FemmeNoir
A Web Portal For Lesbians Of Color
A.D. Odom
I
grew up on the South Side of Chicago in a middle class community
of working class Black folk. Early on, I knew I was different
but I lacked the vocabulary to know how I was different, I just
knew. I could not share the enthusiasm or the preoccupation with
boys with my female friends. My history taught me boys were not
nice. I heard the stories of how my grandfather beat my
grandmother, I saw my father beat my mother, I was abused by a
male relative, and I experienced the fright of being thrown to a
hardwood floor as if I were anything but human by two boys who
sought to rape me, I endured both physical and verbal
confrontations with boys and men who thought I should have been
interested in them. I experienced all of this before I was 13
years of age.
At 13, I learned a lot about life. I came out to myself then,
albeit without the proper terminology one would use to describe
oneself. I came to this understanding when I actually pretended
to be a boy, telephonically, in order to talk to a girl I liked
– I’ll call her Brenda. I spent many evenings talking with
Brenda pretending to be my cousin. We talked for hours.
Unfortunately, our relationship came to an embarrassing end when
one day, while we were talking, Brenda’s sister picked up an
extension and proclaimed “he sounds like a girl.” I was
devastated. Brenda tried to convince her sister I was not a
girl, but our conversations ended and we stopped walking home
from school together to discuss my cousin. Our tender moments,
our innocent conversations, came to a disappointing end. I am
sure she knew it was me, but our secret had been made public and
therefore our verbal love affair could not continue.
Shortly thereafter, Brenda ditched school with a boy. I was
informed of this fact while on the way home from school that
same day, with one of our mutual friends – Brenda’s good
girlfriend. Little did I know this seemingly innocent
conversation would soon be used against me, would lead to an
important life lesson, and would also become the weapon in my
defense.
This good girlfriend made sure everyone knew Brenda ditched
school with this boy. The next day, this same good girlfriend
told the principal I was the one who spread the rumor and I was
called in to discuss the “malicious” rumor I allegedly spread.
Fortunately for me, my gift for debate persuaded the principal
to call all parties involved to be present in her office. In
this meeting, the truth came out. The good girlfriend was
responsible for the school-wide rumor. I knew nothing about
Brenda ditching school or who she ditched with until later the
previous day when the good girlfriend told me.
When I did catch a glimpse of Brenda’s eyes in that meeting, her
look of embarrassment told the whole story and that story taught
me something I would carry throughout life – keep your feelings
to yourself, at all cost. The whole situation was a setup. What
I did not know then but learned later, there was another rumor,
one which was never spoken in the principal’s office yet it was
that rumor that gave everyone license and cause to punish me.
That rumor was about me – the girl who called another girl
pretending to be a boy. It explained why the principal chose the
word “malicious” to describe the rumor. It also explained why
the good girlfriend felt it necessary to spread such a rumor and
to use me as the source. Using the passion of prejudice, I was
supposedly “told on” to the principal and the principal acting
on her fears and prejudices called me in, not Brenda or the boy,
to discuss why I would do something so “malicious” and
threatened suspension. The principal, a Black educated adult
female, assumed the unspoken rumor to be true and therefore
assumed I was guilty of spreading a “malicious” rumor,
apparently out of jealousy. It was and is truly amazing how
intellect wanes when prejudice slips through the door. The kids
apparently knew the adult would react in this way.
When the principal finally recovered and realized how she had
been manipulated by a kid, she did her job and investigated the
rumor. The young man, realizing there was a meeting involving
the rumor, told everything and I believe they were both
suspended. No one apologized to me, however, for the false
accusations and assumptions. At the end of the day, I was
emotionally drained and slowly sank into a deep depression.
I realized not only did I bear the yoke of racism in a very
racist city; I also bore upon my shoulders the weight of
prejudice for being different. I learned people, in their
feelings of righteousness, can and will relegate you to a
sub-human status thereby justifying their treatment of you. And,
more importantly, I realized Brenda’s actions were nothing more
than an attempt to prove she was heterosexual. The weight was
too heavy to bear. I understand too well the experiences of
Ellen Degeneres and Melissa Etheridge.
