The Cost and Joy of Discipleship: Renewing My Lesbian Card

On my “ketchup” list in my last post was the fact that I have been thinking more about being a lesbian in the past ten weeks than I have in the past ten years. That might be a bit of an exaggeration (I’m a little prone to hyperbole), but not too much. Julie used to joke that they were going to take away our lesbian cards soon, if we didn’t get some pride … but then we didn’t, and then we were pretty sure the cards had, in fact, expired. Aside from in fact being lesbians, our lives aren’t very, well, lesbian. We don’t go to gay pride events, we’re not part of any gay and lesbian organizations, we don’t have a rainbow flag outside our house. We have plenty of gay friends, but they’re mostly not our friends because they’re gay, but because they go to our church, or they live on our block, or our kids are playmates.

So my newfound enthusiasm – giddiness even – for thinking and talking about being gay is especially startling to me, like someone renewed my card and forgot to tell me! And it’s not as though I haven’t given any thought to being a lesbian in the last decade, but honestly, it’s just occurring to me that for the most part, what brings gayness to the center of my attention has almost always been the ugly stuff: DOMA and the federal marriage amendment and the whole toxic political climate of the Bush years. But suddenly, we’re married! And we have a gay pastor! And hey, it feels sort of fun to be gay again!

I know that I owe you all an essay or two to conclude my marriage series, but it’s still percolating. I really thought getting married in Iowa was sort of a formality, something kind of cool we never thought we could do. I never imagined that it would be so profoundly generative, in such lovely and unexpected ways. I look forward to sharing all that with you soon (ish; no promises). But I’m finding that I sort of need to write and share my way around it for awhile. The meaning in it, which is gorgeous and unexpected and feels over and over like grace – it’s just too big right now to get my arms all the way around.

So in the meantime, I thought I would share a couple of scenes from a lesbian life, as they are happening to me, or coming back to me these days.

I.

Last Sunday at the adult Sunday school series called Sharing our Faith Stories, our pastor Michael led us in an exercise intended to help us feel more comfortable sharing with one another. It was sort of like “speed dating,” except it was “speed faith sharing.” The chairs in the social hall were set in two concentric circles, facing each other, so folks sitting in each circle were paired with someone sitting in the other circle, knee to knee. Michael would ask us a question, and we each had a minute to share, and then one circle would move one space to the right, so you had a new partner for each question. One of the questions was to tell about an embarrassing moment, and this is the story I told, as it turns out, to my dear friend Suzanne:

When we left Indiana to move to Philadelphia, it was largely because we couldn’t be out there and still be teachers, and Julie, at least, was really sure that she was called to teach (and she was right). As I have written before, it was painful to be closeted in our small, rural classrooms, and the city felt so fresh, so wide-open, so safe, ironically enough. And we were definitely loving being out again, like the BDOC’s (big dykes on campus) that we had been in college. That was definitely way before our lesbian cards expired, back in the day when we loved nothing more than a march on Washington, and if it was a dyke march, all the better.

So there we were, marching with tens of thousands of lesbians right past the White House, and there was a whole contingent who had stripped to the waist. And if you know me, you know that in general I like to have as little clothing on as possible, so OF COURSE I took my shirt off. I mean, right? What else would I do? And we’re marching right past the White House, and we’re chanting something like “Hey hey, ho ho, homophobia has got to go,” or singing “A you’re an Amazon, B coming Brave and strong, Clearly and Confidently you C! D you’re so dykey, oh how you Excite me, how Fortunate for the Female Faculty!” Or some such, you get the picture.

And then, quietly at first, and then a little louder, and more insistent, I hear a voice from behind: “Miss Rose? Miss Rose? Is that YOU?”

And sure enough, I turned around to see a somewhat flushed (and fully clothed, but quite clearly marching in the dyke march) former student. And by former, I mean like she was my student LAST YEAR!

Again, those of you who know me in person know that I’m no prude, and I would probably be quite comfortable being naked in front of most of you – certainly if we were marching together in a dyke march past the White House – but this was too much. Even for me. I smiled, and said, “Well hello! Just let me put my shirt on and then I can talk to you!” But I’m pretty sure I was blushing.

