by Lori L. Lake
***
ABOUT RADCLYFFE
Radclyffe has published over thirty-five romance and romantic intrigue novels as well as dozens of short stories, has edited numerous romance and erotica anthologies, and, writing as L.L. Raand, has authored a paranormal romance series, The Midnight Hunters. She is a seven-time Lambda Literary Award finalist in romance, mystery, and erotica—winning in both romance (Distant Shores, Silent Thunder) and erotica (Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments edited with Stacia Seaman, and In Deep Waters 2: Cruising the Strip written with Karin Kallmaker) and a 2010 Prism award winner for Secrets in the Stone. She is a member of the Saints and Sinners Literary Hall of Fame, an Alice B. Readers’ award winner, a Benjamin Franklin Award finalist (The Lonely Hearts Club), and a ForeWord Review Book of the Year Finalist (Night Call 2009; Justice for All, Secrets in the Stone, and Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets 2010). Two of her titles (Returning Tides and Secrets in the Stone) are 2010 Heart Of Excellence Readers’ Choice finalists.
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell or...The Day
My Mother Broke the Silence
Memoir/Essay by Radclyffe
THE HISTORY BOOKS are likely to give President William Jefferson Clinton the dubious credit of coining the phrase “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” The kinder chroniclers will say he was forced into accepting this compromise regarding gays and lesbians in the military by forces within Congress and the Pentagon too powerful to fight during the early days of his presidency. The unkind ones will simply say he was a coward and reneged on his campaign promises, as so many politicians do after the election is over.
While I tend to agree with those who take a harsher line on Clinton’s performance, I have to say I’m not certain he deserves the credit for the philosophy behind the policy. I’m pretty sure that mothers and daughters have been practicing the same approach to secrets and silences for millennia. Perhaps the same unspoken and uneasy truce exists between fathers and sons as well, but I can only speak from experience. It’s entirely possible that this is a genetically programmed parent-child behavioral interaction designed to preserve the place of outliers in the social structure. “Outlier” is a more palatable way of naming ourselves when the alternative designation is “outcast.”
I would tend to cast my vote in this instance with the nature rather than the nurture supporters, because I’m quite certain I was practicing the policy almost before the age of reason. I clearly remember my first crush on a woman. I was five years old, and she was a space commander on an after-school children’s show. She wore a uniform with some sort of generic Star Trek-type symbol over her rather ample breasts. I can’t to this day decide what it was that captured my heart: the uniform or the fact that she was a woman in command. Whatever it was, I can remember the urgency with which I awaited the magic hour each afternoon, seated on the floor in front of the television well before it was time for the program to begin. I was enchanted for those sixty minutes every day, saddened each time the program ended, and consumed with thoughts of her until our next meeting.
I also understood it wasn’t something I should talk about. I knew that as instinctively as I understood that I shouldn’t put my hand in the fire or that there were things one did not tell one’s mother. I didn’t at that time have a concept of my feelings being wrong, but I definitely understood different. And along with that knowledge came the instinctive concept of “Don’t tell.”
Somewhere between five and twelve, without any specific instruction, I embraced the self-protective covenant of silence wholeheartedly. I can’t give my mother any credit or blame for this, because she was still laboring under the understandable assumption that I would eventually turn out the way most girls do. Or at least, nine out of ten. I don’t believe the truth became apparent to her for a few more years, and then the collusion began.
Beginning in seventh grade and on into high school, I had girlfriends. Well, two specific girlfriends to be precise. All girls that age have girlfriends, I’m told, but I’m fairly certain most don’t have girlfriends the way I did. At the age of twelve, I somehow became best friends with the prettiest girl in the school, the one most likely to be named a future prom queen. She was somewhat delicate and definitely a femme. I was definitely not delicate, and to call me a tomboy would’ve been an understatement. Nevertheless, we spent hours on the phone every evening, ostensibly doing our homework, but actually finding anything and everything to talk about just so we wouldn’t have to say good night. I would have done anything for her. I longed to be the knight to her fairy princess. I didn’t quite have the words for that, but I was very aware of the feelings, and I didn’t need to be told I was definitely over the line of “different” at that point.
