Do you remember "Soup?" "Art?" "Soup?" "Art?"
She's a goddess, a comedic genius, a wise woman, and one red hot sexy septuagenarian!
If you have not seen Grandma,her new film, run, sprint, fly to the nearest theater.
Thanks, Lily--if only someday Laverne Cox would give you a tattoo with my initials......
My mother died in October. She didn’t know I was gay. Let me rephrase that: I never told her I was gay. When I first came out, in my forties, she was just beginning to show serious signs of Alzheimer’s. I told myself it wasn’t necessary—why bring it up now, when she won’t remember it anyway.
The truth was, I didn’t want to make myself that vulnerable with my mother—we had a bad history, and this was just the kind of landmine that could explode in an instant. I didn’t have enough armor on this particular issue to go into battle.
As she descended into confusion, it was hard to tell what she understood and what she didn’t. Ironically, the disease caused her to become friendly and nice for the first time in her life—my kids and I were shocked when the nurses would say, “oh, your mother is so sweet.” This was a woman who could knock you out cold with one sentence and a single glare.
My partner at the time always came with me to see my mother—she got how toxic it could still be, even with the new, socially acceptable version of my mother. At the end of each visit, my mother would turn to me and say, “I love you.” Then she would turn to my partner and say, “I love you, too.” Did she know? Was she sending me a message that it was ok, and she was glad I had found love? Or was she just appreciating the fact that she was being taken care of?
My mother was proud to be a lefty—she raised me to believe that civil rights and equality for women were the most important issues of our day, and she fought for them. But I don’t think she would have been proud to have a gay daughter. I think it would have been a profound disappointment to her. And in spite of what I know in my head, in my heart I would have felt that I had failed her. Hearts are fickle like that.
Sometimes I wish I had had the courage to tell her when I was coming out. I was in my 40s for god sake—what could she have done to me? Even up until the very end, when she had lost almost all of her memories, she always knew who I was. I was with her for the week leading up to her death, and she died holding my hand. We had come a long way together to get to that peaceful end. I like to think that she knew, and that she had come to terms with it, just as I had come to terms with some of the things she had done and the reasons she did. On one of the final days, after she’d lost the ability to talk, I whispered to her: “we are both fierce, independent women,” and a tear ran down her cheek. She knew I was making peace. She did raise me to be a fierce, independent woman, with the strength to come out so late in life. And for that, I am grateful. Thanks, Felicia. May you rest in peace.
After seeing Les Mis last week, I thought back to those days (well, years really) of ambiguity when I knew I had feelings I didn't quite know what to do with.
Now, things have become much clearer. The minute she came on the screen, I did not covet Anne Hathaway's snappy blue bonnet. I did however, covet her.
In addition, it only took me twenty minutes into the film to realize that it was not Russell Crowe's body I was coveting, but in fact, his uniform....Ah, clarity
Edie Windsor is a gay activist, a tough broad, one-half of a 42-year love affair, and at age 83, a total sex kitten.
As plaintiff, she is leading the fight, to be heard this year in the Supreme Court against DOMA. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/31/edie-windsor-doma-plainti_n_2388292.html
I had the great fortune of hearing Edie speak at the Gay Film Fest this year. Then I watched the documentary "Edie and Thea: a Very Long Engagement." If you haven't seen it, run, don't walk (it's on netflix).
She and Thea had one of the great loves. You can see so clearly in the movie, it wasn't all "candy and roses," as Mary J. Blige would say. In fact, their dedication to each other was fueled--especially at the end--by incredible self-sacrifice and perpetual kindness in the face of adversity.
What a great lady--go Edie!
Happy 2013! Let's start the year with a late-blooming coming out story that proves once again that sometimes, silence equals distance; truth deepens love.
Until last year, my 50th, I had never come out to my father's big Irish Catholic family. My father's been dead for 12 years. Sadly I came out--to myself and the world--after he died. I think he would have been very happy for me; his life was always about journey, not judgement.
His family is a big, warm, loving group of folks who believe in service--they are teachers, nurses, EMTs and guidance counselors. They are also conservative, ranging from mostly moderate Republicans to one or two hard-core tea partiers and one case of mind-bending intolerance.
My kids and I see them once a year at the annual Christmas party so I gave myself all of the usual excuses--we only see them once a year, it will only cause conflict, etc. I showed up "single," year after year, and thought I was artfully deflecting any questions about my personal life.
Then Aunt Kay--one of my favorite people in the world--died. At her funeral my cousin came up to me and said she wanted to throw a big party for my daughter's high school graduation. "Tell Kate to bring her boyfriend....and you--isn't there someone special in your life?" "No..." I mumbled.
She took me by the shoulders and looked me straight in the eye:
"You know, don't you, that it doesn't matter whether they wear slacks or a skirt. We love you and we want you to be happy."
I hugged her, and choked out thanks. Since then, they all know I have found love. They have all (ok, except for the mind-bending intolerant one) expressed their great love, support and happiness for me.
At 51, I have come out to my extended family; they have embraced me with overwhelming love--not just for finding love, but for finding myself as well.
And I'm pretty sure, even if I chose to wear these slacks, they would still stand up and cheer.
Worn every day during sophomore year in high school. With white sweat socks.
The view from my rocking chair tonight....
Oak Bluffs on Martha's Vineyard is one of my very favorite places on this planet.
The first time I came here I was married with two small (ish) children. We were the poster family for the perfect vacation.
Ten years later, I'm back with my 14-year old son, while my 17-year old travels the globe and my ex-husband celebrates his recent marriage. A divorced, middle-aged mom, alone in her favorite vacation spot with her kid....seems like a potential Lifetime Movie one-hanky movie opening.