II.

It’s lovely to feel so celebrated and safe these days as a lesbian woman, wife and mother. It’s so lovely that I almost forgot how recently it felt so very different. I think it’s important to remember. This is a link to something I shared with my congregation one Sunday in worship just three short years ago, when Pennsylvania was considering an amendment excluding gays and lesbians from marriage.

III.

A couple of weeks ago in church, we sang a new response at some point in the liturgy, that went like this:

Open my eyes, that I may see

glimpses of truth, Thou hast for me.

Open my eyes ...

Well, actually, I can’t remember exactly how the song we sang in church went, but most of you who grew up in church probably recognized this, right? That never happens to me, because I didn’t grow up in church. All those hymns that you’re pissed off about because some earnest PC music committee changed the lyrics? Doesn’t bother me in the least, because I never knew the old lyrics to begin with. So I was pretty startled that I recognized this song, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until about the third verse, and then I remembered: Cris Williamson, Song of the Soul, from The Changer and the Changed (go listen!) – the song that opens with that same refrain:

Open my eyes, that I may see

glimpses of truth Thou hast for me

Open my eyes illumine me,

Spirit Divine ….

And if you were an earnest lesbian (or even just an earnest feminist) in the 1980’s, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about. Remember how we used to sit up in the Womyn’s Center on the fourth floor of Carpenter Hall, that gorgeous space where men were not allowed, and where the sun streamed through that big semi-circular window? There were great big couches and pillows on the floor and that lavender mural called “Weaving Webs of Women’s Lives,” remember? (And of course, if you didn’t go to Earlham College in the 1980’s, but you were an earnest feminist somewhere else in those years, you can probably at least imagine what I’m talking about). There was a record player in the corner and a slender stack of “women’s music” albums – or “wimmin’s music,” or “womyn’s music” – oh my, but we were earnest then! And I loved it all – Cris Williamson and Meg Christian [edited to get her name right] and their triumphant concert at Carnegie Hall, singing about loving women; and Holly Near, who was maybe even a lesbian for a minute or two, wasn’t she? But at the very least she was bringing all us gentle, angry people together in harmony. And Ferrin, remember her? Oh good Lord, she was not only earnest, but earnest and bleak. And Deirdre McCalla [edited to fix her name] and Theresa Trull and Toshi Reagan … they were all like the sound track of my life back then. And I loved it all.

So when we sang that song in church the other day, a song that I not only knew from before I became a regular church-goer, but knew from those sun-filled days in the lavender womb of the Womyn’s Center, it all came flooding back – how much I loved being a lesbian, how full of hope and pride and joy we were, such young women loving each other, and how much those women’s music singers – Cris and Meg and Holly and Deirdre and Theresa and Toshi and all the rest – how easy it is to remember them with sentimentality, or to poke fun (as I often do) at their earnestness, and to forget that they really were pioneers. That it was fucking brave back then to get up on a stage and sing about loving another woman. I’m glad I got to be reminded of that in the midst of my loving, open and affirming congregation, being led by an openly gay pastor – those women were among the many folks who paved the way for there to be such a church, and such a pastor, and such a giddy lesbian as me -- and I am ever grateful to all of them.

Diary of a Mad Housewife: "Ketchup"

When I saw Julie and Julia this summer (which I LOVED), I felt vindicated that Julia Child had a dear friend with whom she corresponded for years before they ever met in person. My Julie has always been a little bit dubious of on-line friendships, especially mine, but I say whatEVer, because I don’t know what I would do without them. When Trixie was a baby, and I was miserable in the judge’s chambers and then the big law firm in the sky (literally in the sky; I was on the 50^th floor – I may have been miserable, but I had a great view!), I was part of two on-line communities that felt like lifelines to me. One was the Gay and Lesbian Parenting Board at Parents’ Place, one of the predecessors of iVillage; this summer 12 year old Trixie went to sleep-away camp with Hannah, the daughter of Sara, one of the moms I know from that board. I’ve met Sara in person just a handful of times, but she’s been my friend for over a decade, and now our friendship has become second generation: onlinefriends 2.0?! It’s very sweet.

