“You use my defense against me?” cried Hall, and Dorothy Allison quickly put a hand on the handsome Canadian: “Whoa, big fella. Let’s chill.” The hockey team hissed.
All of a sudden Hannah found her tongue. “Look, I don’t support book banning. I did once get a billboard taken down that had an offensive message, but I’m— I’m here to get maximum distribution.” Feeling drunk from the party punch, she liked the sound of what she’d just said. “Maximum distribution!”
Nancy Gardner glided over and rang a small silver bell. “Please, no more bickering. This is a reception. All are received here. And we will honor all those who never had the books we wrote for them, due to any cause— censorship, book banning, obscenity trials, seizure, confiscation . . .”
“Poverty, racism,” added Jewell Gomez. “Illiteracy, segregation, violence.”
“Religion.” “Fire.” “Sexism.” Hearing these words, Hannah immediately thought of Passover seders at Sappho’s Bar and Grill, where barriers to freedom and fulfillment were similarly named as the real ten plagues for women and for lesbians in particular.
And after the moment of silence, one beautifully dressed and buxom librarian ghost shimmered into view, and said in a breath of printer ink and leather-bound pages, “Let us remember together: we are in a library, a very good public library; and the point of the public library is to give the people what they want. We, too, all of us, want a book to fulfill its highest mission, which occurs when someone reads it. It is not decorative, nor a proponent of its own contents; the book itself is not responsible for imparting knowledge— that is indeed the author’s lookout, yes. But a book without a reader is a wretched object. And a reader without a book, likewise desolate. Let us pledge anew to mitigate against such desolation.”
They clinked their glasses, the living and the dead.
“And look you to the gallery,” said Woolf. At the window, which in ordinary time opened to the hallway beyond the Library dining café, faces of eager girls pressed against the glass. But in spite of their obvious excited impatience, they left no breath marks.
“They are the readers waiting for our banned books to be freed,” explained Nancy Gardner. “They await the Grand Reshelving, as you see. We’re all depending on you, you know, young Dr. Stern, to get those books to them.”
Hannah gulped. And with that, the reception disappeared like vapor, and she was standing in the middle of the upstairs cafeteria, holding a cheeseburger she didn’t recall ordering, surrounded by the usual bustle of cafeteria workers cleaning up from lunch.
• • •
That night, at home on her temporary but now familiar D.C. apartment sofa bed, Hannah pawed restlessly through the pages of banned book titles she’d assembled after the mysterious “reception.” It had been real, the food, if not the ghosts, for an errant sesame seed was still under her fingernail. Could she send it to the Snerd? The drinks had been exotic, but at least one had tasted like Isabel’s special brew. What was the recipe for what her beloved mixologist provided, across time? Could she ever ask? Would that end the parade of sweet sublingual experiences if she did? Sighing, she turned off the bedside lamp and let the lingering question of censorship fill her thoughtful darkness.
Who were the women who had banned women’s writing? It was all well and good to blame The Patriarchy, but any number of women in every era supported the powerful men of their time, thus securing power and status for themselves. Old, old story. Women terrified of being accused of witchcraft fired an opening salvo of blame at a hook-nosed neighbor, or someone who had missed church once.
She had known such bristling PTA moms herself back in the mid-1970s, in junior high. In fact, if Hannah cared to remember— cared to reexamine that painful time of her own powerlessness, in ninth grade— she’d have to admit that her first encounter with a book-banning mom was also her first experience with homophobia: a PTA grown-up who called her out for loving her best friend that way. Jordan Matthews’s mom.
Whoa! That was a pain that stretched waaaay back. That memory nearly threw her out of bed. The pillows and cushions scattered. The alarm clock at her elbow fell over and buzzed in unscheduled rage. Hannah flicked on the lamp and her cell phone in two-fisted, ambidextrous panic. Had she ever, ever told Isabel this story? Across the room, the lights of northwest D.C. shone at her window in pre-midnight flicker and wave: not too late to call her lover. The illumination of the Washington National Cathedral did not dim until midnight, Eastern Standard Time. As she focused her eyes to tap Isabel’s private number onto fogged glass, the phone rang. Hannah squeaked.
