For as long as I can remember, I've had this primal urge to belong: to fit in as a part of something bigger, safer, familiar. For years, I've felt that I did not belong, maybe because I am an immigrant and it was hard to integrate into US culture; maybe because I heard a unison chant in Israel's where I was raised, that the world insisted that we don't have a right to belong anywhere and as still the case, we are still fighting, clawing to a niche just for us. Some of us have internalized the world's view, as it seeped into our conscious, feeling the lack of truly belonging; maybe as a person who came out as a lesbian in a small town in the mid 80's, I felt so separate, so other, so alone, that I didn't think there would be any acceptance, any sliver of hope of belonging; Maybe because my father had disowned me, I no longer felt that I belonged in my own family; maybe belonging was something elusive, untenable, fleeting, though my heart continued to be-longing for belonging.
My early desire for a Utopian tribe was rooted in my upbringing, surrounded by socialist values of the Russian/Polish pioneers' collective work, kibbutz ideals and practices and the coming together, albeit imperfectly, of an amalgamation of peoples from different countries and cultures unified by a vision of belonging.
This is why we embarked on this current journey. I wanted to see, visit, learn about communities in the US-what brought people together, how did they live, what made their communal efforts blossom or wilt. I understood that there was a deep need for community because whenever I articulated my need for connection, for my lost tribe, for a building of a place where one worked cooperatively and shared resources, there was an immediate passionate insistence by many who wanted to join.
How does this relate to the last few days?
Let me tell you two stories.
Upon seeing some stunning photos of Lake Mittry in southern Arizona, we decided we needed to find that desert oasis and headed south towards Yuma.
The lake with its undulating inlets, its reddish-haired grasses swaying, bowing to the wind, its white-billed, black bodied ducks skimming the waters was calming, nourishing: the elixir of nature at work on our 21st century electronic-filled, neuron-starved brains. As we set camp on the banks of this wonder, we heard several gunshots and saw, less than 500 feet away, two bellied-up ducks. Arizona was different planet. Three drunk teens rounded the corner, hootin' and hollerin', in their truck. They lowered their canoe next to us and went to get their kill. I was a bit stunned.
Although I believe hunting is a more honest way of getting one's food than the supermarket, shooting and killing next to campers while laughing disrespectfully at these souls' demise is just appalling. Rachel went to speak to the folks who were in an RV across from us. She was curious if this was normal behavior on Planet Arizona. Locals. Tammy and Larry, assured her that although this was in fact, duck hunting season, the boys' sportsmanship was abysmal.
I joined them, as well as another couple, Amber and Alan, from Oregon, who were in an adjacent RV. Tammy was adamant in pinpointing how Rachel and I knew each other.
"How do you two know each other?"
"Do you work together?"
"Are you travelling friends?"
Finally Rachel blurted, "We are together. She is my wife." I chimed in , "We have two boys," as if this would make us less threatening. We are just your normal, everyday, American family.
Tammy looked a bit shocked, but Amber and Alan practically raised their PFLAGs in enthusiasm and support. Larry continued to sip on his straw full of what appeared to be vodka.
They had mentioned something about their church and my brain started its own judgement dance: Hateful, conservative, alcoholic, nothing like me.Yep, I summed them up right quick.
The next night, they invited all of us to sit by the fire. I found out that through their church, they had done a considerable amount of service, for years building and nurturing an orphanage in Mexico. We talked about doing good stuff for the world, Tikkun Olam. They were kind and generous and helpful and yes, Christians who drank. But, we shared values and they were hospitable to the visiting gays. I stopped casting stones and started using those to form a bridge. It was divinely inspired. There are no coincidences.
After a few days of meandering among mesquite bushes and dusty palms, watching Mexican field hands toil for hours, picking leafy lettuces, collards and cabbage, we headed back to our camp near Quartzsite. We had seen a post on the group's facebook page that called on everyone to join the campfire that evening for a discussion of the hard issues that had occurred while we were gone. We were a bit puzzled and concerned. We did not want to walk into drama. All of us are whack-tose intolerant. We called Dawn, the camp host, in order to discover what had happened.
