Greetings From Janeland

by Candace Walsh

  Maybe. I’m not sure.

  I am still learning when to hear and believe the word no, even if I’m the one saying it.

  Straightening Myself Out

  BY PAT CROW

  I HAD BEEN MARRIED FOR THIRTY-ONE YEARS WHEN I WAS jarred out of a sound sleep by a dream about my friend and houseguest, Ana, standing naked next to my bed. When I opened my eyes, I suddenly longed to climb the spiral staircase, enter the loft where she slept, and caress her ample bosom.

  I lay awake the rest of the night in shock, afraid of what this meant. I wondered, am I really attracted to her? Does this make me a lesbian? Am I . . . gay?

  The following morning my husband, Arthur, left for his commute to work in Orlando. As Ana and I chatted, I couldn’t stop, like a teenage boy, looking at her breasts. She noticed my noticing and looked at me, bewildered. I was even more bewildered.

  My mind raced beyond Ana’s breasts to the larger questions of how I was going to get out of a stagnant, abusive marriage and how it would affect my children, who, though adults of twenty-five and twenty-six, would certainly have questions of their own.

  I’m a fourth-generation Floridian with lineage dating back to the Civil War era. Though I couldn’t say homophobia was in my blood, I had certainly been acculturated with it through my white-bread, straight, provincial youth—with little to no exposure to gay people—and my Southern Baptist upbringing. “It’s not God’s way,” was the mantra, and the accompanying vision of perpetually burning in hell was enough to stifle my instincts as I unconsciously slid into my role as a traditional southern lady.

  Looking back, I remember leaving my body when I had to be in distasteful situations in the bedroom so that I didn’t have to feel my discomfort. Drinking lots of wine was one way I left. Getting lost in projects where I disconnected from everything around me was another way I disassociated.

  About twenty years into my marriage, I started budding as a feminist and felt resentful of the moral mandate to subjugate myself to my man and my marriage. I read a passage in the prologue of The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley, that riveted me: “I have no quarrel with the Christ, only with his priests who called The Great Goddess a demon and denied that she ever held power in this world.” I read other feminist books as well and became restored as a sovereign woman with dominion over my thoughts. My blood boiled in rage at the misbegotten power of the men in my life.

  As a husband and as a father, Arthur demanded the same reverence he learned to show for his Methodist parents. When I didn’t fall in line, he told me I was overreacting, getting too big for my britches, or that I didn’t know what I was talking about. The last straw: when he held his hand in front of my face, saying, “You don’t get to talk. There’s something wrong with you,” at a restaurant with our adult children.

  Soon after my dream about Ana, I visited my sister and told her that I broke the news to Arthur about wanting a divorce because I had changed so much that I could no longer be true to myself and stay in the marriage.

  For hours we chewed on how my marriage had disintegrated. “You better start packing and get the heck out of there because right now he’s in shock,” she said. “When he comes around he’s going to be madder than a trapped alligator, and it could get ugly!”

  Soon after the Obama family moved into the White House, my divorce became final, and I moved to Port Townsend, Washington, the farthest point from Orlando that I could find on the map.

  In a stroke of luck, the neighborhood where I rented a home on the Olympic Peninsula turned out to be a vibrant lesbian community. Most of the women there had already coupled up, making it both easier and more challenging for me because I was of two minds. I was curious about dating women but didn’t think I was grounded enough to try. I was shy about my newfound sexuality—not at all ready for a fling, let alone a relationship.

  My adjustment wasn’t easy. As a straight married woman, I had been part of a club that allowed me to enter places without question. Now I was unattached, new to a very different neighborhood, and not included in social gatherings. I watched from my window as groups of paired-off lesbian friends gathered in their backyards to party on the Fourth of July and Labor Day. For the first time, I longed to belong the way I did with my family back in Florida.