“It’s me, love. It’s Isabel. What’s keeping you awake?”
Of course, even all those miles away, Isabel knew she was troubled and needed to talk. “It’s something surfacing from the past. Like a nasty humpback whale.”
“Your own history? So, this is not a playful phone call.” Isabel’s voice, gentle. “No erotica by phone tonight.”
“No,” Hannah agreed regretfully. “Another time. Listen, you know how I’m involved in this— this project, with lesbian books? Looking at how many were banned, or restricted, so gay kids couldn’t get them? I mean, we all talked about that at Halloween, and that was great. But I think I left out some pretty important questions, and now I’m stuck here and can’t get to the bar to ask our friends again.”
“What did you forget to ask? Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I, I asked everyone about their first encounter with a gay book, and their first encounter with asking a librarian for one— how anyone got the life-altering book they really wanted or needed. But I forgot to ask what anyone’s first memory was of book banning— if they remembered those certain parents, those certain moms who kept the books out of the schools.”
Isabel kept quiet for a moment. Then, “Yes, the book-banning women. Well, you will find, very fresh in the minds of some still living, stories of mothers and daughters in the Third Reich burning books together. There are photos of that, too, easily researched, especially where you are, in those museums. But I think you have your own book-banning memory to share. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Did I ever tell you about Jordan Matthews’s mom?”
And when she opened her lips, her mind, to recall that memory, Sappho’s mysterious projector turned on. Winged Sappho landed on the scattered pillows of Hannah’s sofa bed and on the one blank wall opposite, where Hannah for some reason had yet to hang a poster, the past’s slide show began. The Overhead Herself spread light around Hannah, who huddled up in bed, as Sappho ran the slide show of her past, screenshots of a young Hannah in 1975.
• • •
1975. At fourteen, a young and confused Hannah would have marched for gay and lesbian rights but punched out anyone who dared call her a dyke. Too soon to claim that name, too soon to act on love, but too soon to feel the love that dared not speak its name? No, she did that every day, her best friend’s fate linked to hers, their private understanding an enigma to the school. They carved a wide swath in the halls, ebullient, untouchable. Not touching, leaving one another notes. In code. Jill.
A few adults did understand: three hip counselors who staffed a drop-in center at the school. There, amid the at-risk kids and other gay-maybes, Hannah had found her first books about the range of human sexuality. And there, on the “graffti wall” sheet of paper, she had tentatively scrawled with ink markers her best friend’s name. In code. But the youth counselor had told her, “Hannah, your touch touches me.”
In that drop-in center a unique cross-section of students laughed and cried and argued: Hannah and Jill, the tough girls and the disaffected guys, the kids with drug problems and hard parents. “Here come Hannah and Jill,” shouted some when they arrived, acknowledging their partnership and even welcoming their wisdom.
Sometimes they did games and exercises from the book called Values Clarification, the book that was really “in” that year. Martin or Luke or Debra picked sample games or questions for discussion;
these were called “energizers.” Where would you go if you could go anywhere? Which person do you most like or admire? What is something you’re proud of? What’s hardest for you? Who do you really trust? Every answer Hannah provided somehow included Jill’s name. Everything, for her, led back to loving Jill.
Sometimes the discussions were serious rap sessions about school: If you see a classmate cheating, should you tell, or is that ratting? How do you handle peer pressure to do drugs? Do students have the right to protest unannounced inspection of their lockers? Should students be suspended for holding sit-ins in the cafeteria?
Occasionally, there were worksheets that went with these discussions. Unfortunately, after one particularly cool discussion about sex, moral choices, and adult hypocrisy, a kid took his worksheet home in his bookbag, a parent saw the worksheet, and all hell broke loose.