Before I begin, a disclaimer and a request. It is challenging to air dirty laundry, especially of a disenfranchised group, yet, it is important to me to show vulnerabilities and issues that may promote understanding, human connection, and ultimately compassion. I ask you to read the upcoming writing with this in mind.
Dawn, our camp host, is a civil-rights attorney who helps with immigration cases at the border. For two weeks a year, she wanted to create a space where women-born-women who identify as lesbians, can come together for a bit of camaraderie, discussion and relaxation. She and her girlfriend, Joni, created a Facebook page inviting those who fit the above criteria, to join in L-camp at the Women's Rubber Tramp Rendevouz, a gathering of vehicle dwellers.
Dawn was the gatekeeper, redirecting those who were lost, who really wanted to join the lesbian camp, but did not fit the requirements, men, bisexuals and trans folks, to the adjacent Rainbow camp who was open to all. Dawn did this respectfully but firmly. Heck, her best friend and honorary brother, Vern, who thought of himself as an honorary lesbian, was not allowed to join.
My sister had asked me when do I ever join non-lesbian only events and I had to laugh. The last similar event that I had been to which was for WBW was in 1985 at the Michigan Women's Musical festival. My days are mostly around mainstream heterosexuals, a few lesbians, queers and trans people.
These days there is a huge chasm between the old school lesbians and the younger queer ones. Here is how it played out...
A woman came to the camp, already very upset that her bisexual and trans friends couldn't join. She objected to the exclusion of these folks and so, the in-fighting began. Dawn was adamant that the camp remain lesbian-only space. I understood this need of a group to get together, to talk about the hurts and pains of their oppression without having to take care of those who inflicted that oppression nor direct their anger towards individuals; I knew that the discussion around a campfire would be limited and quite different if non-lesbians were present; I knew we needed a space where we could honor our herstories, our victories without being interrupted by those with the privilege of taking front and center.
There was an ugly altercation between Dawn and this woman, who insisted she had a right to stay and invite whomever she pleased. She was right, but disrespectful. Dawn became "The Man," the power to fight against. This is what internalized sexism and lesbophobia looks like. It's easier to strike at home, then out in the enormous, overwhelming, well-funded world of bigotry.
We called a younger couple to hear another perspective. They informed us that half the camp had already left in support of the ones who were discouraged from staying. I felt deeply having come from places where I was excluded. I didn't want anyone to feel like they were unwelcomed. I also wondered why it was so difficult to get a tiny amount of time on tinier land for one's group.I thought that if a group of sober alcoholics wanted a safe space without alcohol, they wouldn't think that excluding those who wanted to drink as unfair, bigoted and wrong. There is something threatening, it seems, about women who don't need men and who are demanded a room of their own.
I admit, I was defensive and uncomfortable when we joined the campfire. Although I needed this space and I supported my sisters' efforts, I also knew that adultism was at play, opinions were peppered with judgement against the new younger Queer expressions. I heard that the older crones were concerned that our experiences would be erased, forgotten. Hardly anyone was using the word lesbian to describe herself anymore. It was too binary. Genders were no longer only male or female and the term "lesbian" was limiting to many.
I knew of the vilification by younger, hip queers of older, "ugly, Birkenstock and plaid wearing, hairy pitted, bra-less dykes." I understood why the old-timers were incensed. There were hardly any spaces that exhibited how the queer crowd got the privilege of being themselves. I also knew that unless we did our own work on ageism, adultism and learned how to love our changing community and invited them to forums where we could share our experiences and listen open-mindedly to theirs, we would be erased.
I realize that my work was to hold both communities with reverence and love; not to choose a camp because we were all a part of the same magnificent tapestry being weaved. We would not be as brilliant, as beautiful, as strong without each other's fibers. We needed to blend together, each incorporating her own, significant thread into something that would cover us all. It is an on-going dance and commitment and I pledged not to bow out, but to keep dancing despite my aching feet.
Won't you join me?
Thanks, Gingi.
