by Fay Jacobs
Despite being purple with rage at myself for being so stupid, a couple of good things did come from this debacle. With my new accounts, my checkbook is balanced for the first time in 3 years. And I got the opportunity to warn you to be more careful than I was. Of course, since a day without laughter is a wasted day, I figure those damn con artists owe me 48 hours, some belly laughs and a night’s sleep.
Caveat Emptor Computer Dumbbell—let the web surfer beware.
December 2003
PUBLISHING R US
Not only am I rewriting draft after draft on my incipient book, but I’m proofing, bribing people to write things on the book’s back cover, figuring out Library of Congress applications, ISBN numbers (a convoluted numbering system for the publishing biz), bar codes, cover photo bleeds, nose bleeds and more.
I ran away to the beach to slow down and I’ve never been so busy in my life. Between my day job promoting downtown, writing for Letters from CAMP Rehoboth, promoting and selling Anyda’s new book, and this memoir business I don’t even have time to whine. Oh? Am I whining? Well that’s two more minutes of sleep that has to go.
But progress is good. Last night I caught myself re-writing columns I re-wrote three days ago. I’m past improving them; now I’m just changing them. I’ve stifled myself. The writing is done. Now it’s all about getting it to the printer. And arranging for interviews of Anyda and Muriel, who, all of a sudden, have captured the imagination of feature writers from the Wilmington News Journal, Delaware Beach Life magazine, and our local newspapers.
I was over at their house the other day, packing books when I heard Anyda ask Muriel if she remembered how a reporter pushed them out of the closet several years before. Muriel frowned and harrumphed, playfully, I hoped.
I recall Anyda showing me the celebratory and flattering feature article, written in the early 1990s, but I hadn’t a clue how it all came about. However it happened, I got the feeling Muriel had been none too pleased about it. After all, hiding was an ingrained skill throughout their long lives.
“We weren’t ashamed of ourselves,” Anyda says, “but other people made you feel that you should be.”
“My goodness, you had to defend yourself if someone accused you,” says Muriel.
Their words made me think of my own coming out journey and how tough it was to stand up against societal norms, how tough I was on myself and ultimately how difficult it was to feel good about myself again. I eventually did, but I came out in 1980. I cannot imagine the struggle for self-esteem for women raised in the early decades of the twentieth century.
Through the years, Anyda and Muriel remained absolutely discreet while living in Rehoboth, but they began to see changes in town. “I remember, in about 1973, we went to the Boathouse in Dewey,” Anyda says. “It was a mom and pop operation and there were men and women there—with juke boxes and a snooker table.”
Snooker. That would be English Billiards. I had a feeling the Boathouse had a plain old pool table, but Anyda loved talking about the snooker players. While the ladies ventured there only once or twice, the Boathouse was a huge success. In addition to the hundreds of gay people vacationing in Rehoboth who came to the Boathouse, the club also attracted gay-friendly straight people, including members of the Washington Redskins, FBI and CIA agents and U.S. Senators.
Boathouse regulars remember turning off Route One parallel to the beach and following the stream of mostly boys, some girls, heading from all directions toward the water. In fact, it was so near the water that many nights customers grabbed push brooms to help sweep out bay water that had seeped onto the brick dance floor. Sadly, the bar burned to the ground on April 15, 1982 amid many rumors. Arson by homophobes? Competitors? Or just plain faulty wiring? It was never determined, but the bar is mourned to this day.
“We thought we were very daring to go to the Boathouse,” Anyda says, “although we did have some friends in town by that time.”
“‘Shushes’, she means,” added Muriel, who says that by the 1990s Rehoboth began to change. “The gay men started coming to town in droves, bringing a lot of money and a lot of renovating!”
In season, visiting gay men rented Anyda and Muriel’s backyard apartments, some of them visiting the porch before going out to dinner and becoming dear friends.