As I stumbled through my depression placing one foot in front of
the other, I used as the balm for my wounds the words of Nikki
Giovanni, Maya Angelou, and Oscar Brown, Jr. Their words filled
my veins, they clothed me, they adorned my body and restored my
soul. I remember waiting for Saturday evenings just to see Tony
Brown’s Soul to get a glimpse of any of these individuals
to see them, to hear them, to be healed. I eventually emerged
from my depression at 17, while in my junior year of high
school. However, from my earlier lessons, I learned to be quiet,
guarded and I became a loner.
When I graduated high school, I enrolled at Columbia College on
Chicago’s near north side. I was a Photojournalism major and
thought, after graduation, I would either do documentary films
and photo essays or I would go to Paris and become a runway
fashion photographer. The population at Columbia, when I
started, was majority White and liberal. Students had to commute
to the campus because there were no on-campus dorms.
What I did not expect in college, however, was an open
acceptance of homosexuality. I had become adept at hiding my
feelings, steering my eyes in opposite directions, guarding my
speech to not betray my thoughts, but here it was encouraged to
say what you felt, express yourself openly and no one judged
you. Here is where I learned the term Lesbian.
The term Lesbian, when spoken silently to myself, felt like it
belonged to me. The word spoke to my soul and as hard as I tried
to shake it, I could not. I started using the term in my
community with friends and acquaintances. In these conversations
I would never attribute the word to myself; I only spoke it in
generalized terms to see what emotions the word evoked. To the
sistahs in the hood, thems were fighting words. The emotions
were hostile, visceral, and their reactions were like watching
Linda Blair in the Exorcist. No way did they want “one of
them” to come near them. Such a woman, her very presence, would
move them to physical violence. Nikki’s words resonated in my
ears “my rebirth was not impeded by the master, but by the
slave.”
Because of my exposure to lesbianism and feminism, at 20 I
became angry and very rebellious. I got tired of not being
myself. I wanted to explore my newfound identity. I tried very
desperate and awkward attempts at freeing myself. I could not
write for fear of betraying myself in word, so I stopped writing
and I stopped poetry readings. My mother soon grew more and more
impatient with me and I grew more and more impatient with her
rigid thoughts and judgments. She feared my getting pregnant. I
feared getting married and having children and being trapped by
society’s so-called norms. And in the middle of this whirlwind
of rebellion and confusion I got caught. I got pregnant. I had
an abortion and when I tried to reconnect with the man who was
the father of the child; my mother threw the blow that resounded
in my head, my heart and my soul “you make me sick to look at
you.” I was devastated and into yet another valley of depression
I went.
During this time, my mother started threatening to put me out of
the house. The first time I was actually locked out of the
house, I stayed at the run-down, roach-infested Lawson YMCA,
which was all I could afford as a full-time student with a
part-time job. Aside from the roaches, it was the independence I
cherished. Unfortunately, this ousting happened during
midterms and I ended up with poor grades as a result.
The second occurrence happened ironically at the end of a school
year. This is when I decided getting D’s in college was not my
idea of a successful college career. I had already started
cutting back on the amount of units I took a semester and
dropped to part-time status. Now, I had to finish the semester
in yet another roach-infested, run-down hotel, and at the end of
that semester, I gave up school and went to work full-time. I
had taken a hiatus from school the year prior to acquire a skill
just so I could get out of my mother’s house, but I wanted to
try to finish college. Now, I had no choice. I took on a
full-time position and left Columbia forever with regrets for
not going away to school.
Like Saul who needed David’s Lyre to calm him, I could no longer
find calm in the words of Nikki and Maya. I needed a Black
lesbian who could share her voice with me. I first tried
searching them out in women’s bookstores. After wading through
the writings of White lesbians, Rubyfruit Jungle and
The Well of Loneliness, I eventually found Audre Lourde and
took in each word like a starving person finding food. My
thirst, unquenched, I looked for more and found Ann Allen
Shockley and again, I absorbed every word.
