For a long time, I maintained a relationship with the ex who brutally dumped me, because (a) I didn't want to lose access to the child we'd been raising together and (b) it was something expected in lesbian-feminist culture, that we not further divide our community by feuding with ex-lovers. So many of us were ex-lovers.
Hence, I made at least annual visits to Dallas where my ex lived, driving or flying from SF. In this photo I am on a couch with her, our child, and her newest lover. I have cropped them out because I don't have their permission to show their images and, in the case of my ex, she would probably now object to any documentation of the fact that she spent over two decades as a
lesbian.
I loved those overalls. They were indestructible. And I miss that plushy buzz.
Showing posts with label lesbian culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lesbian culture. Show all posts
Thursday, August 28, 2014
THROW-BACK THURSDAY: VISITING DALLAS 1983, BUZZCUT AND CARHARTTS
Thursday, May 15, 2014
THROWBACK THURSDAY: DYKES WITH KIDS
Friday, May 9, 2014
OSENTO WOMEN'S BATHHOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO, 1980's
Osento was at the heart of the wimmin's community that stretched along Valencia during the heydey of actual lesbian ascendency in SF -- our neighborhood rather than the boys' Castro. In the bottom floor of a beautiful old Victorian, owned by Summer (who lived on the top floor), was an entry room where you paid the two bucks fee, a general disrobing room with lockers, a toilet room which also had the shower you were asked to take first, a large tiled room with a very hot pool lined with wide rims on which you could sit or lie to cool off/chat, a small back room with pads to lie on, and a small outdoor patio with a cold plunge.
It was most definitely not a sexual environment. It was dimly lighted, we were encouraged to keep our voices soft, no making out or fondling (it was very public), and I often fell asleep there after soaking my bones and spirit. I always went weekly, sometimes several times a week.
One of my favourite memories was when two friends from out of town came to visit from Dallas and Los Angeles respectively. We had all lived in Denton during the 1970s and this was a reunion weekend.
The Dallas friend, Mary, had been out to SF many times and was well-acquainted with Osento. She was also a talented prankster. The other friend, Jean, was shy, had never been to any sort of bathhouse, and was, to put it kindly, very gullible.
As we walked up the steps to the front door, Jean stopped nervously and asked me to swear this was not going to be a den of hot throbbing lesbian sex. We both reassured her, and I said it was a perfectly discreet place, no one was going to ogle her. But Mary, seizing the opportunity to tease Jean, added with a straight face "We do have to give a password at the front door, to make sure it's just dykes coming in."
Jean looked startled, and after a couple of beats, Mary turned to me and said "Did you call to get this week's password?"
I grokked what she was doing and said the first thing that came into my head: "Yep, it's 'beans and franks'". Mary nodded and repeated in a whisper "Beans and franks."
We contrived to position ourselves so that Jean reached the door first. Mary and I stood back a pace, watching the sidewalk behind us, as Jean knocked on the door, her face pale.
When Summer answered, Jean leaned toward her and whispered "Beans and franks."
Summer said blankly "What?" Jean cleared her throat and repeated the nonexistent password. Summer gaped at her for several seconds, then looked beyond her, saw me, and said "Oh hey, it's you, come on in."
But Mary and I only barely made it in the door before we were convulsed with laughter. Jean realized she'd been had and went beet red with embarassment. We explained our joke to Summer, who also found it hilarious, and within a few minutes, the whole place was giggling and murmuring "beans and franks" to each other. It became a beloved joke between the three of us; sometimes we'd begin phone calls with "beans and franks" before sliding into giggles.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
THROW-BACK THURSDAY: OLD WIVES TALES BOOKSTORE, 1978
Throw-Back
Thursday: Maggie Jochild and Sandy Seagift standing
in the front room of the first Old Wives Tales bookstore in San Francisco,
viewed through the wall cut-out from the back (Wimmin Only) room of the
bookstore. This was when the store was
on Valencia near 16th, before it moved to Valencia near 22nd
– a move I spent all day helping make happen.
The back room had sofas and chairs to sit on plus this extraordinary
wall of flyers and messages, how we communicated before the internet. Photograph taken around 1978 by Mary Austin,
her copyright.
I
miss you, Sandy.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
EACH ACCORDING TO HER NEED
Warm egg yolk dripped onto crispy corned beef hash: Saturday breakfast delight.
