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This novel is pegged as a lesbian novel, therefore classified in the ghettos of literature. Anytime any work or any person is qualified, it’s always an insult. The message really is, “This is not about people like yourself. You might enjoy it, but after all, the subject matter concerns the ‘lower orders.’ ”
There are no lower orders. There are no lesbians or transgender people or fill in the blank. There are only people, a wild mix of energy, different abilities, colors ranging from ebony to bleached white. We’re everything and everybody. I don’t even believe in male and female, it’s a sliding scale and we are hag-ridden by a binary culture: male-female, black-white, straight-gay, rich-poor, and so it goes. The gradations are infinite and the silliest mistake of all is to define people by material possessions. It’s even worse if people define themselves by money.
Once you buy into a definition of yourself that has been made by others, you’re a victim. Victims draw great strength from banding together and declaring a common oppression and a common (always glorious, of course) culture. Perhaps, but you’re still a victim.
Until we are willing to read, see, embrace any work of art by any gifted person, we are still held back. Think of this in non-artistic terms. Moses took the Jews out of Egypt. Could he take Egypt out of the Jews? Only then can one be free. Let go of your oppressor. Many people cannot and many artists cannot. Whole careers are made by those who fall into disadvantaged categories (and economically and politically, they do). And it’s not just those who are wrathful about their condition, it’s those who become lawyers and self-appointed spokespersons for the rest. You might say that oppression
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The most revolutionary thing you can do is be yourself, to speak your truth, to open your arms to life, including the pain. Find your passions.
No one remembers her beginnings. Mothers and aunts tell us about infancy and early childhood, hoping we won’t forget the past when they had total control over our lives and secretly praying that because of it, we’ll include them in our future.
Barbara was Jewish and Carrie was forever telling Leroy and me to keep away from her. She needn’t have bothered. No one wanted to go near Barbara Spangenthau because she always had her hand in her pants playing with herself and worse, she stank. Until I was fifteen I thought that being Jewish meant you walked around with your hand in your pants.
I turned around on the rim of the hill to look at Earl down by the edge of the pond retching his guts out and crying at the same time. Fixed him good, I thought, I fixed him real good and he deserves it. How come I don’t feel good about it?
In school they told us that the president was the best man in the whole country but I knew my father was the best man in the whole country; the country didn’t know it, that’s all. So I guessed it was okay for Carl to make fun of the president. Anyway, how did I know the president was for real? I never saw him, just pictures in the paper and they can make those up. How do you know someone is real if you don’t see him?
At least Jennifer was beyond being tormented by itchy dresses. I thought I was worse off than the corpse.
I’d never seen men hold each other. I thought the only things they were allowed to do was shake hands or fight. But if Carl was holding Ep maybe it wasn’t against the rules. Since I wasn’t sure, I thought I’d keep it to myself and never tell. I was glad they could touch each other. Maybe all men did that after everyone went to bed so no one would know the toughness was for show. Or maybe they only did it when someone died. I wasn’t sure at all and it bothered me.
Leroy bet me I couldn’t find a pot of gold at the end, and I told him that was a stupid bet because the rainbow was enough.
“Everybody gets married. It’s something you have to do, like dying.”
You have to do some of the things everybody does or people don’t like you.”
“I don’t care whether they like me or not. Everybody’s stupid, that’s what I think. I care if I like me, that’s what I truly care about.”
Leota was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was tall and slender with creamy skin and deep, green eyes. She was quiet and shy so I spent most of sixth grade concentrating on making Leota laugh.
I began to wonder if girls could marry girls, because I was sure I wanted to marry Leota and look in her green eyes forever. But I would only marry her if I didn’t have to do the housework. I was certain of that. But if Leota really didn’t want to do it either, I guessed I’d do it. I’d do anything for Leota.
We stayed up and watched the Milton Berle show. He kept getting pies in the face and everyone thought that was so funny. I didn’t think it was so funny. They should have eaten the pies instead of throwing them at one another. If they were mad why didn’t they just knock the crap out of each other? It made no sense to me but it was fun to watch. I didn’t care if Milton Berle didn’t know better.
But I’m not gonna base my judgment on one little fuck with ole Leroy. We got to do it a lot more and maybe I’ll do around twenty or thirty men and twenty or thirty women and then I’ll decide. I wonder if I could get twenty people to go to bed with me? Oh it doesn’t really matter anyway.
Sometimes I felt sorry for Leroy. He followed the herd, like any dumb beast, vaguely realizing he was unhappy.
That’s all I think I ever wanted, to go my own way and maybe find some love here and there. Love, but not the now and forever kind with chains around your vagina and a short circuit in your brain. I’d rather be alone.
Her theory was that government was so dirty we should leave it up to the men.
