Commentary

This Life I Live

I fear this column has become a cathartic expression of my experiences with death, loss of love, and a reflection on an awakening of self as Christine’s roots slowly recede.  Funny thing, this reflection on self has moved me to look hard at my reflection in the mirror and ask the question “where have you been all these years?”  Another article of interest for me was the tape recorded dream I have since listened to again and again which foretold what I would experience years later.  This dream confirmed for me what I have now come to realize, I changed who I was to be acceptable to someone I both loved and admired and, in the dream, I left Christine and her friends, as she packed her things, came into my own and returned to the person I used to be.  I now understand why I had to come to California back in 1990, the year Christine was diagnosed with breast cancer.  I was to meet the teacher and mentor who would provide me with understanding on living my life out and proud as a lesbian.  I truly feel blessed and I am grateful.

Christine and I came from different backgrounds.  I was introduced to the lesbian lifestyle through a very different group of women whom I will refer to as the Secret Society of Lesbians (the “SSL”).  I was introduced to the group through a woman I knew from school.  Her “gaydar” was obviously working better than mine – I’ll call her “J.”  She invited me to a “private party being held at a friend’s house” and she asked me to pick her up “so we could go together.”  How convenient.

I did, and when we arrived, I saw women, lots of women, no men.  A bit nervous to say the least I wondered, silently of course, how she knew about me.  Up to that point, I had been living my life vicariously through the lives of Audre Lourde, Cheryl Clarke, Barbara Smith and a few gay and lesbian papers and magazines, anything I could get my hands on.  The only lesbians I knew were the White and easily identifiable women at school who were a curious lot but I had no real interest in knowing them.  I found them too boyish and I wanted no part of that. 

After a few drinks and a bit of socializing, I cornered “J” and asked her how she knew.  Her explanation was we had become so close and had started running around so much, she felt she would push it a little by introducing me to her friends – so I would know.  Her belief was if I became uncomfortable, since I drove, I could leave, and she would get a ride home.  How quaint. 

Through “J” and other women I met in this group, I developed great friends and relations.  We were like girlfriends, we shopped together, hung out at the makeup and perfume counters together, went to the movies together, we even went to straight discos and clubs together, and yes, we even slept together.  No drama, no hang-ups, just girls having fun. 

At that time I was maybe 20 years old when I was introduced to the SSL.  I did not understand fully the consequences or judgments others could have if they knew what was going on.  I only knew this was right for me.  So of course, I could not and did not fully appreciate the luxury this life afforded me.  How easy it was for a woman to visit another woman’s apartment and maybe spend the night particularly when the perception was “we don’t look like lesbians.”  Who would suspect; we painted our nails, dressed well, who would suspect us of being lesbians?  What a luxury. 

If there were any suspicions, our gay (or down-low) brothers came to our aid (as we did for them) and would pose as boyfriends.  Albeit, I had my own boyfriend at the time, in fact, I was engaged to marry this wonderful young man.  It was this relationship with my fiancé that wore heavily on my conscience.  As a Black man, I could not bear the truth of my life coming back round to hit this man in the face.  He could not compete with this truth and I could not continue to do this to a brother.  What was paramount in my mind was at all costs; do not disrespect a brother particularly a brother you’re involved with.  So, I eventually confessed because I felt it better he hear this from me instead of finding out somewhere else.  I subsequently broke off our engagement; I just could not bear lying to him anymore.

I then took a long and hard look at the women I had been socializing with.  Some were married, or in committed relationships with men, were engaged to men, or had some form of intimate relations with men.  Others were only interested in women, were living with women in two-bedroom apartments or homes pretending to be roommates, or cousins, or chose not to declare a thing.  These lies became very uncomfortable for me. 

I went to “J” and told her of my concerns and she in turn solicited the wisdom of two other women, I will call one “S”, who then sat me down to instruct me on the consequences on “doing the right thing” as I called it.  Her wisdom was I would have to change otherwise: I would not be totally accepted by those lesbians who were out; I would be treated with suspicion; many women will think me to be someone passing through on my way to the arms of a man; and others will denounce me out-of-hand.  Oh, the litany of negativity did not cease, but I was determined to prove them wrong.