“So exactly how did that article about Anyda in the Journal happen?” I asked Muriel. She stared at me, then at Anyda and shuddered—still for effect, I think, but I had a suspicion she would have been content to stay underground, in the back of the closet forever.
Through a dozen novels, and with Naiad Press in its heyday, Anyda let penname Sarah Aldridge receive the praise and applause. In 1992 the Wilmington News Journal changed the dynamics.
According to Anyda, the newspaper learned of an award Anyda had won for her writing, given at a women’s music festival somewhere in the mid-west. The paper put two and two together and asked Anyda for an interview.
“I realized it meant coming out of the closet—everyone in Delaware reads the Journal. And I had no objections. It behooved me, since I had a certain position as a novelist. I told Muriel what I wanted to do and asked if it was alright with her.”
“I didn’t want to, I would have been very happy to stay quiet. I told Anyda to go ahead. But I didn’t like it,” Muriel said, shaking her head. “Then, on the day after the newspaper article came out, I just slunk into church, very afraid,” Muriel remembered.
No need. The novelist and her partner were greeted with wide open arms and congratulations—from the congregation and all of their friends in town.
“Well I never did feel any different,” Anyda said.
But Muriel did. “Now I had to go places with Anyda and everybody knew. I couldn’t get used to that.”
Over 80 years in the closet can do that to a person.
A short time later Anyda and Muriel made their first trip to a gay and lesbian book fair, in Philadelphia. They were setting up a table for A&M Books as Muriel hovered in the background, making herself scarce. “I wanted no part of this at all.”
At one point, a young woman, looking a little lost, approached Muriel and asked, “Are you one of the Delaware dykes?”
“I almost fainted,” Muriel said.
It turned out that there was a group called Delaware Dykes and members were participating in the day’s events. Knowing that did not make Muriel feel at all better.
“But we’re used to it now,” Anyda said, about feeling comfortable out of the closet and in the spotlight.
“She should speak for herself,” Muriel whispered to Bonnie, with a wink.
Shortly thereafter, a few friends arrived bearing flowers and Brie. It was winter, so no official salon was scheduled, but long-time friend Tom was in town, and he, along with friends of his (friends of friends were always welcome) came to visit. It was a typical cocktail hour. Anyda, Tom and friends discussed the headlines while Muriel flirted a little with a young lesbian in the room—that would be 55 year old Bonnie. That Muriel is a scamp. She loves to kiss the girls who visit and once in a while, although I pretend not to notice, she leans forward in her recliner and pats Bonnie on the behind as she passes by. A scamp, I tell you.
When I left that evening, Muriel was busy writing down the names of all of her new friends, so that they, too, could be put on the holiday card list. It was another successful cocktail hour—and they liked nothing better than that.
I try to picture Bonnie and Fay in their 90s, still holding hands, still living independently and still hosting a party. When you have role models like Anyda and Muriel everything seems possible.
Even getting a fledgling manuscript to the printer.
January 2004
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
THE TRUTH ABOUT TALLULAH
Vagina. There, I’ve said it. I just wanted to get it over with so I could relax. We will, of course, get back to that word presently (don’t worry, boys, it’s going to be okay).
The past few weeks have taug
ht me a thing or two. No, wait! You’re putting this together with that first sentence and imagining that this column is going to include waaay too much information…no need to panic.
The things I learned were about movie stars, local politics, and the power of great theatre.
I’ll start with the movie stars. Former investigative reporter-turned biographer Diana McClelland published a book called The Girls—Sappho goes to Hollywood. In it, her reporter’s quest for historical accuracy brings to light great (and exquisitely documented) lesbian romances of some of our most legendary Hollywood elite. From Garbo to Dietrich to Stanwick to Bankhead, these Hollywood hotties ricocheted through the movie studios and in and out of each other’s Hollywood Hills bedrooms. From actresses to screenwriters, costumers to confidential secretaries, Hollywood buzzed with sapphic romance. It’s a wonder these girls had any time to make movies.
