by Lori L. Lake
Without a doubt that was a very turbulent time in our history. It took place twenty-three years ago. At that time my mother’s parents had passed away only a year a part from each other, one quickly and one agonizingly slowly. This was unbelievably stressful for my mother, as she was very close to both her parents. That was also the first time in my life when I was exposed to the unbearable pain of loss. The grief we both felt over the losses did not bring us together. It polarized us more than ever.
During those dark, turbulent years I was a lost soul in many ways. Not only was I mourning the loss of two very important people in my life, but I was at an age when my sexuality was blooming, and I was very confused and wracked with guilt over my sexual preference. All those years ago, gay culture was not widely known about, unlike today, where gay characters, albeit sometimes one-dimensional ones, abound on the small screen. During those tumultuous years I would have sacrificed a limb to have had someone, anyone to identify with. The emotional turmoil of that period of my life has left the time very hazy to me, as are many of the years that followed. The mind often chooses to forget painful experiences, and those years were fraught with confusion and pain. But I knew I would not be able to continue to survive with the secret I had kept for what seemed like an eternity. I had known from a very young age that I had no interest in boys other than as friends. Having to endure the constant questions as to why I wasn’t dating made my life that much more stressful. Though I wanted to, fear kept me from telling my parents who I wanted to be dating.
After surviving many school girl crushes that I kept completely to myself I found the courage to tell my mother about my secret and the fact that I was in love with an older woman. I was not surprised when she did not embrace me. I wasn’t foolish enough to expect a joyous celebration at my revelation because I suspected that she would be devastated. She did not disappoint me. She let me know that with my declaration, I, her only daughter, was dashing all of her hopes and dreams for me. (Apparently getting married to a man and bearing his children is the only worthwhile thing a woman can do in this world, or at least that was how it seemed twenty years ago.) When I told her my secret all I wanted was her acceptance and her love. I know she loves me, but I don’t think she has ever truly accepted my choices nor has she been happy about them. What I have from my mother is a tolerance and a false understanding of what it means to be a lesbian. Perhaps that is the best I can hope for.
I think it may be unrealistic to expect that any heterosexual, even my own mother, can have a true understanding of what lesbian love is, what it means to be a lesbian, what struggles we contend with, not only within ourselves, but also with society. At that single moment in time, when I bared my soul with the most painful secret I could have had, I created a chasm between my mother and me that has never completely gone away. At that moment and during many moments since, she felt she didn’t even know me, yet I was the same person I had always been. But she couldn’t know that since she never knew who I really was to begin with. So for my mother not to understand me is in itself understandable, though not acceptable. I know that the belief that my life would be much more difficult as a lesbian was a large part of my mother’s fears for me. She knew that life would not be easy for me and she was not entirely wrong. I think that I have fared better than many, but there were certainly difficult roads to traverse along the way. Of course, not being a parent myself makes it hard for me to see things from my mother’s point of view. Yet, it always makes me wonder why my mother cannot simply be overjoyed that I turned into a healthy, happy adult. Shouldn’t that have been her most fervent hope for me? Sure, she wished me to be a thousand other things, too, but shouldn’t those two have been at the top of her list? I know if I had a child they would be. But these are answers I will never have.
As much as I love my mother I cannot bring myself to have any type of insightful conversations with her. We have tried before and we have failed, usually in a heated argument or a long stretch of not speaking to one another. The chasm is still there. It’s not to say that we can’t enjoy one another’s company. In order to spend such time together, we cannot discuss topics such as finances, proper house cleaning techniques, or her viewpoint on what my responsibilities are. We can go from enjoyment to an argument in the blink of an eye if the wrong comment is made. Usually it’s my mother saying something to me that sounds like she is chastising me because she is unhappy with something I’ve said or done. And it is because I have always felt like I have never quite made her happy that my hair bristles at any such encounters.
Even with our occasional confrontations, I will always have many fond memories of times we have shared. I’ve learned many things from my mother. She is a very loyal, compassionate, and proud woman. She taught me the lessons all mothers should teach their children: treat people fairly, tell the truth even if it hurts, be a hard worker, eat all your vegetables because they will make you strong, get plenty of sleep, wear proper winter clothing, don’t do drugs or abuse alcohol, and respect your elders. My mother also instilled in me a love of music, movies, golfing, and shopping. I grew up listening to her favorite singers and watching the grand musicals of the fifties and sixties. West Side Story, Three Coins in a Fountain, Rock Hudson, and Doris Day movies will forever rekindle sweet memories for me.
It saddens me to think that I have spent a lifetime trying to earn my mother’s acceptance and understanding. At various times in my life, I even thought I had them, but there were also many times when I was realized that I did not. What I have learned is that I do not need her acceptance and understanding in order to be a happy and fulfilled individual. I’m not sure why I ever thought that I did. I do not know why her approval was and still in some ways is important to me. I was always trying to do my best so she would be proud of me, proud of how I turned out. The reality is that in some ways my lesbianism shadows that pride. For all her attempts at understanding me, she has fallen short because she still feels she failed me; that something she did or did not do caused me to be “this way.” Knowing that is how she feels makes me realize she will never understand who I really am. Unless she can accept the fact that she is not to blame, that no one is, and that it is okay for me to be who I am, she will never truly accept who I am.