By the time I truly fell in love at the age of fifteen with the second girl to claim my heart, I knew without a doubt that if asked, I should not tell. I still don’t know precisely how I came to understand that silence was the better part of valor, or maybe just survival, but I did not voice the consuming passion I harbored for her. I grew up in a very small town in the pre-Stonewall era, before the word “gay” was used to refer to homosexuals, and was raised by unsophisticated but instinctively intelligent parents. I have absolutely no doubt my mother “knew” at just about the same time I did that I wasn’t headed for the straight and narrow path.
I can’t even imagine how my life would have evolved had she asked me then and if I had had the courage to answer. But she didn’t, and I hadn’t. And it was years before either of us did.
It’s terrible to live with a secret, especially when what you’re hiding is the heart of your existence and should be the foundation upon which you build your life. When I was eighteen, I was foolish enough to think that just because I didn’t speak of something, no one would know. Apparently, people still believe that or would have you believe that they do. Hence, the ridiculous nationally endorsed policy of “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
I stopped believing in that pretense the first time I brought a lover home.
I went away to college, not very far, but far enough to save my life. I planned to start anew and create for myself a true and honest life. I had no idea what that would be, of course, because I had yet to see beyond my own self-constructed wall of silence. I had never heard the word “lesbian.” I did know there were women who loved women, and I knew what they were called. I had never heard one of those words used in a positive way. I also knew, although I had yet to say the words to myself or acknowledge the truth, that I was one of them.
But I was lucky. I fell in love, and this time, I did tell.
I have to smile now when I realize that the telling of it here will sound like—well, a romance novel. I literally saw her for the first time across a crowded room, and, yes, it was love at first sight. I was a freshman and she was a sophomore, and it was the first dorm meeting of the year. I had no idea what her name was and couldn’t remember ever having seen her before, but the moment I did, I couldn’t see anyone else. She was like no woman I’d ever seen. She had long, long dark hair and incredible blue eyes, and she was wearing blue jeans and her father’s maroon shirt. I think it was her father’s shirt that made me realize she was different from any of the girls I’d ever known—that, and the fact that she didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought of her. It was that mixture of independence and self-confidence, and a healthy dose of femme butchness, that captivated me. She was beautiful, and she was strong, and she was everything I had ever dreamed of.
Then and there, I determined I would know her. Must know her. I set about making myself indispensable, which initially translated into making myself a pest. I walked her to class; I hung out in the student center waiting for her between classes; I ate every meal I possibly could in the dorm cafeteria with her. I thought about her, dreamed about her, every second of every day. It took a few months, but eventually, she realized I wasn’t going away. And not only that, she began to return my unspoken affection. Halfway through the second semester, we were alone in her room,
and she was upset about something. I remember moving to the arm of her chair and her leaning into me. The next thing I remember was kissing her. And close upon that came terror.
I loved her, you see—adored her with the passionate innocence of first love. I would have thrown down my cape for her to walk across a muddy street, if I’d had a cape and the streets weren’t paved. I would have given my life for her happiness. I would certainly have died before making her unhappy, and I feared I might have with that kiss. So, I did the only reasonable thing. I ran like hell.
Fortunately for me, she was braver and also more practical than I. It took her until morning to discover my hiding place, whereupon she unceremoniously instructed me to get my coat because we were going for a walk. Once outside in the chill March morning, nearly alone on the deserted campus, she said the words that would set me free and forever define my life. Instinctively, she knew exactly what I needed to hear, and I will be eternally grateful to her for that and so many things.
She looked at me as I stumbled along by her side, wondering when she was going to say something to bring my world crashing down. What she said instead was really very simple. “I don’t know what happened last night. But I know that nothing that happens between us can be wrong.”