By sheer accident, Hannah and Jill had been attending PTA meetings that winter quarter because Hannah’s mother was on a policy committee, and she’d invited their input. That next PTA executive board meeting unfolded like a plain old bread sandwich at first, giving Hannah and Jill ample time to practice sitting up straight like obedient, A-plus students. Hannah’s mother sat a few feet away from them, doodling on a pad. Teachers droned about the school semester and the activities budget. Parents coughed and touched their hairdos, waiting for the moment when they could introduce new issues. Unlike the adults, who counted as actual people, Hannah and Jill weren’t offered the courtesy of name tags, so Hannah made a large sign with both their names, Hannah + Jill, and propped it up on the table. This certainly made them look like a married couple, but by the time Hannah realized that, it seemed too late to crumple up the banner and start over with separate signs.
Hannah whispered to Jill, “Yawn! Executive b-o-r-e-d meeting!” When would the adults shut up so they could speak? They had specifically attended this meeting in order to praise the work of the student drop-in center. Those youth counselors were absent tonight, waiting to give a prepared presentation at next week’s “open” PTA meeting, but Hannah hoped to show the executive board some preliminary student support from two “responsible”-type students who actively used the center.
Parents and teachers began arguing about the gifted-and-talented program, which had never been launched. Hannah and Jill, who knew they were among those classified as “gifted” students, watched in disgust as adults once again killed off the funding for their enrichment.
Suddenly, a well-dressed mother stood up and began to speak.
“I have been a teacher for twenty years myself,” she began. “My name is Mrs. Matthews. Perhaps the other parents here aren’t aware of how our school system is changing, but I am here tonight to tell you that certain people are using our students as unwitting tools to radicalize our society. There is evil at work in the so-called Student Drop-In Center. Certain books available to vulnerable young people need to be removed. Immediately.”
Hannah and Jill looked at each other in shock, completely unprepared for this.
“This secular humanist way of teaching sets no goals, has no rights or wrongs, no absolute values,” Mrs. Matthews continued. “Our children are being taught only to worry about their own friends, their own feelings. Mrs. Nash and I are part of a group called Parents Concerned, which opposes these anti-Christian philosophies, viewpoints, and activities ongoing in the center. We intend to see the center shut down.”
There was absolute silence for some minutes.
Then a father raised his hand. “What are your specific objections? My kid hangs out at the center all the time; I had no idea anything dangerous went on there. It’s officially a part of the school, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Nash chimed in; she had popped up beside Mrs. Matthews and now wore the same pinched expression on her face. “And did you know it was school policy to expose your child to the alarmingly gross secular humanist book Values Clarification? No? A story inviting students to discuss sex choices? If you were truly permitted to be a concerned parent in this anti-Christian school system, the PTA board would mandate that only children with parental permission slips could enter Student Resources for these secular humanistic exercises.”
Hannah heard her science teacher hiss to a colleague, “Oh, my god. That’s Mrs. Nash. She tried to have me fired two years ago when I assigned my eighth-graders a term paper on evolution.” Hannah wondered if this was the real reason why Mr. Zeph now used those cautious, uninteresting mimeographed handouts for his classwork.
“The staff of Student Resources have come into Eastern Junior High, unasked, to seize control of our students’ minds,” Mrs. Matthews was saying. “Humanism has been declared a religion by the courts, and it is being used on our children. We know that those staff members plan to be at next week’s PTA meeting to present their agenda, and we plan to be there— all of us in Parents Concerned. That student center is unnecessary and dangerous. And if you are responsible parents, you’ll band together and help us.”
She drew herself up and exploded, “Vain-brain perverts fill our children with conceit, trying to bring about a new social order and world plan of love, love, love! Love for betrayers of our values! Their humanistic principles include autonomy and full sexual freedom for everyone!”
The room erupted as parents, teachers, and officials all began to argue at once. Mrs. Matthews and Mrs. Nash shook their fingers; the PTA president called for order. None of the student drop-in center staff were present to defend the center. No one in the room but Hannah and Jill had ever used the space or its small library. No one was asking for their opinion now. These were the adults empowered to make decisions about their lives?
