___ Home for the holiday
Time has a way of putting light on foolish ideas
and softening up the most rigid resolve
do. When I visit Philadelphia, and sometimes
even here in Portland, I shave my legs. From
used to have a dilemma every time I
the knees down, anyway. "My concession to
headed home to Philadelphia for the
polite society,” I tell my mother. And she
holidays. Not what to pack, but what to leave laughs weakly.
behind. The earring in the shape of a women’s
symbol that I wore in my double-pierced left
Thanksgiving Day
ear? The photos of me and my lover on a trip
Some traditions, thankfully, can be broken.
to the Yucatan? Copies of this newspaper?
In a deft unilateral move, I strike swcet-
Even after I came out to my parents during
potato-and-mini-marshmallow casserole from
a traumatic, tear-streaked May weekend in
the menu and offer to make pumpkin strudel,
1987,1 continued to separate pieces of my
a traditional recipe of Greek Jews, instead.
identity the way some people sort their
My mother teases me that they don’t really
laundry. Patched blue-jeans, unshaven legs
know I’m home until they find tofu in the
and lesbian consciousness on the west coast.
refrigerator. Dutifully, I buy some and set it
Pantyhose, Jewish holidays and family bonds
afloat in a Comingware dish.
on the east.
At dinner, I talk with my cousins Milt,
Once, over lunch in a white-tablecloth
Laura and Debbie, ages 25, 16 and 10, about
restaurant in suburban Philadelphia, I told my
what it’s like to be Jewish in Oregon. I tell
mother that, if asked to define myself in a
them that I once had to draw “kosher” in a
series of one-word descriptions, my list would game of Pictionary, and no one even had a
read: “writer/woman/Jewish/daughter/
clue. Across the room, my relatives pore
lesbian.”
through old photo albums and laugh
I managed to convince both of us not only
hysterically about the gray-haired, smiling
that “lesbian” ranked a weak fifth, but that
man who appears at every party. No one
these aspects of my identity were separate,
knows his name; they refer to him only as
interchangeable, kind of like daisy-wheels on
“The Uncle.”
an electric typewriter.
Everyone talks at once, teasing, bantering,
Well, time has a way of putting light on
yelling across the room, telling stupid jokes.
foolish ideas and softening up the most rigid
Mild chaos is traditional in my family. For 20
resolve. This last trip, I overpacked because I
people, we have an enormous turkey, five
wanted to bring a little of everything —
pounds of string beans, several side dishes
photocopies of my recent Just Out articles,
(everyone likes the pumpkin strudel) and four
pictures from the women writers’ workshop I
desserts. Much too much food — also a
attended last summer, fabric for a dress I
family tradition.
planned to make. And my journal. To take
I look around the room, at the heads of
notes on how it all fit together.
dark hair, the faces that resemble mine. Food
and stories bind us to each other, to The Uncle
Tuesday, November 21
who came to every party, to the others, long
At dinner tonight, my mother confesses
dead, in these yellowed albums. Jewish/
that she was prepared not to like the new
daughter/lcsbian/cousin/woman/writer. I feel
haircut I had described to her on the phone. I
absolutely at home.
think she was prepared, as usual, for the worst
— a bristly short cut with pink highlights and
Saturday, November 25
a braided rat-tail at the nape of the neck. She
My parents and I go to a matinee of Lily
is relieved, as usual, to Find that despite my
Tomlin’s brilliant one-woman show. The
black high-tops and men’s overcoat, I still
Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the
look like a girl from the neck up.
Universe. Playwright Jane Wagner suggests
that our hope as people lies in our
Wednesday, November 22
connectedness, that we’re all mixed up
I drag my old sewing machine out of the
together in this wonderful human soup.
laundry room, oil it and show my grandfather
I cast sidelong glances at my parents
the fabric I brought to make a dress. “New
during the show, to see if they squirm at
dress.. .got a new boyfriend?” he says,
Tomlin’s references to labia-shaped candles
winking. I tell him the truth. Well, part of the
and turkey-baster babies. They’re fine,
laughing riotously along with everyone else.
truth.
On the way home, I take the liberty of
“Nope, this dress is just for me.”
coming out for Lily. "I kind of thought so,”
Later, I remember one springtime visit
my mother says. My father just drives.
home, when I wore almost nothing but a
single pair of faded, four-year-old blue jeans.
Lesbian/writcr/Philadelphian/Jewish/daughter.
In the back seat, I hold my souvenir Lily
I tucked my parents’ house keys into the right
Tomlin t-shirt and feel giddily triumphant
rear pocket. They thought I was making a
Later, my parents go out. I play my dad’s
statement. Really, I was asking a question —
records, mostly jazz vocalists like Mel Torme
is this me? — against the bone-deep backdrop
and Diane Schuur, and cook tofu with Indian
of home and family.
vegetables for a highschool friend. After I
These days, my mother and I have reached
hear the latest update on the man she had an
a bemused truce about my clothes. I don’t
affair with, we talk about French feminist
wear make-up. She no longer suggests that I
BY
I
A N N D E E HOCHMAN
theory and patriarchal language until after
midnight.
Tuesday, November 28
Over drinks, my mother tells me she has
been discussing lesbianism with Mario, her
hair stylist. Oh? Apparently, Mario says there
are two types of lesbians — the ones who
know from the time they’re very young and
the ones who have lousy husbands and leave
them to run off with women.
I take some pains to explode this
stereotype, and my mother listens. I suggest
that Mario is not Philadelphia’s most
encyclopedic resource on lesbian behavior.
But at least she’s talking about it, I think. To
somebody.
Later in this conversation my mother
confides her real fear about my life. “I just
don’t want you to be alone,” she says.
She tells me it makes her sad that she
won’t get a chance to plan my wedding, a
celebration that her friends and family can
support and understand. I talk to her about
alternative rituals, other ways to bring people
together and rejoice in each other’s lives.
Then I tell her it makes me sad too,
sometimes. And suddenly, we are not on
opposite sides of this old issue, but standing
together, both of us hurt and angry at a world
that squeezes joy into such tiny prescribed
slots.
Wednesday, November 29
My last night in Philadelphia. To celebrate
that, and my mother’s birthday, we go out to a
fancy restaurant on the 18th floor of the
Bellevue Hotel, where my parents met 30
years ago. A trio plays Broadway show tunes
and mellow jazz, and my parents show off
their recent ballroom-dancing lessons. I wear
the dress I just finished making.
The lighted skyline of Philadelphia spins
by on two sides while my grandfather waltzes
me counter-clockwise, around and around.
My father leads me in his own idiosyncratic
brand of foxtrot. When the band plays swing,
he sits down and I dance with my mother. We
are the only two women in the crowded
restaurant who dance together the entire
evening.
While we do an energetic jitterbug, I sense
chilly stares from other diners. My mother
seems not to notice. I tap her on the left hip.
She twirls out and back in again. We do a
fancy grapevine step the dance teacher taught
her just the other day. We hug each other
when the dance ends.
When we sit back down, my father and
grandfather applaud us. We are more flushed
than is fashionable in this place. All four of us
grin as if we have just broken a ridiculous
rule.
“You know what Emma Goldman said,” I
tell my family. “If I can’t dance, I don’t want
to be part of your revolution.”
Revolutionary/feminist/writer/lesbian/
Jewish/daughtcr/dancer. Whose list is this,
anyway? Who said identity was a list? I look
at my family sitting at this table, and I begin
to think identity is more like soup, all the
flavors swimming around together, mixing
and mellowing with time.
“Well, I’m with Emma Goldman,” my
mother says, and everybody laughs.
LADD7
EDITIOfl/
B O O K / T O R E
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