Those simple words from that particular woman were all I needed to hear to understand that I was fundamentally okay. That the things I felt and desired and longed for were right and good. It didn’t take us very long to return to the dorm and take the next step. Thankfully, some things come naturally and don’t require much discussion.
Of course, being young and in love, I wanted everyone to know about it. Since that wasn’t possible, I at least wanted to bring her home to meet my parents. Foolishly, I thought that when I did, we would be able to keep the true nature of our relationship a secret. I hadn’t counted on the fact that anyone looking at us would be able to tell. Certainly, my mother could.
It was close to the end of the semester, and we knew we would be separated for the summer. The mere thought of being apart from her consumed me with despair. I remember very clearly sitting at the picnic table in my parents’ backyard on a sunny May morning. Her hair was shining in the sunlight, a deep rich brown that fanned across her back, nearly halfway to her hips. She’d just washed it, and I was helping her untangle the long tresses, running them through my fingers as we talked.
My mother stood in the kitchen door, watching us. I know now that everything we felt for one another must have been clearly apparent, but it took me by surprise when I walked into the house and the first words my mother said were, “What’s going on between you and...”
Turning point. I cannot to this day fathom what prompted her to confront me. We’d never had the kind of relationship where we discussed difficult issues. But the question was out, and I had seconds to make a decision. I will forever wonder what would have happened had I answered differently. My answer to that question would define the nature and boundaries of our relationship for decades.
The “right” answer to this question and the right time to ask or answer it is almost certainly different for every mother and daughter. It’s a decision we each must make, mother or daughter, based upon what we are willing to risk and what we might ultimately gain. It is easy to say that honesty is always best, but we all know honesty can be accompanied by loss. I wish that were not the case. I wish we never had to consider in our own lives and in our relationships with those we love, the policy of “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
It’s a policy that’s been around for a long time, but as each mother, motivated by love and compassion, dares to ask, and each daughter, raised to trust, answers without fear, we can make it obsolete in all aspects of our lives. I know that when I said to my mother, “You know that I’m a lesbian, don’t you, Mom?” and she answered, “Yes, honey, I do,” we embarked on the best years of our lives together. Looking back, I regret that it took me twenty years between the first asking and the telling, but ultimately, I’m grateful she asked, and that I told.
***
ABOUT J.M. REDMANN
J.M. “Jean” Redmann is the author of a mystery series featuring New Orleans private detective Michele ‘Micky’ Knight. Her most recent novel, Water Mark won an Over the Rainbow award from the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgendered Roundtable of the American Library Association and is short listed for a Lambda Literary Award and a Foreword award. Two of her books, The Intersection of Law and Desire and Death of a Dying Man have won Lambda Literary Awards; all but her first book have been nominated. Law & Desire was an Editor’s Choice of the San Francisco Chronicle and a recommended holiday book by Maureen Corrigan of NPR’s Fresh Air. Law & Desire and her fourth book, Lost Daughters, were originally published by W.W. Norton.
Jean was a 2010 recipient of the Alice B. Readers Appreciation Award, gave the keynote address at the Golden Crown Literary Society Conference in 2009, and in 2006 was inducted as a Literary Saint into the Saints and Sinners Hall of Fame. Her books have been translated into Spanish, German, Dutch, Norwegian, and Hebrew and one short story even made it into Korean.
Her most recent project was co-editing with Greg Herren two anthologies, Women of the Mean Streets: Lesbian Noir, and Men of the Mean Streets: Gay Noir. She is currently working on the next Micky Knight book, titled Ill Will. Redmann lives in an historic neighborhood in New Orleans, at the edge of the area that flooded.
Lost Daughter
Memoir by J.M. Redmann
February 1, 1921 – February 29, 1984.
I FINALLY WENT back to the grave, to see the red clay become green grass, the scar in the earth turn verdant and smooth. It was ten years then, it is twenty years now. I was nineteen when they first diagnosed the cancer, away in college. My mother didn’t call me home, the daughter of German immigrants, she would not so burden her daughter. Not until there was no choice. I saw the scar, the smooth place on her chest where her breast had been when the cancer came back, in the year that I cared for her. I was twenty-six then. The cancer took her life in slow inches. I was twenty-eight when she died.