While most everyone except Garbo had one of those convenient lavender marriages, all this lesbian activity was very well known—only the press respected their privacy. If my generation thinks it’s the first to discover “outing” and stepping from the closet, we’ve got another think coming. Sure, we’ve heard the rumors before, but this book documents the party like it was Watergate.
While it’s great to hear what fun our foresisters were having it’s equally disturbing to read of pre-World War II Germany, New York, Paris and Hollywood as openly embracing same sex romance. Exactly what happened to give us the wretched 1950s and 60s…and beyond? Hitler, Fascists, the Hollywood censor machine and America’s post-war retreat to conservative values pummeled us.
This tells me that no matter how far we’ve come in attaining our rights, it could all be swept away in another conservative tide. Like those bright lights long ago in Hollywood and elsewhere, you never know when the dim bulbs are going to take over and try to send us back to the closets. Senator Rick Santorum, call your office.
And that’s where empowerment comes in—not just for those of the Sapphic persuasion, but for women everywhere. And there’s been a very empowering thing going on for many years now, called The Vagina Monologues.
When I first heard of it I was sitting in a New York City cab listening to an ad on a local radio station. It featured two female voices.
“Hello, Box Office, May I help you?”
“Yes, I would like two tickets to the Monologue show.”
“What show?’
“You know, The Vagi, um, er, errrrr, Monologues.”
“Come on honey, you can say it…”
“Okay, I want two tickets to the (deep breath) Va-gi-na Monologues.
“There, I knew you could do it.”
Not only was it a clever ad for one of the biggest hit shows New York has seen in years, but it appealed to the inner prude in all of us who find that word, not to mention the subject, difficult to discuss. As it turned out, Bonnie and I had tickets for The Vagina Monologues the next day. And to tell the truth, I’m not sure if I ordered my tickets over the Internet for convenience or to avoid having to enunciate the show title.
Which, of course, is the very reason there’s an Off-Broadway show called The Vagina Monologues in the first place.
As we neared the theatre, I saw the huge marquee sign shouting THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES in letters almost two feet high. Impressive—and a teeny bit scary.
Inside, the crowd was mostly women, but decidedly racially mixed. My gaydar honed in on lots of lesbians, but there were as many straight women—grandmothers, Soccer Moms, a handful of brave men and quite a few youngsters—male and female. I spoke to a woman in the ladies room who had seen the show already and was now back with her husband and adolescent son. “It’s important, empowering and hilarious!” she told me. A rave!
And she was right. Eve Ensler’s little play (an hour and a half long, with the stories repeated by three actresses sitting on stools on an empty stage) is a knock-out and a sell-out.
The script is a ground-breaking, eye-opening event—very, very funny, but also shocking and poignant. It developed from over 200 interviews where the author asked women of varying ages and backgrounds to tell stories about their intimate experiences. From sex education to sex itself, birthing to violence, the monologues covered it all—including desensitizing the house to formerly verboten language and subjects.
As Gloria Steinem says in the printed play’s forward, “I come from the ‘down there’ generation…where the words, spoken rarely and in a hushed voice…weren’t accurate, much less prideful.”
And so Eve Ensler went about writing a play that encouraged feminine empowerment by saying the unsayable, celebrating positive attitudes, sharing stories of violence and letting audiences laugh and cry together about a subject most had been forever loathe to mention.
Marlene, Greta and Tallulah would have loved it.
February 2004
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
CONTRITION THY NAME IS JACOBS
Okay. Uncle. I apologize. To readers who took umbrage, and in fact, to those who were purple with rage when I wrote my 2001 column criticizing the then-new Showtime drama about gay men, Queer as Folk, I offer a sincere request for forgiveness. I should be flogged.
You know where I’m going.
I’m absolutely, positively head-over-heels addicted to Showtime’s new drama about gay women, The L Word. I can’t take my eyes off it, can’t wait for Sunday, and can’t imagine television allows us such provocative lesbian voyeurism.
