Sappho's Bar and Grill
Page 20
Supposing the art slides Hannah used in her class lectures on women’s heritage were merely proof of goddess figurine toys that had accidentally slipped off the desk of some earlier, earliest grand lecturer, as uprooted and bereft as Hannah felt now, but uprooted from where? From UP THERE?
All right. Who was the giant professor up above, the lesson planner in the heavens, the great overhead women’s history department chair who had lost her place and floated in space? How could Hannah—and maybe Isabel, too—find her, restore that lost department in the sky, and even join it as a lecturer again?
Would she have to be . . . dead?
On Tuesday, having surrendered her university ID and office keys, Hannah walked disconsolately into Lecture Hall B-12 for a final nostalgic visit. Here, she had made the past visible, selecting what she believed students must know about women’s differing histories. She gave a loving pat to the wobbly overhead projector, now shoved into a corner, its long electric cord wrapped like a protective dragon’s tail around an aging body. This had been her old standby when DVD films failed to load; just images laid over a light box, projected against the two big screens. Sappho, Queen Liliokalani, Bessie Jackson. How it made them real, huge, larger than life, undeniable!
She was alone. She was on her way to nowhere, fired at middle age. This lecture hall had been her kingdom, or queendom, or playing field. Dr. Hannah Stern is in the house; start note-taking! Well, who would come in and stop her if she taught one last lecture now?
In her pocket was a brochure for the Mediterranean goddess cruise she’d planned to take . . . before losing her job and needing a whole new budget. No Olivia cruise this summer. No fun ever again. Well, she could dream for free. She slid the brochure onto the surface of the projector. She’d project images of happy lesbians, partying on a ship’s deck, as her last stand. Her Bon Voyage.
And both of the dual wall screens lit up. The projection whirred to life. Sappho’s face rose, rose up on the huge light panels, watchful, fierce, benevolent. Hannah jumped back, stupefied. But I didn’t plug anything in yet. In fact, I couldn’t have turned it on. My passcode was just cancelled. I no longer have my university ID!
Then the lecture hall filled up with every student she had ever taught, two or three to a seat, holding in their laps spiral notebooks, sketchpads, computers, day planners. Every pen and finger was raised up to start note taking.
“Walk right in,” boomed Sappho’s voice, undulating from the overhead projector. “And sit tight now. All of you. Listen to me, sisters. We’re going for a ride.”
About the Author
Bonnie J. Morris is a women’s studies professor with twenty-two years on the faculty of both Georgetown and George Washington University; accruing multiple teaching awards from both institutions. She is the author of 15 books, including three Lambda Literary Finalists (Eden Built By Eves, Girl Reel, Revenge of the Women’s Studies Professor), two national first-prize chapbooks (The Schoolgirl’s Atlas, Sixes and Sevens) and the critical feminist texts Women’s History for Beginners and The Disappearing L. Her recent exhibit on women’s music at the Library of Congress broke new ground in showcasing lesbian albums, and she is now a historical consultant to the Smithsonian Institute, the AP U.S. History exam, Disney Animation, the State Department’s International Visitor program and the Global Women’s Institute. She may be found lecturing on C-Span, Olivia Cruises, Semester at Sea, the National Women’s Music Festival, and on Pacifica Radio KPFK.
Acknowledgments
This unusual book drew support from many friends and colleagues who offered suggestions, getaway time, and nourishing love. I am particularly grateful for the gift of writing time at Hedgebrook; Women’s Week in Provincetown; the hospitality of friends in Kauai; and the warm home spaces of Lillian Faderman and her partner Phyllis. Enthusiastic feedback came from Jennifer Wisdom, Jeanette Buck, Alison Bechdel, Woody, Liz and Jane. For the original experience of belonging to Herizon in Binghamton, New York, there are not enough words to express loyalty and affection. Thanks as well to Liz McMullen and Doreen Perrine for daring to publish the first small excerpts from these tales in their anthologies Appetites and Haunting Muses. Finally, I am delighted to be a Bywater author, and for the warm support of editors and associates Salem West, Kelly Smith, Elizabeth Andersen, and the extended family of the Golden Crown Literary Society.
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