Thankfully, that no longer matters to me. Twenty years ago it did, but time does many things. It heals wounds, it makes us forget things, and it ages us, but with age comes wisdom. The journey has been long, but I know now that my whole life I was striving to achieve my mother’s approval to validate my life and the choices I have made. More than anyone else in my life, her opinion, her approval mattered the most. But now the only opinion of me that really matters is my own.
And I know that I turned out just fine. Maybe I have grown up after all.
***
ABOUT JULIA WATTS
Julia Watts think writing and mothering are a lot alike: Both are acts of creation and nurturing that involve equal measures of joy and hair-pulling. Julia is the author of the Lambda Literary Award-winning Finding H.F. and the Lambda Literary Award finalist The Kind of Girl I Am. Recently, she has made a foray into writing for younger readers with a series published by Beanpole Books. She dedicates her story in this anthology to the memory of the fabulous Thelma Windham, who served as the real-life inspiration for Theda in "Girl Talk."
Girl Talk
Julia Watts
“I KNOW, I know. I'm your friend from work, and we can't sleep in the same bed,” I recited for the tenth time. “God, Judy, for such a big, bad butch, you sure are a closet case.”
“Stop calling me that. Am I a closet case even though I'm out to everybody in the universe except my mom?”
“No comment.” We were driving through the depths of south Alabama, with nothing in sight but endless scrub pines and the occasional barbecue stand. The Melissa Etheridge song on the CD player was our only reminder that we were still on a planet where people like us existed.
“Di, you just don't know what it's like bei
ng the child of old parents. It changes things—it's like dealing with two generation gaps instead of one.”
Judy had been what old Southern women call a “change-of-life baby”—and an only child to boot. Her mother had named her after her favorite film star, Judy Garland, in hopes that her daughter would grow up to be as glamorous as her namesake. I think it was Judy's name that first drew me to her. A big butch dyke named after an icon for gay males was deliciously unexpected.
Judy and I had been dating for six months, and as far as I was concerned, she was the woman I had been waiting for ever since the moment I caught my first glimpse of Diana Rigg on “The Avengers” and realized I wasn't like all the other little girls.
Judy, however, wasn't as quick to commit. I had been pestering her to move in with me for the past three months, and she kept hemming and hawing about how she wasn't sure her dog and my cat would get along and what a pain it is to divide up household chores.
Recently, I had backed off on the issue, figuring that dating Judy happily ever after was better than no future with her at all. And then, like a bolt out of the lavender, she invited me go with her to visit her mother, on the condition that my true identity would not be revealed. Still the invitation could be interpreted as a sign of commitment...kinda, sorta.
I had heard dozens of entertaining stories about Judy's mother—about her days as a debutante in Birmingham, about the time during the war when she slashed a soldier's face with a broken beer bottle because he had made a lewd comment to her, about the four husbands she had married and buried: the first two for love, the last two for money. I was excited about meeting her, but also a little terrified.
Reading my mind, Judy said, “Don't be nervous about dealing with her, hon. When in doubt, just compliment her on her appearance. She won't give a damn whether you like her cooking or think the house looks nice, but if you tell her how thin she is or what a nice manicure she has, she'll be your friend for life.”
I surveyed Judy's stout, muscular body, and gnawed-to-the-nubs fingernails. “How did a woman like her end up with you for a daughter?”
Judy shrugged. “Never say that God lacks a sense of humor.”
The house was a large red brick rancher with a porch lined with rocking chairs. It was the kind of house that wouldn't draw much notice in a city, but was palatial by the standards of a small, south Alabama town. Judy led me to the back door, explaining, “Mama always insists that family and friends use the back door. That way, if the front doorbell rings, she knows it's somebody who's trying to sell her something or give her a Watchtower.”
The back door swung open before we had a chance to knock. Standing before us was a striking, elderly woman with white washed-and-set-at-the beauty-shop hair, Lauren Bacall cheekbones, and Joan Crawford shoulders. Her long nails were painted shell pink, and the ring finger of each hand glittered with an obscenely huge diamond. She gave Judy a once-over, then said, with an accent that masked malice with magnolias, “Well, look at you. You're sure not getting’ any thinner, are you?”
Judy didn't miss a beat, which gave me the impression that what I had just heard was a traditional greeting. “Mama, this is Diane, a friend of mine from work.”
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs...Mrs....” I stalled. Judy's last name was Wyler, but her mom had had two husbands since Judy's dad. How could I have forgotten to ask Judy her mom's current last name?
“Just call me Theda, honey.” She smiled, a little Mona Lisa smile. “I've had so many last names I barely remember 'em myself.” She patted Judy on the shoulder. “You girls come on in.”
Before I could even orient myself to my new environment, Theda announced, “Well, I guess we'd better go ahead and eat. The Braves game starts at eight.”