She was the youngest of eight children, ten really, but only eight made it beyond the cradle. The first to die, of those that survived. The rest of her sisters and brothers, my aunts and uncles, are still alive or made it to a much older age. Aunt Edna, 99, Aunt Lena, 94, Uncle Carl, 97, Uncle Herb, 91, Uncle Frank, 87, and Aunt Marie and Uncle Art are still here. The youngest, Naomi Ruth, but she went by Ruth, was 63.
I never came out to my mother. I didn’t have to. She knew. I couldn’t see it then, I was just stepping into the muddy waters of sexuality and had only the perspective of a bare twenty-some years. I wasn’t old enough to think that the past could so predict the future. Looking back now, I think how could she not know? I was a tomboy’s tomboy, the few dolls given to me were fodder to be run over by the tanks and trucks that I asked for. There are more pictures of me in torn jeans and t-shirt than dresses—and those were the days when we took pictures when we dressed up. I did, in my early twenties—when I was ready—tell her that I was a lesbian. She shrugged and asked me what else I was going to do with my life. She told me about her roommates during the war, two of them were a couple. It was a brief conversation, nothing had really changed, except that I knew she knew. I lived in New York City then. She remained in the small town on the Mississippi Gulf Coast where I had grown up. Our visits were holidays mostly. Phone calls now and then, more after my father died. I was busy being young and living in Manhattan. There would be time, she was the youngest of eight and her older sisters and brothers were still alive.
They all came to her funeral.
I want to ask her how she knew with such ease, how did she come to terms with her dyke daughter before I did?
WHEN I WAS in eighth grade, my teacher assigned us to ask our parents about their history, specifically what person they most admired. My mother named Eleanor Roosevelt. As most eighth grade assignments tended to be, it wasn’t long, so I merely complet
ed the requirements, let my mother name Eleanor Roosevelt, and mentioned the war. The Second World War, the one safely in my past, the one that shaped my parents and their future—even to the end of their lifes. My father and mother are both buried in a veteran’s cemetery, earned by my father’s service in the South Pacific.
But I know the history now, know how Eleanor Roosevelt stood up to the DAR when they refused to let Marion Anderson sing in their hall, I recently saw a picture of her, with a broad and confident smile on her face, sitting in the cockpit of an open plane behind one of the Tuskegee Airman who was piloting it, proving that black men could fly as well as white men. In ninth grade, the year after my mother named Eleanor Roosevelt as the person she most admired, my school finally, fully integrated. It was 1969, the year that all the Mississippi schools realized that they had lost every court battle.
I want to ask her what it was like living in a small Southern town, moving there in 1953, staying there until the day she died. How did she handle my New Orleans grandmother, who insisted on using one cab company because they hired only white drivers? How did I know, at eleven, when I heard my grandmother say those words that she was wrong? (And at eleven, I went along with the wrong, didn’t confront my grandmother. Now I wonder if that isn’t original sin, a wrong so heavy in the air, that no one escapes it. How could I confront the mother of my father at eleven? Yet . . . how could I not? I didn’t. The sin remains.)
AFTER MY MOTHER had graduated college, she moved to Chicago, lived there working on a newspaper. With no plan or thought, I have followed the arc of her life, moving to New York City after college. I want to ask her what her life had been like there, what other ways had I followed her footsteps beyond that broad outline? She met my father there. They both wanted to be writers. I went to Chicago a few years ago, walked the streets, they were unfamiliar to me, only a few names that I had heard in passing conversations between my parents. The Art Institute, Michigan Ave., the lake during a thunderstorm. But they were only memories that I had heard with the impatience of a growing child who couldn’t imagine how fiercely I’d want to know, were you here? Did you walk this block? What places did we have in common, forty years apart?
