by Pat Parker
We agreed to have the shows on Sunday afternoons, a historically slow time for the bar. We also agreed to four 20-minute sets: two poetry, two music. Finding the musicians was easy; finding poets who were willing to stand on a pool table covered with plywood and read to a bar of dykes while strictly adhering to a 20-minute time limit was almost impossible.
The first Sunday was met with curiosity, and the audience was more one of place and circumstance than of desire to view the performances, but word spread. Soon Sunday afternoons became one of the more popular times to attend that bar, and I became convinced of the fusion of women’s music and poetry was a powerful combination that would do more to the raising of women’s consciousness than either poet or musician could hope to accomplish singularly.
In the mid ‘70s, poet Judy Grahn was approached by the women of Olivia Records to record an album. She asked me to record with her, and Where Would I Be Without You was completed in August of 1976. This opened up another door.
The women of Olivia wanted to produce shows featuring their recording artists, and Judy and I were Olivia artists. So negotiations were begun. One major snag was over the performers’ fees. Someone put forth the idea that since musicians had to rehearse they should be paid more than the poets. The poets put forth that they had been rehearsing their entire lives for those poems. The matter was settled, and the combination of poets and musicians took to the auditorium stage.
“Women on Wheels” produced several concerts and the “Varied Voices of Black Women” took to the road during 1977 and 1978. Thousands of women saw and felt the experience. It had been proven successfully that the combination worked. Women who had convinced themselves that they hated poetry were reintroduced to the art form and loved it. Women who loved poetry but were totally unaware of women’s music heard it and loved it.
Even with the evidence before us we still tried to deny the feasibility of the two forms coexisting on stage. Women’s music festivals were flourishing over the country, and there was one very large absence: poetry. The same arguments that were voiced 15 years ago were being repeated.
Thus I was not surprised by the reactions of women in Bloomington this year to a poet in their midst. There has not been enough experience for them to realize and feel comfortable with the idea that poets and poetry belong at women’s festivals.
It is not easy even with consciousness to discard the environmental trappings that accompany most art forms. Most of us still expect to see classical musicians in white blouses and long black skirts—but we are changing and growing.
I was also not surprised by the reactions of women following my performance in Bloomington. One woman in the stage crew ran up and exclaimed, “They’re standing up; they’re giving you a standing ovation.” the surprise in her voice told me that she had never seen a poetry performance; she had never felt the energy reverberate through a room with the Audre Lordes, Adrienne Richs, and Judy Grahns of this world. The glow in her face also told me that she would do so in the future.
Many women approached me in the days following my performance, wanting to know why I hadn’t been at this festival before and when I was coming to that one. The answers to those questions do not lie with me. We still have many myths to bury and many biases to change. Producers feel—and rightfully so—that they have an obligation to provide entertainment that women want and will like, and the last they checked we “didn’t like poetry.”
So, to those who would still doubt the mix of poetry and music, I would remind them of the ingredients needed for Good Seasons salad dressing mix: spices, vinegar, oil and water.
“Poetry at Women’s Music Festivals: Oil and Water” first appeared in Hot Wire in 1986.
Gay Parenting, Or, Look out, Anita
Five years ago, my lover Marty and I decided we wanted to raise a child together. This in itself did not seem so earthshaking, and it wasn’t. It was complicated by the fact that we are both women. It shouldn’t have been, but it was.
The first discussions evolved around the process. How do we get a child? I have long been an advocate of adoption. It seems logical to me that you take a child who needs a parent and a parent who wants a child and make two people happy. However, we had to look at reality. The chances of us getting a healthy infant through the state adoption system, even in the reputably liberal state of California, was not going to be easy. I had once been warned by a lesbian friend in a position of power in the organization to go into the closet if I wanted to become a “Big Sister”. Now my closet door has no key; it’s impossible for me to go lock myself in it. We decided that the logical decision was for one of us to become pregnant and have the child.
At the time, I was thirty-eight years old and worked full-time as director of the Oakland Feminist Women’s Health Center, as well as being a writer and a performer. Many of the staff at the health center had had children recently. So many, in fact, that we set up a child-care center in the building. That way, our staff could still bring their babies to work but not have them crawling all over the place. Having a baby would clearly not interfere with my job at the clinic. However, the image of myself appearing pregnant on stage did not appeal to me. In fact, the image of me appearing pregnant anywhere did not appeal to me, and the prospect of childbirth was downright unattractive.
So, it seemed Marty would be the candidate for birthing. Unfortunately, that also presented a problem. Marty is a journeywoman roofer. No way was she going to be climbing ladders with eighty-pound sacks, pregnant. We calculated when the rainy or off-season for roofers would be, and then calculated when she would need to conceive to deliver during that time. Of course, lingering in the back of both of our minds was the realization that with conception, no one has any guarantees.