I was confused. The kitchen, which was decorated in the dark browns and avocado greens of the '70's, showed no signs that any cooking had been done there in recent history. Despite the cave-like quality the color scheme bestowed on it, the kitchen was spotless in the way only a non-cook's kitchen can be.
My questions were answered when Theda began rifling through the freezer. She produced three packages of Lean Cuisine frozen dinners and declared, “All right, I've got spaghetti with meat sauce, vegetable lasagna, and macaroni and cheese. Who wants what?”
I got stuck with the macaroni and cheese. We sat at the kitchen table, each with a little box of micro-waved food, a can of Diet Coke, and a plastic fork. I was amazed. Before I took Judy home the first time, my mom called me on three different occasions for the sole purpose of discussing possible menus. I glanced nervously at the bottle of ketchup and jar of pickles which sat in the center of the table, fearful that I would be considered rude if I didn't find some use for them.
“So, Diane, you must eat a lot of these low-calorie dinners,” Theda said. “You've got a cute little figure on you.” She pronounced figure “figga.”
“Uh...thanks,” I said, uncomfortable with the idea that my lover's mom was scoping out my bod.
“If there's anything a man likes, it's a cute figure,” Theda went on. “Put on some stockings and heels, smile and cross your legs real pretty, and a man'll do anything you want.”
“Mama!” Judy protested.
“Judy always thinks I shock people. I'm not shockin’ you, am I, Diane?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Well, I figure it's just us girls together. What can we talk about if not men?”
What indeed? I stared down at my food, confident that if I caught Judy's eye, I'd have a giggling fit the likes of which I hadn't had since I was twelve years old and forced to sit quietly in church.
“I always tell Judy she could do better in the looks department,” Theda was saying. “She may have got her daddy's stoutness, but she's still got my eyes and mouth, don't you think, Diane?”
“Um...yeah.” I shifted uncomfortably. Given my rather intimate knowledge of Judy's mouth, I certainly didn't want to think of it as belonging to her mother.
“Yes, she could turn some heads, all right,” Theda said, staring at her daughter's face. “Put on a dress every once in a while, let those awful fingernails grow out—”
“Mama, I fix computers for a living. I can't have long nails that are gonna get stuck in the machinery.”
“She's such a tomboy, Diane. Always been more interested in fixin’ things than in fixin’ herself up. When she was little, I wanted her to take dance lessons, to be like Judy Garland—that's who I named her after, you know.” She pushed her half-eaten spaghetti away. “But all she wanted to do was follow her daddy around and help him build things. Birdhouses, bookshelves, kitchen cabinets—you name it, they built it.”
“I think it's great that Judy's so...” I searched for a word. “Handy.”
“Oh, it's wonderful for a woman to know how to do things for herself,” Theda said. “Of course, that's no reason for her to let her looks go. And sometimes, when you're around a man, it's good to let on you don't know quite as much as you do.”
“It's not 1950 anymore, Mama. Women don't have to play dumb to get what they want.”
“Oh, don't they?” Theda paused to admire the diamonds on her fingers. “Well, we've been havin’ this argument since you were sixteen years old. You get your power your way, I'll get mine my way.” She turned to me. “Now, Diane, what you need is some color on your lips and eyes, and you've got to do somethin’ about those eyebrows.”
In terms of bushiness, my eyebrows do lie somewhere between Brooke Shields' and Brezhnev's. But I've always had a very minimalist beauty philosophy: Don't mess with what's already there; just make sure your teeth are clean and you don't smell bad, and you're good to go.
Even though I hate baseball, I was relieved when the Braves game started. Theda and Judy were riveted to the screen, Judy gnawing her nails and Theda smoking cigarette after cigarette with Bette Davis aplomb.
Judy and I live in Atlanta. She took me to a Braves game once in the early days of our relationship. She was so transfi
xed by the action on the field she appeared incapable of conversation, so to relieve my boredom, I kept downing little plastic cups of beer. By the end of the ninth inning, I was so drunk I fell down the steps as we were leaving our seats. When my coworkers inquired about the Ace bandage on my ankle the next day, I proudly told them it was a baseball injury.
After the game was over, Theda stood up, stretched demurely and announced that it was her bedtime, with the implication that it should be ours, too.
After she was safely out of the room, Judy whispered, “She's a piece of work, isn't she?”
“I'll say.” I looked around to make sure we had some privacy. “Hon, why were there pickles and ketchup on the dinner table?” Those non-sequitur condiments had been bothering me all night.
“You don't think we're trash, do you?”
Apparently, this was supposed to answer my question. Since inappropriate condiments seemed to be a sensitive issue, I decided not pursue it.
Judy stood and stretched. “Well, time for bed.’
“Really?” It was an hour and a half before our usual bedtime.
“Yep.” She walked right past me.
“Judy!” I barked, then lowered my voice, “Don't I get a kiss?”
She blew me a kiss from several feet away and then padded on down the hall. Thank God this was just a weekend visit. If I had to spend a week at Judy's mother's, I'd die from lack of affection.
***
ABOUT KELLY A. ZAREMBSKI