And the truth is, in its own way, The L Word flashes the same kind of gratuitous sex and stereotypical mostly white, mostly wealthy gay people, often behaving badly, as QAF does.
But frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Call me a charlatan, call me a hypocrite, but call me when it’s show time. I beg for clemency.
It’s amazing, after a lifetime of watching TV characters reflect other people, to finally watch some of our own. It’s startling and comforting all at the same time.
Now to be sure, things have changed since 2001. And even as I apologize, I have to defend myself a little.
While I still think the initial season of Queer as Folk showed us extraordinarily mean-spirited, sex-obsessed, drug-absorbed characters, it’s since gotten better and braver. At the time it was pretty much alone in offering that much sex and salaciousness on television. I was embarrassed that the only purportedly realistic gay characters on TV were those naughty, naughty boys.
But time and trash marched on. Several seasons of racy hetero Sex in the City and prime time “reality” slut fests have desensitized us to TV sex and bitchiness. Exactly who’s reality do these “reality” shows show? And Survivor makes the QAF guys seem positively charitable toward one another.
As for scantily clad actresses, we can hardly complain given the recent Janet Jackson bra-ha-ha. Thanks for the mammories, hon. On the radio this morning somebody called it a tempest in a C cup. With all the other nudity in entertainment, why, on the eve of a national primary election, and on a day when countless people were being blown up by terrorists, was Janet’s tit front page news? Just asking.
A woman bared a boob at the Superbowl and America acts as if it’s the beginning of the Apocalypse. What is wrong with us?
Of course, the fact that Janet wore a nipple shield, on the remote chance that her costume would fall off, pretty much blows Justin’s claim of “costume malfunction.” Timberlake wins euphemism of the year, though. But I digress.
My point is, that with Queer Eye, Will & Grace, and politicians weighing in on same-sex marriage, being out is positively in America’s face these days. Timing is everything for The L Word.
On the cover of New York magazine, over a gorgeous photo of all the sexy women in the The L Word cast, a banner exclaimed “Not Your Mother’s Lesbians.”
Gee, I didn’t know my mother had lesbians—except for me, of course. But that’s a whole other ballgame.
And speaking of ballgames, the magazine story about Showtime’s new series made a point. The L Word h
ighlights nary a flannel shirt or softball game. Representative of a wide spectrum of gaydom, it’s not. The women are all gym-bunny thin with gorgeous clothes, expensive cars and Trump-like careers. It’s very, very upscale Los Angeles. One of my friends called it Melrose Place for lesbians. In The L Word, Jennifer Beals is to most gay women as Sex and the City’s Sarah Jessica Parker is to the majority of straight gals. Hence, it sure is pretty to watch. And not as shocking as it would have been only a few years ago.
But if we think the three years since the debut of Queer As Folk have made a difference in the way we perceive television or movies, what about 18 years?
I remember attending the 1985 premier of the movie Desert Hearts in Washington, DC. Most AARP-eligible lesbians remember the film as the very first movie featuring a lesbian love story where two women actually rode off into the sunset together—rather than some tragic ending where calamity befell one or both of them. Personal Best premiered in 1882, but predictably Mariel Hemingway went back to boys by the end.
But I remember the Desert Hearts premier like yesterday (probably better than yesterday, alas), seeing hundreds of women converging on the theater and loitering outside. I’d never seen so many lesbians in public before. Seedy bars in bad neighborhoods, yes, but here we were along Pennsylvania Avenue in the nation’s capital. The motorists driving by had never seen such a thing either, leading to, I swear, a number of screeching tires and at least two crunched fenders in the half hour before the theater doors opened.
But it was inside the theater where history happened. The audience watched, transfixed, as prim Helen Shaver and cute Patricia Charboneau, a “hottie” in today’s vernacular, met, intrigued each other and had an affair—including a beautifully filmed love scene.
As the women kissed, you could feel tension in the theater. At a literally climactic moment, somebody got carried away and screamed, “Oh my!” The rest of the crowd burst out laughing.