Some weeks later, I read about a Black Lesbians Rap Group and set out after work one day to attend.  There I was, not a strand of hair out of place, a beautiful wool suit, nylons, heels, jewelry, matching belt, blouse and handkerchief, I walked into a room of women wearing heavy boots, jeans, shirts, natural hairstyles – ooooh I was so out of place.  After the conversation I walked into made its way around the room, the focus went to me and, as my grandmother would say; my soul was laid to rest.  My personal was not political enough for these women.  My attire, my permed hair, my painted nails, my high-heeled shoes, all of me was not acceptable.  I was “conforming to a man’s view of what a woman should look like.”  I was devastated by this and I was also summarily dismissed.

As I rose to leave, another woman walked out with me.  This woman followed me out and told me she knew a party where “women like me went” and she promised to call when she heard about their next party.  She also apologized for the conduct of the women in the room.  We exchanged numbers and vowed to speak again. 

When Executive Sweets had their next party, MJ phoned, as promised, and we agreed to meet there.  I also called “J” inviting her to the party as well and she vehemently refused – a cold “not my kind of party” refusal.  Oh, she was quite pleased at what happened with me at the rap group and offered her “I told you so” but she was not venturing out to “this – no, no thank you.”  So, MJ and I had a great time. 

When the next party came up, “J” actually joined me and did not like it one bit.  In less than one hour’s time she wanted to leave.  When we got in the car she started in with “you don’t get it do you?”  I honestly did not get "it."  In an angered huff, we began a journey from one lesbian bar to another.  We hit the big bistros and the small neighborhood bars just so I could “get it.”  After a whirlwind two or three weeks of bar hopping, we finally sat down to discuss the strange lesson she was trying to teach me.  What was the lesson?  A common theme surfaced – the bars catered primarily to a White clientele; the women wore what we termed “diesel dyke” attire; when we entered a club or bar, we often were not approached and when we were they were mostly “butch” women. 

We talked about butch/femme relationships, how she didn’t feel she “fit” in that community.  She told me if she wanted a man she knew where to find them. She reiterated the conversation I had with her and “S” some weeks prior about changing to fit in, being treated with suspicion as women would see me walk into a room and feel I was there to fulfill some perverse fantasy with or without a man.  All of this was so new to me and I, admittedly, was so totally oblivious to what went on around us I never noticed what she saw but, I was still determined to make a go of this and equally determined was I to continue on my journey in spite of her observations.  Ahhh, the passions of youth.

I never saw “J” again and our conversations were few and far between.  I continued on my journey and eventually met the woman I would share seven years of my life.  Even in this new relationship, we did not participate in strictly gay/lesbian activities.  We had our own circle of friends – some gay, some straight – and we did not venture far from our circle of friends.  We were two women living in a two-bedroom house and yes, we were roommates.

It wasn’t until I came to California, where I met Christine Tripp, when I came to understand the gay/lesbian community.  I was invited to Unity by a coworker and when I entered the church I realized how overdressed I was in comparison to others in the church.  I dismissed this as Southern California casual.  Admittedly, having lived this life for so many years, I came to terms with the fact I would be treated with suspicion.  I found many women really had no point of reference for someone like me.  I would approach them and engage in small talk and we would move on.  Christine was the first person I met who was active in the community and had been most of her life.  She welcomed me and we had long talks about our different backgrounds.  She was very interested in the SSL and I was very interested in her coming out process and her involvement in the community and life of activism. 

Together, we got glimpses of the gay/lesbian community through each other’s eyes – that which is seen and that which is unseen.  I filled in her blanks and she filled in mine.  I would be less than honest to say our relationship was a panacea, it was not.  Christine and I were sometimes the W.E.B. and the Booker T. of I disagree.  Our experiences and realities were so different and yes, I did change – I came into her world, she did not come into mine. 