Me, I don’t like fights, right or wrong. I smile and say ‘Yes’ to the boss at work and ‘Yes’ to Carrie and ‘Yes’ to my folks when they was alive. I slide by.” “I can’t do that, Dad.” “I know. You’ll pay for it, honey. Tears and bitterness, ’cause you’ll be out there fighting all by yourself. Most people are cowards, like me. And if you try to get them to fight they’ll turn on you, bad as the people you originally fightin’ with. You’ll be all alone.”
But I’d rather make movies than talk to some sleepy jury.” “Then make movies. You only got one life so do what you want.”
“Molly, I haven’t done much good with my life and now it’s almost gone. I’m fifty-seven. Fifty-seven. I can’t get used to it. When I think of myself sometimes I think I’m still sixteen. Funny ain’t it? To you I’m an old fogey but I can’t quite believe I’m old. Listen to me,” his voice got stronger, “you go on and do whatever you want to do and the hell with the rest of the world. Learn from your old man. I never did a Goddamned thing and now I’m too old to do anything. All I got is dead dreams and a mortgage on that house with ten years left to pay. I worked my whole life and all I got to show
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For all our fights, there was no getting around the fact that Carrie wasn’t fooled by show and she regarded most of the world around her as a show for the rich at the expense of the poor.
Whenever we were seen with our respective boyfriends, we paid the usual fondling attention to him demanded by rigid high-school society, but in truth, none of the three of us gave a damn about any of them. They were a convenience, something you had to wear when you went to school functions, like a bra.
“I hate to lie too, but people will say we’re lesbians.” “Aren’t we?” “No, we just love each other, that’s all. Lesbians look like men and are ugly. We’re not like that.”
“No, you don’t have to be anything. I’m sorry I asked you if you were a queer. But this is a big jolt. Things your mother didn’t tell you and all that. I guess I’m square, or maybe I’m scared. I don’t think you or anyone else should wear a label and I don’t understand why who you sleep with is so Goddamned important and I don’t understand why I’m all strung out over this. All this time I thought I was this progressive thinker, this budding intellectual among the sandspurs, now I find out I’m as shot through with prejudice as the next asshole. I cover them up with layers of polysyllables.”
“Okay, so maybe part of it is curiosity but another part of it is that I have more fun with you than anyone else in the whole fucking world. I probably love you more than anybody. This is the way it should be, you know, a lover who is a friend and not that moonie crap.”
We were eighteen, in love, and didn’t know the world existed—but it knew we existed.
I closed the door forever on idealism and the essential goodness of human nature, and I walked to the Greyhound bus station by the same path that I had taken on my arrival.
Yankees are compelled by some mysterious force to imitate Southern accents and they’re so damn dumb they don’t know the difference between a Tennessee drawl and a Charleston clip.
Kim laughed and looked at me. Her eyes were very light blue-gray. There was something good about her that radiated through her eyes.
You’re strong enough to take it, but I’m not strong enough to watch it.
But all I’m trying to say is, don’t make a ritual out of getting your head together, that’s all.”
Why does it get to me? Why can’t I just write off those people the way they write me off? Why does it always get through and hurt?
“When I make love to women I think of their genitals as a, as a rubyfruit jungle.” “Rubyfruit jungle?” “Yeah, women are thick and rich and full of hidden treasures and besides that, they taste good.” “That’s hardly a fantasy. You have an extremely immature sex life, Molly. No wonder you’re a lesbian.”
But I could only take so many conversations where big names were dropped like napalm to inflame your brain with admiration.
I was too dangerous for her friends but I was good enough for her daughter. Polina’s double-think was astounding.
“Oh Molly, why do you have to have morals?” “Because I don’t have money.”
“I’m not a baby anymore. For Christ’s sake, Mother, I’m old enough to be making it with your lover, so dig it and get off my back.”
“You’re crazy. A woman’s got to marry. What’s going to happen to you when you’re fifty? You got to grow old with somebody. You’re going to be sorry.” “I’m going to be arrested for throwing an orgy at ninety-nine and I’m not growing old with anybody.
At least in New York City I can be more than a breeder of the next generation.
Carrie, Carrie whose politics are to the right of Genghis Khan. Who believes that if the good Lord wanted us to live together he’d have made us all one color. Who believes a woman is only as good as the man she’s with. And I love her. Even when I hated her, I loved her. Maybe all kids love their mothers, and she’s the only mother I’ve ever known. Or maybe underneath her crabshell of prejudice and fear there’s a human being that’s loving. I don’t know but either way I love her.
So let me just say the abovementioned woman took the time to give me a playful push in the direction of my typewriter. Of course, after you read the book, you may wish that she had pushed me in front of something moving faster than a typewriter.