Instead, I feel free. One of the characters in August Wilson's play, "Joe Turner's Come and Gone," says that everyone has a song inside of them. At one point, he says "Something wasn't making my heart smooth and easy."
It might just be my son and me back here this year, but my heart is smooth and easy.
In 8th Grade I wore white bib painter overalls every other day. In my fantasy, here's what I looked like:
Yes. I really did want to look like him. Lateblooming clue #275
Here's what I really looked like:
Nuff said.
Remember these? How in the world did we convince ourselves that we were sooooo hip wearing our Aunt Edna's couches for shoes?
Ahhh, Eleanor. Be still my heart. I first fell in love with Eleanor Roosevelt when I visited Val-kill, a stone cottage on a sweet patch of land in upstate New York. Here are just some of the reasons I fell in love with her that day:
--she built her serene oasis in Hyde Park, directly across the street from the Roosevelt residence, the command center of her bitchy, disapproving mother-in-law.
--she built it as a retreat for herself and her friends, the couple Marion Dickerson and Nancy Cook. The three of them started an experimental furniture factory on the premises, and hung out whenever possible--three fierce, independent women quietly carving out their own little utopia. Of course, they also happened to be human so the whole thing ended in bitter acrimony. I actually find it kind of comforting--they screwed up a beautiful thing just like the rest of us tend to do.
--as she transformed into a global diplomat, she frequently entertained guests like Nehru, John Kennedy, and Haile Selassie in her homespun living room, making them scrambled eggs on the cook's night off.
I went home and immediately read Blanche Wiesen's Cook's biography, followed by a bunch of Eleanor's original writing, including her amazing newspaper columns My Day where she talks about everyday life and outlines her passionate views on social justice.
Then I read her letters to and from Lorena Hicock, Empty Without You. Whoa. Reading their letters is like riding the waves of a wild ocean storm. The highs are so passionate, so expressive--they go from tender, sweet endearments to some seriously scorching desires. The lows are fiery and dark, filled with jealousy, hurt, anger. It makes sense when you realize that they had all of the challenges of a long-distance, clandestine relationship, and then there was the fact that Eleanor happened to be First Lady of the United States (and Lorena was an AP reporter, just because things weren't complicated enough).
If you are in the mood for a glimpse into a passionate, stormy relationship between two extraordinary women, I would definitely give it a try.
I have always loved reading women's love letters to each other (Lateblooming clue #256).
Virginia and Vita are, of course, the reigning queens of love letters. Whether or not they ever consummated their relationship quickly becomes irrelevant when you read their correspondence. Passion, tenderness, ecstasy and pain unfold in the exquisitely intimate letters they wrote to each other.
I read their letters in my early 20s. They had a profound effect on me--the letters imprinted themselves on my heart. How could these two fiercely independent women have touched each other so profoundly? How could they have reached the most vulnerable place in each other, and then cradled it in the words they mailed back and forth? It was the first time I understood what intimacy might look like. It was also a stunning realization of how far away I was from anything remotely like that. I was newly married, living a very straight, conventional life--focused on my marriage, my career, and eventually on having children. Woolf and Sackville-West lived in what seemed like a fairy tale world to me. The Bloomsbury group of the early 20s was an intensely intellectual circle of talented, courageous people living their lives by following their hearts. I was far too terrified of my heart to even acknowledge its existence.
It has taken me over 25 years since first reading those letters to begin to open up my heart. And while it remains to be seen whether I will find that kind of intimacy before I die, I have just begun to find the joy--and the pain--of opening to the possibilities of love.
Sometimes I think wistfully of all that I have missed by not hearing my heart all those years ago. But most of the time, I think about how lucky I am to have arrived here in my middle age--perhaps just old enough to realize how great this gift really is.
I have a feeling we could start a club: the Kate Clinton Epiphany Club. Mine happened on a Saturday afternoon, about six months after my divorce. It was a non-kid weekend, and I was still feeling the acute despair of not seeing my children for two days. It's not something you get over, by the way, but you learn how to keep busy to keep it at bay.
I had just watched Kate Clinton MC an ACT UP fundraiser at the Brookyn Academy of Music, and was, of course, in love. She is the bomb: hilarious, satirical, silly, searingly intelligent and sexy (in that middle-aged way that is so heartening to those of us who fear obesity and oversized denim shirts are right around the corner).
I flopped down on the couch with a collection of her essays, Don't Get Me Started. If you haven't read it, get it immediately and save it for that bad, bad day that requires massive doses of escapism, laughter, chocolate, carbohydrates, and diet coke.
Now, let's be clear. I am reading the book NOT because I myself am gay, but merely because I find Kate Clinton hilarious and want to know more about her. Right.
So I'm halfway through the book, and have just finished reading about one of her ill-fated early relationships gone horribly wrong, when I get to a story about a young college student who is inspired by Clinton to come out of the closet. Something happens--is it lightening bolt? Sappho's ghost arriving for a brief visit? Or the deft hand of Kate Clinton pausing lightly on my shoulder....
I sit bolt upright, close the book, and say to myself, "I'm gay."
Obviously, this was not a Moses and his tablet moment. There had been lots and lots of subtle shifts and signs along the way. But even though they were welling up, coming closer and closer to the surface, it was something about the way Kate Clinton wrote about the experience of coming out that broke through the final layer of denial.
Therein begins the journey that has led me, six years later, to this lateblooming blog.
Thank you, Kate Clinton. You are the bomb.