The other on-line community I became a part of at the same time was the Attachment Parenting Board at Parent Soup, the other predecessor of iVillage. I was such a misfit on that Board, but thank goodness I didn’t get shouted out of the community (as I might have in many on-line AP communities at that time, being the non-birth, non-breastfeeding, non-co-sleeping, fully-vaccinating, no-sling-in-sight, full-time working mother with a baby in day care as I was!) Those moms meant the whole world to me, and when twenty or so of them went off to form a Yahoo Groups to talk about “voluntary simplicity,” I was thrilled that I got an invitation to join them. We called ourselves the “volsimmers” though in truth, we emailed, furiously, about everything and anything: pregnancy, birth, adoption, diapers, breastfeeding, school, home school, unschool, sex, marriage, divorce, politics, race, religion, you name it. Tempers flared, there was drama and there were tears, but there was also such incredible support, such caring through so much … welcoming new children, mourning miscarriages, divorces and remarriages and so much more. For many years, we shared multiple emails a day, and almost everyone checked in more than once a week, but as our children grew, the volume of our correspondence dwindled until a quick check-in once or twice a year was pretty much the extent of it.

Recently, though, many of us have found each other on Facebook, and the renewal of our friendships, now over a decade old, has been such a blessing. Now we’re all well-seasoned moms of tweens and teens, a little wiser for the wear, a little less doctrinaire – but the Yahoo Groups volume has ticked up a bit, as we still seem to find plenty of not-fit-for-Facebook topics to share about these days!

Back in the day, when my in-box was crammed-full every day of [Volsim] emails, it was sometimes hard to keep track of all the threads, and when we were trying to “catch up” on all the various conversations, we would post “ketchup” in the subject line.

Which is all to say, it’s been a busy summer and early fall, and my brain is so full of things I want to write, but I’m out of practice…. so this is going to be a “ketchup” sort of blog post … mostly in an effort to get writing again. Bear with me; it’s possible that some day I may write something thoughtful and well-developed again, but this isn’t going to be it!

*****

So, church …. have I mentioned that we have a new pastor at Old First? We do, and he is just as cute as a bug, which totally makes you want to pinch his cheeks. (He’s gay too, which I offer as an aside; I’m feeling a little giddy about that fact, but also pretty darn proud that in my mostly-hetero congregation, it really is an aside; more on the giddiness later.)

Okay, so I’m thinking that if I were a man, and we had a new female pastor, and I said she was so cute I just wanted to pinch her cheeks, that would be pretty damn condescending and just out-right offensive, wouldn’t it? So I offer this as well: Michael is not only cute as a bug, but also wicked smart, super thoughtful, energetic, a gifted homilist … and, well, cute as a bug. (Sorry, but I just don’t think it’s nearly as offensive when the tables are turned … think of it as affirmative action offensiveness ;-)

There’s a new wind blowing at Old First these days, and it feels so cool and refreshing. I have taken on the role of Director of Christian Education, a role I had (basically) for five years until I had to quit a year ago to stave off a nervous breakdown (really, that’s not hyperbole). Apparently just to test my resolve (I’m choosing not to read it as any other sign), upon taking my new post last spring, every church school teacher but one promptly quit. Also apparently, bribery will get you everywhere, and folks at Old First are easier than most, because I was able fairly quickly to auction off lunch with Michael in his newly-decorated-by-me (and-quite-lovely-if-I-do-say-so-myself) parsonage apartment in return for a commitment to teach Sunday School, and we’re off to the races with every class fully staffed. Not bad, huh? (Did I mention how cute he is? Charming too.)

*****

My other somewhat neglected part-time job these days continues to be trying to whip the Wissahickon Charter School Board into some semblance of self-discipline when it comes to record-keeping. I say this with all humility, given that I am now entering my sixth year on that board, and I chaired it for two years, so the entirely abysmal state of our documentation of every policy we have ever passed, not to mention our outlandish failure to be in anything resembling compliance with our by-laws, is probably entirely my fault (so sue me; we were doing some pretty important stuff). My mother-in-law has a hand-written note on an index card on her fridge that says, “It’s better to keep up than to catch up,” and I’m sure she’s right about that (and most things, as it turns out), but it’s easier said than done. Especially for a volunteer board with no dedicated paid staff. So there you have it: we’re getting there.