When I moved to SF in 1978, I lived collectively with dykes in a railroad flat where we did total income sharing. I got a job frying doughnuts right away and was bringing home $100 a week for four days of hot labour, which was very good pay. Rents were still cheap, and my income going into the kitty helped out flatmates who were not so fortunate in their employment. After we paid bills, bought our shared food, and purchased monthly Fast Passes for each of us, we had $5 each per week as running around money, which we'd distribute to ourselves each Friday.
It doesn't sound like much, but it was plenty. A lot of museums and cultural events were free. Hanging out at the wimmin's bookstore could take hours on a Saturday. Poetry readings were 50 cents to maybe a buck 50 for all day. Arthouse movies were a buck. Wimmin's music events were seldom more than two bucks. And for a treat, I could go to the Artemis and get a great bowl of corn chowder with baguette for $1.50 plus 50 cents tip. I could hear Robin Flower or Trish Nugent or Woody Simmons while eating dinner surrounded by dykes in a space where male conditioning was not coddled.
I think the lesbian cultural push toward collectivism taught me more about class than any amount of academic courses could have. And it set our revolution apart from anything which has followed. We failed, of course, but learned extremely valuable things in that failure. Especially about our conditioning as girls, what to keep and what to relearn. If you don't examine your conditioning by honestly claiming who they had shoved you to be by age six, how on earth can you find and follow an ethical liberation path?
Monday, October 3, 2011
BEFORE THE 26 VALENCIA
In 1980 for a few months I dated a woman I called Max, who was 21 to my 25. I met her through radical les-fem organizing, and pursued her for murky reasons. Our first solo date, she offered to cook red snapper for me -- she was a line cook at the time -- and gave me directions to her flat. I offered to bring something, and she said a bottle of cognac would be good.
I was not in the habit of buying liquor, and went to a corner store to make the purchase. That experience made the nugget of a much later poem (below). When I got to Max's one-room efficiency, I discovered she shared it with three cats. The smell of litterbox was strong, and tiny flurries of cat fur edded around my tread across the hardwood floors.
To my surprise, Max did not need the cognac for her recipe. Instead she poured a large amount into a tumbler and began drinking it rapidly as she made a sauce. I declined my own glass. Hard liquor, then and now, makes me ill.
After a delicious meal, I leaned in to kiss her and discovered she was the worst kisser I've ever known. That did not stop me: I was not yet in full recovery from my childhood sexual abuse, and my boundaries were particularly nonexistent that particular year.
Not long afterward, I met Max's sister, Bluejay, also allegedly a lesbian although she was in fact a closeted bisexual, involved with both her male roommate and a woman drummer in Rhiannon's circle. While Max made a trip to the jane, Bluejay leaned over and hissed at me "Why did you bring cognac with you? Don't you know she's an alcoholic?"
Well, no, I had no idea. I wasn't sure what to do. Jean Swallow and "Sober Dykes" were about to arrive in my life, but clean and sober was not yet in my ken. I did begin attending Al-Anon, feeling like a fraud because I was not certain the relationship with Max meant enough to make this effort.
I had not yet discovered how much addiction rippled through my community like an underground river, just as it was embedded in American culture. Self-medication keeps us from revolution and insisting on respect in all our decisions. The mess with Max was my beginning of that understanding.
BEFORE THE 26 VALENCIA
Easier to stop at a Mom’n’Pop
right on the 26 Valencia, hard to find parking
even at the biggest supermarkets in San Fran
and the checkout lines, forget it
Worth it to pay shocking prices set by
Pakistanis or Iranians who were not
getting rich off us, no matter what the hype
I was on my way to dinner with a new girl
She was making us snapper at her place,
suggested I pick up some cognac for after
I was guessing this meant tonight I’d be
allowed to finally unbutton her jeans
as we made out,
so far side by side,
on her futon covered in orange cat hair.
Cognac for after,
I didn’t drink but if that’s what
it took, okay by me
It would be another two months before her
sister finally told me, for christ’s sake, haven’t
you figured out she’s an alcoholic?