  I hungrily watched every nuance of interaction with these women: their affections, their arguments, their bodies, their activities, even how they dressed and carried themselves. What stood out for me was how supportive of one another they were. They had each other’s backs in work, play, and everyday living. There was nothing extraordinary that separated me from them. This subculture of lesbians had thrived parallel to me most of my life, yet I didn’t acknowledge it until I identified with it because of my encapsulated upbringing. Once my cage door opened, my Christian mores disappeared, and I could see beyond the confines of my redneck, judgmental rearing.

  I was fifty-nine years old and, ironically, the baby dyke on the block. They had a history I didn’t share. I hesitated to jump into the group, pulling back when someone moved too fast in my direction.

  I felt safe coming out to Jane, one of the community’s social leaders, first, since she seemed understanding and warm. She made sure to include me in their gatherings, and I began to teach local classes in energy psychology and somatic psychotherapy.

  Zoe, an old lesbian colleague and friend from the Northeast, stayed in touch with me during my adventures. She was in the process of ending a long-term relationship and was planning to move to Santa Fe, New Mexico. She supported my transitions along the way, asking every detail of my encounters. She had been out for over thirty years and was curious about my experiences amongst my northwestern neighbors. I confided in her how inse-cure I felt. She laughed with joy when I told her that finally I was ready to date—as if she had been waiting to hear this from me—and a tacit doorway opened.

  Let it go, I thought to myself. You’re too far away to even think of starting anything with her. We continued to chat daily, and our friendship became more intimate. Months later, she mailed me a Barbra Streisand CD. When I was on the phone talking with her about the songs I liked, I realized she was reaching into my heart through them. My throat clenched, and I heard myself say to her, “I think I’m falling in love with you.” Silenced by my own words, I heard her soft voice respond, “You have no idea how much I love you, Pat.” My illusion of not feeling ready to act on being gay evaporated. I was in love with another woman.

  After several months of phone sex, we planned a rendezvous in Santa Fe where we would consummate our new love. She brought me out with abandon, and I just let go. The rest of the week, we toured the rural roads of northern New Mexico, sharing romantic nights in funky Madrid and Taos and discovering Ojo Caliente’s private pools. The moon was full that week, and in the middle of the night Zoe woke me from a deep sleep to make love. I hadn’t felt so alive in well over a decade. My libido was on fire and I think it scared her. At dinner in Taos one evening she ordered a head of roasted garlic. “I’m eating this whole garlic. Watch. Maybe this will slow you down some.”

  “No garlic will stop me!” I teased.

  There was an elegant difference about making love with a woman as opposed to a man. Her skin was soft and supple. I got aroused from kissing her lips and fondling her breasts. A man’s skin was rough. His physique was hard. I got aroused from his efforts, not from my own pleasure of touching. I couldn’t stop stroking Zoe and feeling my whole body breathe heavily. Her tenderness moved me. We fit together perfectly.

  Then she came to Port Townsend to spend a week with me. Again, we tumbled into bed with unbridled passion. One day, I took her for a low-tide tour of the cape and found a private rock to climb on to make out until the tide rose. The next day I took her to land’s end at Cape Flattery where we lost touch with the world.

  When it was time for her to return home, I didn’t want to break the spell of our glorious memories, so the two-hour trip into Seattle to the airport was quiet.
On the ferry ride, surrounded by the windy surf, the breeze caught her silver hair. It glistened in the sun. I took in her soft butch essence, appreciating how handsome she was. When I walked back into my empty house, I felt a void, loud and quiet at the same time. Everything vibrated with her energy. My bereft heart pondered. How do I make a new life for myself here when I want to share it with her?

  I felt overwhelmed with loneliness and decided to call my daughter, Rikki, in Oregon and come out to her about Zoe. She was supportive and curious.

  During my first Christmas alone in Port Townsend, phone conversations and e-mails with Zoe kept me going, but I was lost. Trying to build a new life in a new place with my lover so far away was like trying to build a house without nails. In every contact I made and every class I taught, my body was there but my spirit was in New Mexico. Something had to give.