The next consideration was race. I am Black; Marty is white. I was already coparenting an all-white child with an ex-lover, and I definitely wanted this child to be at least half-Black. At the same time, I had to consider the possibility that if I died, the raising of the child would be left to Marty. In recent years, I have seen several white women raising half-Black children white. I definitely wanted no part of that phenomenon. Would Marty be able to raise our child and give her a sense not only of culture, but also of identity, without me? Marty is a feminist. She knows and understands oppression, and dealing with racism is a constant part of her political process. She could, and more importantly would, raise our child with political consciousness.
The next question was, “Who’s going to be the biological father?” This presented problems. We definitely wanted to raise this child. We did not want to find ourselves in court a year or two later fighting the biological father because he decided he wanted to be a parent. And we were both too feminist to simply have Marty go out and pick up some stranger.
Fortunately, the health center had started the Northern California Sperm Bank, which has a donor insemination program as one of its components. Marty and I would be able to go to the sperm bank as a couple, screen the donor catalog, and pick a donor. I could be present at the insemination or do it myself. This solved the legal problem of having the birth father turn up later in our lives and eliminated the concern about the health of the biological father. The sperm bank extensively screens their donors. A donor being accepted would mean we would not only have a complete past medical history, but current screening for AIDS, gonorrhea, and a host of other illnesses and diseases. Plus we would be able to pick a donor as near as possible to my physical characteristics. The combination of feminism with modern technology is awesome.
All that was needed now was to register with the sperm bank, go through the orientation program, and wait for the right time to begin insemination. While Marty was willing to be the birth mother, she had no overwhelming desire to experience the “miracle of childbirth.” It simply seemed the best way to accomplish our goal. But the goddess was watching out for us.
In January 1983, I received a call from a woman who runs a private adoption agency. She had a sixteen-year old B
lack woman who was almost seven months pregnant, and she had no Black couples on the waiting list. She wanted to know if our health center knew of any couples. I knew for sure of me. I told the woman I would call her back.
Marty then gets an excited me saying “There’s this sixteen-year old, pregnant, Black, wants to give the child up but needs to live with the adoptive parents until she delivers because no one knows she’s pregnant except her mother and what do you think? Yeah, right.”
Marty thought. “Yeah.”
I called back the adoption agency and told the counselor to see if the young woman was interested in single parent adoption. At that time, two people of the same sex couldn’t adopt a child in California. The report came back, “Fine,” and arrangements were made for Marty and me to meet with the birth mother (who I’ll call Mary) and her mother (who I’ll call Jane) to decide if she would be comfortable living with us and if we would be comfortable having her live with us.
Now, if you want to put your house in order, adopt a child. Walls were painted, floors were stripped, stained, and verithaned, and new curtains bought. All the things you say you are going to do someday get done.
Mary and Jane came to our house. My stereotypical fears about the “fast” teenager were quickly dismissed. Mary was a sweet kid. She was a quiet, bright girl, who unfortunately succumbed to peer pressure and got caught. When the adoption counselor had told me about them, I admit I was skeptical about Mom. How do you have a six-month pregnant daughter and not notice? Jane worked at night and was unaware of Mary’s condition until it was too late to have an abortion. This was aided by the fact that at six months pregnant, Mary weighed 105 pounds. I took her to buy maternity clothes, and they practically laughed us out of the store. The smallest size they had hung on her. She went through her entire pregnancy in her regular jeans with the top two buttons undone. Jane was very supportive of her daughter. She allowed her to make the decision whether or not to raise her baby.
Living with Mary was an incredible experience. Marty and I were elated over the fact that we were soon going to have our baby, and yet at the same time we had to be sensitive to Mary’s feelings. So things were kept low keyed for the most part. At the same time, we were living with a teen-ager. I discovered a whole new set of television shows, learned that I liked rap music, and finally put my foot down on going to horror movies. Anastasia (our daughter) is almost four-years old, and Marty still talks about those movies.
Most of our conversations were about Mary’s future, her present studies (we had a tutor come in to prevent her from falling behind), how she was going to handle her peer group when she returned to school, and what her plans were for college.
At the same time, we needed to be realistic. In a short amount of time, Mary was going to have a baby. I took her to the obstetrician, had one of the birthing counselors from the health center come over and instruct her in prenatal exercises, labor, and delivery. I also managed to convince her that even though hamburgers, French fries, and Coke tasted good, there were other foods. By the time Mary left our house, she was converted to lobster, crab, and pinochle.
Finally, the time came. After one episode of Braxton-Hicks contractions (false labor), Mary was ready to deliver our baby. The physician (one of our health center doctors) had prearranged everything with the hospital; so off went Mary, Jane, Marty and I for the delivery. The nurses weren’t quite sure how to handle the situation, but they did well.
No matter how much preparation, education, and counseling, sixteen-year old children are not ready for childbirth. Having babies hurts, and watching Jane watch her baby have a baby, was not easy. Marty coached Jane, and I coached Mary, and Anastasia (Stasia for short) was born. Following the delivery, we moved Mary off the maternity ward to a private room, and for the next three days post delivery, I went to the hospital and fed Anastasia at 2:00, 6:00, and 10:00 am and pm. I was tired and bleary-eyed, but very happy.
In three days, Mary went home to Jane, and Anastasia came home to us. Jane brought us flowers and wished us well with our new baby. We were parents.