I then tried to find organizations or groups dealing
specifically with issues pertaining to Black lesbians and I
found one Black lesbian rap group. I waited anxiously for the
day of their meeting. Naively, I appeared with my permed hair,
high-heeled shoes, makeup, suit and stockings and was promptly
blasted for my appearance. Many of the women there were
separatists and felt I was not politically correct. Here, is
where I first heard the phrase “the personal is political” and
my personal did not display their political views.
As I got up to leave, one of the women left with me, took me
aside and told me there was a group of women who threw parties
for “women like me.” We exchanged phone numbers and she assured
me she would call when they had their next party and she did.
The group, Executive Sweet, which was run by Pat McCombs and
Vera Washington, threw parties at various locations around the
Chicagoland area. This particular party was held at a large
disco on the near north side. It was a Sunday evening and in my
excitement, I arrived early, at the start time, 6:00 p.m. I took
a seat and watched the place fill up. Hundreds of women filed
through the doors that night. There was a private security
patrol that walked women to and from their cars. Security was
posted both at the doors and in the parking lot. I felt safe
there. The women who came out that night were a representation of
all women from the very poor to moderately wealthy, flight
attendants, models, professional, non-professional, they came
from varied backgrounds and every walk of life.
I eventually met the woman I would live with and love for many
years at one of these parties and shortly after our meeting, my
mother locked the doors on me for the last time.
Paula and I were living together for maybe three months when my
mother decided to inquire about our relationship. I was not
going to lie to her and I answered her questions. Coming out to
my mother was the most devastating experience of my life. Our
five-minute conversation cost me my family. My mother said
things to me that night so hurtful, I was numb for many years
after. She actually told me she wished I were dead and said it
was good my father was not alive to see this. These were not the
first hurtful words she had spoken to me, but the phrase
unconditional love became a farce.
Later, my mother left the city without telling me. My brother
invited me to the empty house so I could get my belongings and
“oh, by the way, she wants nothing further to do with you” he
said – another blow and then he left too and also chose not to
speak to me. For years after, I walked in a silent world. Family
no longer had the meaning it once did. Family became just like
everyone else – as long as you were doing what they wanted you
to do, you were accepted. Walk to a different drummer, do
something different, change your views, become an individual;
you are no longer accepted and they will turn their backs on
you. And again, as Nikki would say “the women gathered.” I found
Cheryl Clarke, Barbara Smith, Cherrie Moraga, and Susan Sontag,
for my strength.
My mother and I eventually reconciled when I was 30 and I moved
to California to live with her for a short time. I did make a
failed attempt at trying to be straight but soon realized it was
useless to live for her comfort and become more miserable
myself. So, now, at 40 plus, I have come to the realization that
I have been invisible for some 20 plus years, not only to
others, but to myself as well. I have lived for the comfort of
others and stopped living for me.
This month, I thank and honor those women (and the one man) who
were there for me when I needed them, Nikki Giovanni who told me
prejudice can come from your own people; Maya Angelou who
said "and when I cried out, with my mother's grief, no one but
Jesus heard me . . . Ain't I a woman"; Oscar Brown, Jr., who
said "no place to be somebody, no place to grove and grow"
(thanks for the interview, talking with you made my day, my
year, my life); Cheryl Clarke for Living As a Lesbian; Barbara
Smith who taught me to use my voice and my words to empower;
Eveyln C. White for teaching me abuse can be emotional; Cherrie
Moraga for the Bridge Called My Back; Linda Villarosa for Coming
Out in 1991; Pat McCombs and Vera Washington for Executive
Sweet; and all the other women who promote parties at various
locales, thank you. If it had not been for you, I probably would
have made use of that 22-caliber long nose revolver.