Recently, while scanning photos of Christine, I thought I would pull some of my old photos to scan.  I was shocked at my transformation.  Christine was known as a femme and I guess, unknowingly, I tried to fit the role of butch.  As I looked through the pictures, I heard “J” and “S” speak loudly – “you’ll have to decide butch or femme and don’t be too femme.”  Yes, I changed and they were right.  I remember going to a club in Los Angeles with a friend of mine from Chicago and yeah, we were never approached by anyone to dance.  I remember being at a party, in Christine’s house, when someone made a comment that everyone in the house was gay and one woman pointed and looked at me and said “she’s not.”  Christine found that quite amusing and said it was because I looked "straight."  She often commented on how she and I could go to a restaurant and the person serving us would say “how can I help you ladies” 

Unfortunately, there exists a chasm between two communities of Black lesbians.  Fortunately, Christine and I were able to build a bridge of understanding across the divide – even if it was just the two of us.  We knocked heads sometimes as we agreed to disagree, but we tried to understand and at least between the two of us, we came to understand one another.  I shall take nothing for my journey and if I had it to do over again, I would do nothing different. 

I am thankful to “S” and “J” for trying to protect me from what they themselves experienced and, as a result, chose to live secret lives.  I thank “MJ” for making me feel good the night I was insulted and for sharing.  But, more importantly, I thank Christine for her patience and show of unconditional love.  She put up with a lot from me, particularly my incessant questions pertaining to things she took for granted – her way of life was so different from my experiences as a lesbian.  Thankfully, with her guidance, I came to understand butches and became less judgmental.  She helped me to understand both my masculine and feminine sides and I learned I could not reject one and expect to remain a whole person. 

Finally, I am thankful Christine, in her interest in maintaining a relationship with me, walked from the front of the church where she had been standing, all the way to the back of the church where I was sitting, took a seat and leaned towards me to ask what I was doing after church.  She did not have to do this.  She could have done as others did; have a brief conversation with me and walk away.  She did not.  That one sentence was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.  Finally, I felt someone in the lesbian community did not see me as something unapproachable – for whatever their reasons – she treated me as someone worth knowing.  No one else made me feel as welcomed as Christine did – and for that, I am grateful. 

I will end with yet another communication from Christine – my, she seems to talk more now than she did in life.  As I started writing this piece a few weeks ago, I laid across the couch and took a nap and immediately went into a dream chock full of symbolism.  (It was so full of symbolism I am still charting this dream.)  Christine and I shared a love of nature.  She often came to visit me “the villa in Altadena” because I am surrounded by nature.  We loved our trees and neither one of us ever entertained the thought of cutting them down.  She particularly loved my back yard and tried to get every flower or plant I had or have back there.  She loved my family of hummingbirds, Mr. Squirrel and his family, and she and Diva Dawg often stood in my front door to watch the crows in the front yard.  (Crows have a significant meaning in Indian traditions.  The day before Christine made her journey; one solitary crow was perched in a limb over my driveway and cawed – the song of death.) 

In this dream, Christine showed me a brick house surrounded by trees with lush green grass all around – not something one would find in California.  Christine was not in the car with me as I drove through this neighborhood, but her voice was clear and distinct when she said “this is where you should live.”  As I returned home, I went to let my dogs in and Diva Dawg had a look of bliss on her face, she so loved the “other mommie” and I knew, in the dream, Christine was near.  As I looked out over the yard, strewn everywhere was my favorite flowers.  Christine neither knew my favorite flowers nor my favorite colors, but in the dream there were large gladiolus everywhere and in my favorite colors, blue and yellow.  I do have one hibiscus plant, which I worked desperately hard to save after the roofers practically destroyed it, there were red hibiscus flowers (aka Rose of Sharons) strewn throughout the yard as well along with yellow and blue bows.  I now know she both knows and understands me now and again, for that I am grateful.  Thank you darling.