Even in private adoptions, you must be approved by the State. We had a caseworker come to our home three times (usually it’s two visits) and she visited Jane four times (usually it’s one home visit and one office visit). This woman wanted to make sure that Jane knew she was giving up her child to a couple of lesbians, even if only my name appeared on the papers. She knew. After nine months of visits, the final papers were signed and the adoption was final.
In raising our child, we have had to do some serious consciousness-raising among family and friends. Anastasia was our child, neither mine alone nor Marty’s alone. She has two mothers. One of Marty’s sisters-in-law asked us, “What will she call you?” She seemed greatly relieved to know that neither of us would be called Daddy.
The family structure we utilized is not new. Extended families have always existed in Black culture. We simply modified it slightly. Marty’s folks are her grandparents. My parents are dead. My ex-lover’s parents (remember I’m coparenting another child) are also her grandparents. My other daughter is her sister. All brothers and sisters (Marty’s and mine) are uncles and aunts and their siblings are cousins. In addition, she has one godmother (white) and two godfathers (Black).
This was not difficult to accomplish. We simply made it clear that anyone wishing to participate in this child’s life had to accept the premise that she has two mothers. In her first three years, Anastasia has been to southern California to see my family several times, met her great-aunt from Texas, made two trips to Ohio (Marty’s parents), one being a family reunion, and is watched regularly by her aunt in Berkeley (Marty’s sister) and her aunt in Oakland (my ex-lover). Our biggest problem is making sure that we visit everyone fairly equally, given distance and cost considerations.
It’s amazing. Relatives may not understand or be comfortable with lesbians, but they do understand baby. A little over two years ago, we decided to buy a home in the suburbs. Stasia’s grandfather’s (Marty’s father) concern was that there might be some racist or homophobe in the neighborhood who would try to cause harm to his grandchild. So to appease her father, Marty went around to all the houses on our block and informed the occupants that we were thinking about buying a house in their neighborhood, and if they had any problems with to say so, please, before we bought the house. None of the neighbors seemed upset about our family structure, but a few did look at Marty strangely for a while.
Raising Stasia has not been uncomplicated, but I know for sure it has been easier than what my friends had to go through twenty years ago. We have the benefit of the civil rights movement, the gay liberation movement, and the feminist movement. We also have the advantage of both being women who spent a lot of time around children. There was no need for lessons to change diapers or prepare bottles. Anastasia’s diaper was changed by whoever discovered it needed to be changed. Her late-night feeding was done by whoever was less tired. Since our work was equally important to both of us, it naturally evolved that if I needed to bring work home or was writing, Marty took care of Stasia and I, in turn, do the same. She’s taken to the doctor for her check-ups by whoever can most easily get free.
Marty and I come from two different races, classes, and cultures, and we knew that at some point in time, we would disagree about how the other was dealing with Stasia. So we agreed before she was born to never criticize each other about how we were handling a situation with Anastasia in front of her. This was one of the lessons I learned from my ex-lover. It saves us. In addition to minimizing Anastasia’s opportunity to play one of us against the other, it also means we constantly talk about rearing our child. She knows my ideas around childrearing. I know her ideas around childrearing.
Thousands of lesbians have reared children before us, and thousands will after us, but one major difference in Anastasia’s life is that she is not being raised “heterosexual.”
I’ve seen lesbians with their children who try to “out-straight�
�� the straight folks. I know one woman whose daughter’s entire wardrobe is pink. I’ve seen women allow their male children to go shirtless in hot weather, but not their daughters, with no discussion of male privilege. The girls get dolls; the boys get trucks. In our house, Anastasia gets almost everything. No war toys, guns, racist, or sexist books allowed.
Most importantly, she gets positive images. She knows women can work on roofs and at computers. Women can cook and clean houses, cut yards and build fences. Women play chess and Scrabble; they also fish and play softball.
The learning doesn’t just occur at home. We had to educate her teachers as well. She attends a Montessori school. We put her there because of their progressive reputation. They got it that she would get picked up by both of us; that the permission slip was signed by whoever remembered to do it; that potluck-food was prepared by whoever had time. I still had to go to the school after her first Mother’s Day there and make it clear that she came home with two Mother’s Day gifts or none at all. They’ve learned that one, and I must give them credit. At least they had the good sense not to send her home with a Father’s Day present.
Anastasia knows she has two mothers, and because of the changing familial structure in this country, she’s not at all unusual. She has friends with one parent, two parents, three parents, and four parents. She doesn’t have to fear that her playmates will ostracize her because her parents are lesbians. Many of her friend’s parents are lesbians and gay men, and those who are not, know who she is and who we are. The only closets in our house hold clothes.
Anastasia will soon be four years old. She knows the difference between boys’ bodies and girls’ bodies. She knows that Marty is one race and I am another. She has no idea what sexual preference is, but she knows her godfather Joe loves Julie, and her godfather Charles loves Pablo. She also knows that her mama Pat loves her mama Marty and they both love her. Her friends and loved ones are all races and classes.