As brainy girls, they often experienced this strange and embarrassing epiphany, of realizing that they were already smarter than any number of grown-ups they knew. Their minds were clicking along analytically, pinpointing the holes in Mrs. Matthews’ arguments. Every ninth-grader at Eastern Junior High had just completed the Speech and Debate unit in English class that month, and it was impossible not to apply that rhetoric to the highly political conflict unfurling in the room. Resolved: banning books is a threat to our democracy . . .
They began writing notes back and forth, under the table, in Hannah’s journal, while the adults called one another names. We are surrounded. And their arguments are not credible.
Suddenly, in front of everyone, Jill put her arm around Hannah, and kept it there for the rest of the meeting. It was a protective statement, not a romantic one, but Hannah’s mind and heart went racing. Was this Jill’s way of standing up to Mrs. Matthews, of valorizing love over close-mindedness? Was this Jill’s way of being visible, of declaring that she had someone who cared about her? Jill never held her like this at school. Yet there they were, at the big, round table in the school library, surrounded by symbols of authority: Parents. Teachers. Encyclopedias. And in that space, claiming her own authority, just this once, Jill held Hannah, while the adults debated book banning.
Hannah had felt herself growing larger by the minute, like Alice in Wonderland. In calm tones, she began to speak, defending Student Resources and its staff, its small lending library. Her history teacher, a rather elegantly brilliant old woman, moved her coiffed head slowly up and down as Hannah spoke. But Mrs. Matthews stared hatefully at Hannah. This was Jordan Matthews’s mom; Jordan was a non-descript good student and basketball captain, friendly to everyone.
Then Hannah jumped up and ran out into the hallway, into what they all called the bad girl bathroom, now empty of students. As she hid her face in a stall and cried silently, the door to that bathroom opened and two sets of heels clicked in furiously. Hannah pressed herself, unseen, invisible, to the dank tile wall, and listened to the adult female intruders’ muttered words.
“I think a seed was planted here tonight,” said Mrs. Nash.
“But those two little girls stick together like fly-paper,” sneered Mrs. Matthews.
Like flypaper. Mrs. Matthews. Mother of J
ordan Matthews. She changed everything.
• • •
“I grew up that night. That minute,” Hannah told Isabel, now, so many decades later. “I went up to bed that night and I lay awake pie-eyed. Little girl? I was already five foot six and wore 30/32 Levis. I wore a size eight soccer cleat and could kick the damn ball, too. I’d had my period for two and a half years. I could give birth, be a mother myself. Like flypaper. Flypaper was something I associated with vermin, with ugliness; it symbolized unwelcome, invasive pests. It was what you used up and threw away when you wanted to purify, to exterminate the insects in your home. This was how they saw Jill and I, and our loving friendship: we were damaging little flies, a secular humanistic plague unleashed by Student Resources, a sticky problem for good Christians. Anyway, it didn’t stop there. That committee sent out a newsletter to every parent in the school, and after more meetings our school did ban some books.”
Isabel’s quiet breathing on the other end of the phone. Then: “You see how this made you into the book protector you are, the out and proud defender of lesbian books for youth.”
“I didn’t know what to do with my rage,” Hannah remembered now. “You forget how disempowered you are, at fourteen. No income, no car, no Internet then, so no blog, no Facebook, no social media. No private cell phone, no way to connect broadly with other ‘questioning’ youth. I wrote in my journal and I played Grace Slick over and over on my stereo, that song where she snarls, ‘Consider how small you are. Compared to your scream, the human dream doesn’t mean shit to a tree.’ That scream, that swear word— all I had.”
“No other women’s music yet, either,” Isabel mused.
Hannah brightened. “But there was. That was when I found it on the radio. That very night! It was The Deadly Nightshade, ‘High Flying Woman.’ I heard three women’s voices, deep and confident— ‘I’m Helen,’ ‘I’m Ann.’ ‘I’m Pam.’ They sang,
Sappho's Overhead Projector Page 11