  In the aftermath of Japan’s tsunami and Fukushima’s nuclear power plant meltdown in March 2011, Zoe insisted I come to Santa Fe. The threat and fear of radiation poisoning worried us both. We set a plan in motion. She offered to come to Port Townsend and drive with me.

  In Santa Fe, Zoe lived at Rainbow Vision, an LGBT retirement residential center. We decided to be together in separate apartments while we got to know each other better and tried on our new relationship. A year and a half went by, and I went back to Florida to see family and friends. I came out to my ex-husband and son. My ex said he wasn’t entirely surprised, but he felt humiliated. My son was open-minded, but worried about how others would take it.

  On June 26, 2013, the Supreme Court struck down the Defense of Marriage Act, opening the door for LGBT movement toward legal and sustainable marriage. On June 26, 2015, the Supreme Court declared marriage equality the law of the land, creating a frenzy of same-sex marriages. Wedding fever ensued in Santa Fe and all over the country. I welled up with joy for this entire population of people who had wanted to be treated equally all their lives. One lesbian friend said to me, “I feel like a whole human being now.” A sense of pride came over me when I realized that I was part of a historical and progressive cultural acceptance of being gay in America.

  Almost a year to the day after the Marriage Equality Act was made law, a group of LGBTQ Latino folks were dancing and celebrating in the Pulse night club of Orlando when a maniac plowed forty-nine of them down point blank with an assault rifle like they were tin cans on a fence. I was in Oregon with family, celebrating my daughter’s graduation from college. The next morning, as we were slowly waking up from the party and drinking our coffee, we saw flashing blue-and-red lights on the TV with the headlines on the screen, “49 Dead in Orlando Massacre.” My mind didn’t register what had happened until Rikki began checking in with her Orlando friends on Facebook to see if they were safe. One by one she called out their names, reporting their status. My daughter-in-law, Noel, and my son, Gareth, let us know they were okay. But Noel said she was worried about her cousin, Dani, and his husband, Jean, because she knew they were at the club that night.

  I felt my focus shift from the excitement of Rikki’s celebration to the gravity of the unfolding tragedy. Her untouched graduation cake sat on the table along with several unopened cards. And by day’s end, we had confirmation that Dani and Jean were killed in the shooting. My heart sank, knowing that this horrible, devastating event would forever change the lives of everyone connected to the dead.

  This tragedy made me all the more eager to get back to my love in Santa Fe. Zoe picked me up from the airport in Albuquerque, and later that evening we went to the plaza downtown to partake in a vigil for the Pulse victims. Our openly gay mayor, Javier Gonzales, city council members, and gun control advocates all spoke in honor of the dead. As we stood there, my numbness kept me from acknowledging my own pain. A lesbian friend approached us and said she kept looking around to see if it was safe for her to be out in the open amongst her gay friends. It finally struck me why gay folks were always warily looking over their shoulders. Even with the recent successful Supreme Court battles, there was nothing sanctified about being gay. In fact, I realized, being gay was still very dangerous.

  For the first time, I felt what other gay people lived—a fear of being out. Once I stepped out of my armor, believing finally that it was safe to do so, homophobic hatred punched me in the gut. I had been out for only five years, and at sixty-five I felt apprehensive about my safety. And with our new president-elect, Donald Trump, choosing his cabinet, I question whether the strides made for the LGBT community will remain intact. I can see that more battles lie ahead.

  But I recognize my courage to break free from my stifled life in Florida, and recent legal victories have enabled me to live a life congruent with my sexual identity. A freer life. A happier life. Recently, Zoe and I got married in our backyard, celebrating with a handful of good friends and our two rescue dogs, dressed in fancy pink and rainbow-colored collars. Santa Fe is a bubble of liberal-minded LGBT residents. It’s called “The City Different” for good reason.

