Searching for sisters in the USSR
In Leningrad I was on the streets every day, filling up my eyes,
searching for anything and everything. Would l know a lesbian
if I saw her?
B Y
K E L L Y
M A S E K
n Leningrad, where the light never ceased
and I felt continually dizzy and off-balance
(a reaction to jet-lag I was told), we only
murmured about the possibility of lesbians. Had
anyone heard anything from anyone else who
had been here before? Did someone know
someone who knew?
The information that finally filtered through
was in the form of a coming-out story. It seemed
last time Janet was in Leningrad she decided to
come out to a Soviet friend. Things went
smoothly and the two women remained friends.
When Janet returned to Leningrad for another
visit, accompanied by her lover this time, she
wanted her Soviet friend and her lover to meet.
They met and all was well until it was time to
say good-bye and the friend was “ stiff as a
board and barely touched me” came the report
to us from Janet's lover.
The story takes on considerbly more weight
in the Soviet Union where the people are not
squeamish huggers, kissers, hand-holders, or
arm-in-arm strollers; man to man, woman to
woman and otherwise. When meeting or de
parting, especially departing, there are great
displays of affection, even if you've just met.
It was the first piece of the puzzle laying
lonely on the board. Just a bit of homophobia,
but it spurred us on. What further information
would we uncover? Would we see a gay couple
or even a single? Would someone come out to
us? It was the beginning of our journey and we
were buoyant with hopes.
There were twenty-seven women in our
traveling group; each of us in search of a special
dream, several of us looking for clues to Soviet
gay and lesbian culture. The common ties bind
ing the group were citizen diplomacy, peace,
and the empowerment of women. This trip,
which brought us together, was the third annual
Women's Journey for Peace to the Soviet Union
sponsored by the Earthstewards Network
In Leningrad I was on the streets every day,
filling up my eyes, searching for anything and
everything. I was there at six in the morning
watching parents walk their children to day
care. I was there during rush hour, carried by
crowds toward the Metro. One night I was at the
circus, surrounded by laughing children and
adults. Would I know' a lesbian if I saw her?
Sitting next to me were two women whispering
to one another, their arms linked together Who
could tell? We were gleeful at the complete
acceptance of public affection How freeing
this seemed. No stigma and yet in the end I had
difficulty adopting this custom. It felt awkward.
I needed practice.
When we left Leningrad the white nights
lighted our way to Vilniu. the capital of
Lithuania. Birch forests and dachas and smooth
green fields floated by our train windows. It was
difficult to sleep with these scenes beckoning
and difficult to stay awake aboard the lulling
train. Our time in Vilniu was brief and filled
with visits to a daycare, a factory, an island
castle We did not pick up any more clues on the
lesbian trail. After three days in Vilniu we
traveled to Minsk and an adventure with Ylena.
It began with an address given to a member of
our gror.’r who is a world traveller and co-ordi
nator of world travel for persons with disabili
ties. Susan wanted to visit the woman whose
address she had. but whom she did not know.
Did anyone want to go with her? Several of us
did and at 10:00 on a Sunday morning we set out
to find Ylena. It took us several tries to procure
a taxi, no one wanted to take Susan's wheel
chair. We finally hid the chair until the last
moment, and then piled into the taxi before the
driver could say “ nyet!"
We were taken to a block containing several
sandy-colored low-rise apartment buildings.
I
When Ylena answered my knock she was faced
with a nervous American pointing to her ad
dress and saying “ hello” and “ peace and
friendship” in poorly-accented Russian. Some
how she understood and invited us in, served us
tea and sweets, and spent the rest of the day with
us. We communicated with the help of two dic
tionaries and one useless phrase book (which
Ylena finally threw against the wall in frustra
tion). Later in the day we were able to bring
Carol, a member of our group who spoke Rus
sian, together with Ylena. In the more fluid
discussions which followed, someone asked,
‘ 'did Ylena know about women who loved wo
men, men who loved men?” “ As friends," she
said. “ No. as married, as husband and wife,”
was the best translation. “ Nyet," she said with
finality. “ These people are ill. They are
institutionalized and cured."