But this night all I had in me was Carly Simon crescendos
of anticipation
I was 25, desperate to believe
the discomfort I felt in kissing strangers
could be settled by boldness
Every movie and novel told me
what I was feeling was desire, not fear
I was going to grow out of this
The years were going to be good to me
The real liquor was all behind the counter
I had to wait to ask the clerk for it
and of course there were people ahead of me
Right ahead of me, an old lady
I might not have ever seen her if I hadn’t glanced down
to make sure my pants cuff was straight
The backs of her legs were more blue vein than flesh
some of these bulging like standing rapids
and scabs, raw and oozing
or some drying out but still raised up high
above her tissue paper skin
I thought of the geographical relief maps we made
in grade school with flour paste and tempera paint
The dress above the calves was thin, too thin
Yes, it was October which is actually warmer
most years in SF than August, my birth month
But this day was dank and goosebumpy, just right
for cognac and maybe sleeping over
Why was she out without a sweater? Why didn’t
she tend to those scabs, why didn’t someone---
She was buying a pint of milk and some elbow macaroni,
counting out change from a faded coin purse she
had trouble clicking shut
Her fingers tangled across one another
as if she was making King’s X Infinity
She was clean, except for the scabs on the
backs of her legs, too far down to reach
Her hair was combed and thin as her dress
No smell of alcohol on her – if there had been,
maybe I could ignore her
She was trying
The one thing
we never want anyone to say of us
I let her pay for her dinner and tomorrow’s lunch
and walk out of there, slowly, a small flinch
at the step out onto the street
The clerk never looked at her,
nor at me
I bought my magic potion and by the time
I got to the sidewalk, I didn’t see
where she’d gone
The bus was coming
I decided to forget her
Only I haven’t
© Maggie Jochild, written March 19, 2001 1:45 a.m.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
THE SUMMER OF THE GERMAN DYKES
Renee worked part-time at the Women's Building and she was naturally gregarious, chatting up all the women visiting from elsewhere. Often she offered them out spare room for a night or two. That summer, however, we had a month-long visitor, Ina, a German dyke who was radical, funny, and the perfect blend to our household. That year the exchange rate was very favorable for Germans visiting the U.S., and Ina extended her time with us, using our home as a means of exploring much of California.
We were really sorry to see her go. Thus, then Renee showed up with another German lesbian needing a place to crash, we were both excited. Her name was Efa, and she had hitchhiked her way across country to reach the West Coast. She was very striking looking, six feet tall, wide-shouldered, with black hair, pale skin and bright blue eyes. She habitually wore dark coveralls, looking like a tradesperson, which was uncommon attire then even for dykes. Her first night with us, we asked her if she had encountered any problems hitchhiking, despite her tough appearamce. Her English was not as fluent as Ina's, so after struggling for the words a minute, she simply grinned and pulled from her coveralls side pocket a massive, wickedly sharp metal hook, saying "I show zem ziss." We collapsed into laughter.
Efa only stayed a week. She did not know Ina personally but there was some sort of communication network they were plugged into and she had gone to the Women's Building hoping to find Renee. She made dinner for us one night, a potato and cheese casserole we liked, but what really wowed us was the fruit salad which had an unusual and delicious flavor. We pressed her for the recipe, and she told us the secret ingredient in German but we couldn't figure it out. Finally she thundered down the hall for her dictionary and ran back to sit at the table as she looked up the word. "Gin!" she announced triumphantly. Renee and I were both nondrinkers but we laughed and ate every bite.
I left in early August to drive to the Michigan Women's Music Festival. While there, I led a workshop for survivors of child sexual assault, the first ever. I was also interviewed on the subject by Pacifica Radio. The large number of attendees, most of whom had never told anyone what happened to them, and the emotional demands of trying to help them left me overwhelmed. I caught a ride into the nearest town where, besides getting a cheeseburger and Coke, I went to a phone booth and called home collect, hoping to talk with Renee.
Instead, a strange voice with a German accent answered our phone. She refused to accept the collect call. I called back, making it person-to-person for Renee, and again the call was denied because the same voice said she was "not zair." Frustrated, I called Joan, one of the dykes who lived next door to us, who wasn't thrilled about the collect charges. I asked what the fuck was going on in my house. She explained there were two new German dykes installed, Isa and Sylvia, and apparently they didn't know who I was.
I asked Joan to inform them I lived there and to accept collect calls from me, and to tell Renee I had called. I went back to the festival feeling cheesed.
It turned out our luck had expired with Isa and Sylvia. Referred by the same word-of-mouth network, they were not nearly so friendly or responsible. In particular, they spent hours in the bathtub running hot water to counteract the chill of August in San Fran. The clouds of steam created a fine speckle of mildew all over the bathroom walls. They didn't replace food or chip in for utilities, either. After they left, we had to scrub down the bathroom walls with vinegar and repaint them.
Still, we agreed, Renee should keep bringing home travelers as she saw fit, and we had a soft spot for German dykes.
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