  Pregnant with Myself

  CASSIE PREMO STEELE

  ALL MY LIFE, I’VE WANTED TO BE GOOD.

  My last boyfriend before my husband was a kind Irish Catholic man from Connecticut. He was a virgin. I was not.

  He had the soft hands of a priest. He was so sweet he ate sugar sprinkled on his spaghetti. I would drink a beer before he came to pick me up for a date because he was so nice. And nice, to me, was boring.

  But I could see us marrying. I could see us living in New England, having children, sending them to the nearby Catholic school, settling down for quiet nights at home like his parents. It seemed so normal. So calm. Like a balm over my promiscuous, wounded heart. It would be a way for me to be good, too.

  We didn’t marry, though. Instead, I became pregnant by someone else.

  We had only had sex once, under the covers in February, furtively grasping in the dark while my grad-school roommate slept in the room next door.

  Six weeks later, having declined an offer to enter the Peace Corps after a phone interview conducted from bed while eating saltines and trying not to throw up, I began to have sharp pains in my belly.

  I had gone to my mom and stepdad’s house that weekend. I was twenty-four, but I needed them to know that I was pregnant. They offered to let me live with them. They offered to help with the baby. My stepfather, a wonderful cook and the true wife of the house, made me my favorite French onion soup with extra gooey cheese, and then I went to bed.

  At first I thought it was indigestion. But the pain was so intense I screamed and blacked out repeatedly before consciously registering that it was pain.

  The next day I went to the university’s student health center and they sent me—alone, in my roommate’s borrowed car—to the ER, where they admitted me immediately and started prepping me for a laparoscopy to remove what turned out to be an ectopic pregnancy.

  Before I knew it, my mom was there. And my priest, a kindly British man who would later be kicked out of the priesthood for being too forgiving. He knew me from the Catholic Student Center where I taught an independent course on homelessness.

  “What happened?” he said with a smile.

  I had no words. I pointed at my belly. He nodded.

  I so wanted to be good.

  All my life, I’ve wanted to be a mother. My birth name is Mary, and for a young girl in a small Minnesota town with Catholic parents, being a mother and being good seemed like very good things to want.

  At the age of eight, I was raped by a neighbor.

  I checked my pee daily for weeks afterward, wondering if I could tell from the color if I was pregnant. I stole mothering magazines from my pediatrician’s office to learn how to do it well just in case.

  To be good.

  After the ectopic pregnancy, the laparoscopy scar was a six-inch straight line across my belly just above my pubic hair. It hurt for months. Not the scar exactly, but the inside parts, cutting sharp crosses from time to time within me.

  In only six we
eks, I’d gone from not being pregnant to being pregnant to not being pregnant again. I envisioned the pregnancy leaving tire marks on the ovary and remaining fallopian tube and uterus as it left my body so quickly. I imagined the pain was a way of washing the marks. Cleansing me. So I could be good.

  When I was in high school, it was exciting for me to know I might get pregnant. As a Catholic girl, even without penetration, I found the proximity of my boyfriend’s wet pleasure to my own opening stimulating. Dangerous. Sexy.

  I hated being on birth control pills. They made me feel puffy and slow and disconnected from my body. When I broke up with my college boyfriend and stopped using them, I felt juicy and alive again. I remember thinking, “This must be how lesbians feel.”

  And once I was married, but before my husband and I were trying to get pregnant, there was nothing that turned me on more than to delay the opening of the condom wrapper, enticing him to stay in me, pulling me to higher and higher plateaus, and mountains, and delectable valleys below.

  The pinnacle was reached when I conceived. Unlike others who start to grow weary of copulating for a baby, I reveled in it. I did not heed the advice to wait twelve—some said twenty-four—hours between attempts to “let the sperm build up.” I wanted it, again and again, over and over.

  I see now how my connection between desire and fertility was born of shame. All the years of nuns saying that sex was meant for married people to make babies and anything else was sin—all of this sunk in and froze me underneath my skin.