safe community, and live a life – at least during the warm half of year. Most camps have no heat beyond a wood stove and the unpaved road is not plowed. But when the camps were opened, adult children returned and life went on.

On the evening of July 4th, individuals around the lake set off fireworks, which Maine has apparently legalized after a history of neighboring New Hampshire dominating the market. It was hard to stay awake for the sky to darken, after such an eventful day, but soon impressive fireworks began in three different private spots around the lake. I insisted we go outside to the water to watch them, but after a couple of snapshots I faced the reality that the mosquitos owned the nighttime outdoors, reducing me to the status of their dinner. I retreated with the hope that I am more easily persuaded to surrender to mosquitos than I am to fascists.

 

Forgot to tell you about the Queer Cabaret tonight/tomorrow!

Oops, I completely forgot to blog about my inclusion in a stunningly talented line-up for the Queer Cabarets, produced by Peter DiMuro. What a great way to celebrate Pride and of course everyone is welcome.

This will be a fabulous Queer Cabaret - singing, dancing, drag queens, comedians - and me (!). I perform on Friday June 17 and Saturday June 18 (6:00 and again 8:30 both nights). It's not too late for you to get tickets for the Central Square Theater.

The shows will feature  area and national LGBTQ+ community members, ages 20’s to 70’s and from all points on the LGBTQ+ spectrum. Expect wonderful performances - can we say high-heeled pole-dancing meets Cole Porter? - along with the funny and often poignant reflections on gay to queer lives over the span of 100 years.

Here’s the direct link for getting tickets:

https://ci.ovationtix.com/2462/production/1126320

 

 

 

 

 

Madeline Davis (July 7, 1940 – April 28, 2021)

I did not know that Madeline was a famous, beloved political and cultural pioneer when we first connected. I did not know that she created the foundation for a class-conscious lesbian and feminist movement in Buffalo, a town much like my own hometown Pittsburgh – dying industrial cities. I did not know that Madeline served as the first open lesbian delegate (for George McGovern) at the 1972 Democratic National Convention.

I met her online. Which sounds today like a normal thing to do, but was very unusual in 1995. I was living in London and after breaking my leg at work, I was shut in for a month dragging around a teal-colored cast. I decided to write a booklet about lesbians and aging (yes, it’s been my topic for a very long time). I devised a survey and went about trying to get it distributed by email among lesbians. I was making it up as I went along, because I myself had not yet seen or filled out any kind of digital survey. Email was just becoming popular.

For context, I need to explain that these were the days of dial-up, a noisy, slow, annoying way to access the Internet. To help date my effort, let me point out that Wikipedia was only launched in January, 2001; it was in 2005 that the term “WiFi” became sufficiently popular to enter the Merriam-Webster English Dictionary; it wasn’t until 2008 that Facebook began getting more hits than MySpace.

Somewhere there are floppy discs with the many answers that I received back from women. None was more interesting than the response I got from a Buffalo girl named Madeline Davis. Her thoughtful, insightful ideas led us to a continuous email conversation about politics, class (we were both working class), and art. Sometimes we even talked by phone, although trans-Atlantic calls were an expensive and rare indulgence.

When I was mobile again, I decided to fly to the States for Thanksgiving and Madeline invited me to stop in Buffalo for a few days to visit her and her life-partner Wendy. They picked me up at the airport in the middle of what seemed like a major snowstorm, but which to these Buffalo residents seemed like a Tuesday. Instead of going straight to their house, we stopped at a strip mall in front of a department-store-sized pet shop. I lived abroad for 24 years so I was unaccustomed to what had happened with super-sized American retail box stores. I remember how the size of the store blew my mind. We loaded up the car with huge bags of cat food and kitty litter and drove to their house.

But there was a conundrum. The cats lived on the second floor and between Madeline and Wendy there wasn’t a single working knee able to easily mount those steps lugging a burden. I volunteered to carry up the bags, one by one, and so I cemented a warm welcome from the cats. One of those cats was very old and sick. Madeline and Wendy took me to a healing session with friends of theirs. I believe one friend, in particular, led some chanting and blessings I couldn’t understand, and comforted the two women. Madeline herself was a Reiki Master who conducted these kinds of sessions, it turned out. I was totally out of my element. I had never owned a furry pet, nor had I ever attended an event in which a group of women talked in spiritual terms. I was (and am) a socialist, atheist, ass-kicking materialist – in the Marxist sense that I believe what I can see and touch. I don’t have a religious or spiritual bone in my body. That session was a fascinating visit to another world.

Madeline turned out to be a true Renaissance woman, who had founded numerous progressive organizations, wrote songs that became gay anthems, co-wrote a beloved book Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community, taught the first university level course on lesbians “Lesbianism 101,” and that very year was featured on the poster for a tattoo show. It was selected as the Best Color Poster of the year by the Commercial Printers & Publishers Association. I wish I still had the copy that Madeline and Wendy gave me.

The visit was unforgettable. Their hospitality to a stranger from abroad was generous. Wendy and Madeline got a chuckle out of the butch/femme pillow cases I brought them from London (which Wendy just today reminded me of). Their house was super-comfy, their relationship was a joy, and they were surrounded by loving friends.

We are losing our founders and it is one of the difficult aspects of aging. The loss hits the community hard, and that community extends to the several generations impacted by Madeline’s revolutionary, innovative legacy. I have learned so much about Madeline since I learned of her death and read the tributes pouring in. If you want to know more, you can start here at her Wiki page.

My deepest condolences to Wendy.

The Prom – film review

Many friends raved about The Prom as just the kind of light fluff with content that we all crave, but – forgive me – I found it annoying. All the glitter and jazz hands failed to camouflage the apologetic born-that-way vibe that straight people adore.