At the end of this summer, after a two-month hiatus (we don’t meet in July and I was on vacation in August), I was pretty sure I was just barely going to make it through this year before I collapsed in a heap and bid my colleagues adieu. Then of course, I went to the September board meeting and remembered: hey, I LOVE these folks! I LOVE this school! So we’ll see. At the very least, if I do leave the board after this year, it will be with every “i” dotted and every “t” crossed.

*****

It’s been a somewhat rough transition back to school with Micah. Unlike a year ago, I feel mostly up to the task of shepherding him through this, but, well, sigh…. It’s never easy, is it? He’s in a tough in-between place where he regrets that he has to grow up (and how sad is that, that our six-year-old first graders are already nostalgic for their halcyon days of youth?) at the same time that he hate (just HATES) being the littlest all the time.

I feel for him, I really do … except when he has to have a fit every damn morning about getting dressed. Micah, like me, is a very sensate boy (well, I’m not a boy, of course, at least not in this life, but I am pretty damn sensate), and seasonal clothing transitions are always hard: in the spring, shorts and sandals feel weird; in the fall, it’s t-shirts and jeans. But this year it’s like he’s three again, and it seems that his clothes are a metaphor for this in-between place in which he finds himself. He’s no longer small enough to fit into the 4 to 7x boys’ jeans (the ones with the snaps that he favors, and the adjustable waist bands that my slender boy needs), but he’s really still too small for the size 8’s that usher in the era of buttons and no adjustable waist bands. Also, all those hand-me-down WCS uniform tees? Arm-pitty! (You know the bunchy, under-arm feeling of too many layers of clothing? Micah feels that way with just one, after a summer of muscle tees). And why, Micah wonders (loudly, with much sturm und drang, every freakin’ morning) do we have to have a stinkin’ uniform anyway? ‘Cause he hates his stinkin’ school and all its stinkin’ rules! Now mind you, the WCS uniform is about the least onerous uniform in all of school-dom: jeans or khakis (shorts are fine), tennis shoes, and a plain t-shirt in navy, maroon or hunter green that may, but does not have to have, the WCS logo.

Tonight, Micah heartbreakingly confessed to me that he does not “look well,” and wishes he had a different face, by which me meant a different color skin. “In our family it’s all White, White, White, and I’m the only one who’s Black!” He also confessed that when he was little, like Josiah (who is the Black adopted younger brother of Micah’s best (White) friend Ada) it didn’t matter, because little kids always get their way.

This is a little boy with some really big stuff going on. Pray for me that I’m up for it. I want to get this right with every fiber of my being … but damn, it’s hard.

*****

Okay, so it’s midnight, and I should get to bed, but there’s still more on my ketchup list. So here’s a short-list, with high hopes that I’ll get to this and more soon:

*****

I’m running again, and practicing yoga. And thinking about incarnation. Also sex, though I probably won’t write much about that on my blog (yeah, I’m a tease, so what?)

*****

A satisfactory prayer life continues to elude me, though I feel like I was at least able to put my finger on my dilemma recently. Incarnation again. [edited to add: resurrection, actually] It’s all about the body.

*****

I haven’t thought as much about being a lesbian in the past ten years as I have in the past ten weeks. Getting married in Iowa and coming home to a (cute-as-a-bug) gay pastor will do that.

*****

Depression sucks; getting better from depression is possibly one of the best things ever.

*****

Food! I’m not going to write much about sex, but I will write about food (and they’re pretty much two sides of the same coin, as far as I’m concerned, so draw your own conclusions).

*****

A baby boy named Levi was born the other day just a few doors down from my house, to a family I adore – while I was on the phone and trying to get dinner ready. Life is awesome like that, huh?

And I’m sure there’s lots more …. but I really need to get to bed!