Ylena’s answer reminded me of the informa
tion we'd received about AIDS. We were told
there are people in the Soviet Union who have
AIDS, but there are only 40 of them and they
are all foreigners. Following this line of reason
ing, there are gay people in the Soviet Union,
but they're "cured" and because they re cured,
there really aren't any Soviet gays (just like
there aren't any Soviets with AIDS). It’s a dif
ficult argument to accept.
I asked if Ylena was married. No, she was a
single woman, a psychologist by profession,
who loved her work. Marriage would be bad for
her nerves, she said. Did she feel pressure,
social pressure to marry? “ Only pressure from
my mother," she replied.
We left Minsk on a midnight train bound for
Moscow, the fourth and final city on our itiner
ary. Our finale in Moscow was almost too good
to be true. It included a chance to participate in
the third World Women's Congress, a chance to
roam the streets of Moscow, to stand in Red
Square, to explore this complex layered heart of
old Russia and the new Soviet Union. In
Moscow the days lengthened beyond recall.
Each day might have been a year or more. I
cannot describe the stretching of my emotions,
my thoughts, even my physical being felt
stretched living in Moscow. Keeping my jour
nal became a difficult task. I would forget at the
end of the day, or be too tired, lying in bed
repeating to myself what I must write the next
day, what I must not forget.
I wrote nothing about Svetlana in my journal.
Her address is scribbled across the back of a
Moscow postcard with arrows and instructions
to turn the whole thing upside down (the city
\ goes on the top line. Svetlana’s name on the
bottom line).
Will my letters reach you. I had asked, hav
ing learned in two short weeks to take nothing
for granted in the Soviet Union. “ Oh. yes.
perhaps they will." She had paused thought
fully. “ You must give them to someone, a
fnend who will come to Moscow to deliver
them to me or who w ill mail the letters from
somewhere within the country. Then 1 will re
ceive your letters ."
Svetlana was the closest I came to finding a
connection to lesbian and gay culture in the
Soviet Union. She was not a lesbian nor did she
know women who were, but she knew about
lesbians and gay men and there was a sophisti
cation to her knowledge. She had read Rita Mae
Brown’s Ruby fruit Jungle (which was listed in
the card catalogue of the foreign language
library where she worked) and she had seen the
film La Cage Aux Folles. She had asked a
French interpreter at the United Nations (where
she had worked for three years in the early
1970s) if all the men in France were gay. He had
told her only those in the south of France,
Svetlana asked me many questions about being
lesbian. Some were typical dregs (Do they hate
men?), others were not (do they choose to have
children and how is this done?). Svetlana’s wil
lingness to talk helped dispel the murky fog of
homophobia created by Ylena’s words in
Minsk. But she asked more than she answered
and perhaps kept me from probing too much.
Re-living that discussion I understood how
small are the increments of knowledge to be
gained by the visitor in the Soviet Union. If I
could go back and talk with Svetlana again,
what more would I leam?
Svetlana was one of two gifts that came to me
on my last day in the Soviet Union. She was a
gift of openness, but Grete, a Netherlands
delegate to the Women’s Congress, a grand
mother. and a gay rights activist, was the balm
to soothe my soul. Grete joined me and my
lover on a bench ir Gorky Park, assumed we
were partners, an*.. ..'Id us about her work as a
gay rights activist. “ I am not gay," she said,
"but everyone must work for gay rights be
cause everyone must have the right to choose .’’
I hope her words linger in that place a long
while.
Kelly Masek lives in Portland. She participated
in the World Women's Congress in Moscow last
June.
•
Perspectives 9:
Northwest Expressionism
Septem ber 4 -
October 25
Qt the
Portland firt
Museum
1219 SUU P ork
Featuring five
regional artists:
Gregory Grenon
Michael Moron
Lucinda Parker
Louro Ross-Paul
M ary M egroth Turner
¥
Oregon Art Institute
Museum, College 4 Film Center
Just Out • 13 • October. 1987