The story: Four failed actors (Meryl Streep, James Corden, Nicole Kidman, Andrew Rannells) decide to take up a cause in order to make themselves seem sympathetic. They pick Emma (a constantly smiling Jo Ellen Pellman) from Indiana, who isn’t allowed to take her girlfriend to the prom and who is abused by both the high school kids and the head of the PTA (Kerry Washington). Her school principal (Keegan-Michael Key) supports her; he is the film’s only consistently warm-hearted and charming character.

The critic Jennifer Heaton nailed it when she wrote: “This adaptation of the Broadway show is like a supermarket celebrating Pride with a rainbow cake or your straight work colleague throwing around drag slang they don't understand.” Moreover, it is obvious that the film was directed by one man and written by two, because they understand little to nothing about lesbians, who are minor plot devices anyway. For example, the (cliched) gay Corden character decides he will make baby-butch Emma into a dazzling woman for the prom – and puts her into a pastel tulle dress, high heels (which she has never worn), makeup and flowers in her hair, and then they all crow about how gorgeous she is. She looks exactly like all the straight girls. It is a brutal case of debutchification which every poor dyke has experienced to their distress.

Each song sounds exactly the same as the next; the dancing is choreographed by someone who missed hip-hop altogether; and it feels like a homogenization of every musical from 1964. At an extremely long 2h 11m it’s about 2h 11m too long. Complete with evil mothers instantly forgiven via a hug, it is banal and boring.

The Trailer

Uncle Frank: Film Review in 110 Words

A perfect Pandemic film, Uncle Frank propels us away from our present stress and drops us into 1973. Innocent Beth goes north to attend NYU where her Uncle Frank teaches. She discovers that he lives with his life-partner Wally. Via a road trip, they all end up back in the South for the funeral of Frank’s nasty-assed father (Beth’s grandfather) and the site of Frank’s devastatingly traumatic first teenage love. It is sometimes tough to watch, especially if you grew up with a vicious parent, and the joyful ending is excessive. The acting is superb, the film is often funny, and I highly recommend its bittersweet portrayal of loving support.

The trailer:

Secret Love: Film Review

Prepare your hanky and your deepest thoughts about the future when you watch the poignant Netflix documentary Secret Love. Director Chris Bolan traces his great-aunt, Terry Donahue, and her life partner, Pat Henschel, from their love-at-first-sight romance in the 40s through their struggle as ailing elders. Bolan’s mother Diana is the third major figure of the film, as she struggles with Pat over the best way to support Aunt Terry in her decline.

The lovers met the year I was born, 1947, while Terry was a Canadian star of the Peoria Redwings – a team in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (which inspired A League of Their Own.) They only came out to Terry’s beloved family in 2009, living in a sometimes brutal, if love-filled closet, all that time. With remarkable footage and stills from back in the day, we see how they constructed a life in Chicago of fierce devotion, building friendships with other queers. The film shorts us on what this life was: we see only one dinner shared with a couple of gay men who are clearly central to their community, but we are given no sense of how the advent of gay liberation, with its new institutions and cultural opportunities, affected them – as it surely did.

The ways in which homophobia impacted them is encapsulated by Diane’s discovery of Pat’s love letters to Terry, from which the bottom signature has been ripped off to protect their identity. Pat is alienated from her own family, but unfortunately not entirely embraced by Terry’s. The reasons why they came out so late to Terry’s family remain under-explored, but we get a hint when one niece is outraged at having been deprived of this information (it’s all about her) while she is scandalized that they are living in sin. Pat is only too aware that in this family she is mainly seen as an impediment to Terry’s return to Canada, and not always as the solicitous life-partner she has been.

If gay people had made this film, it might have looked very different. The years of their Chicago life together and the social fabric they wove would have had more primacy. Their relationship may have remained a secret to the family – and there must have been good reason for that – but surely they were more open within the life they built for themselves.

On a personal level, the film reminded me of how our worlds shrink if we make it to old age, with our peers dead or ailing or retired in Florida or returned to distant home towns. Those with younger family members who give a shit have a lifeline, but those of us without close bio families are too often thrown onto the trash-heap of impersonal if not homophobic social services. We pioneers have failed to build any solid intergenerational network. The LGBTQ movement seems to have more cross-generational disdain, in both directions, than connection.

I wept throughout this film, most especially at the barriers to their love, prior to the 70s, and then at what ill health does to this couple’s independence. Sufficient hard-earned savings and Terry’s family’s concern allow them safe solutions in which to thrive. But I wept for those without money or loyal young people to shepherd them to the end.

The trailer:

The Secret Lives of Church Ladies (book review) in 100 words

The most un-put-downable short stories create an entire world. In The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, Deesha Philyaw does it with gob-smacking prowess nine times. Whether it is a teenage girl crushing on the pastor’s wife, or a couple coping with their first winter up north exiled from all they love, or a self-possessed sexually-active woman who outlines lengthy rules for the married men “applying” for a passing entanglement, the reader is catapulted into their emotional and physical worlds. Her characters are Black women wrestling with both church culture and with private passions. Philyaw’s stories kept me awake and awed.

Just me and Billy Porter hangin’ out...

So here's the story: A generous talented friend took me to see the unmissable, funny, deep, brilliant play "The Purists" which was directed by Billy Porter, presented by Boston's Huntington Theatre Company (same building where my own play appeared this summer) -- and written by Dan McCabe.

She also got me into the after-party where Billy stood in one side room on seriously elevated platform shoes taking pictures. He was standing between two young blond women for some photos. The second they finished I asked him, "Do you take pictures with old dykes too?" He laughed, pulled me to him saying "Get over here, girl" and I snapped the moment.

(I was so star-struck that I forgot to mention Pittsburgh, our mutual hometown, and it never occurred to me that I shoulda brought A Raisin in My Cleavage to give to him.)