No, Mother.

When I first came out to my mother - and to me, coming out meant coming out to my mother - this woman I’d heard cry only from behind closed doors, choked tears on the other end of the phone and said, “Your life is going to be so hard, and life is hard enough.”

I was 19 years old. 

Now 31 years later at the cusp of 50, older than she was then, I can fully and truthfully respond, NO, MOTHER. 

No, mother. Being gay wasn’t hard; what’s hard is oppression. What’s hard is being denied history. Not knowing for instance that there were queer kings and queens and emperors - still memorialized on coins - women that rode into battle and married wives. Men who dressed in gowns and wore makeup and called themselves “husband” to the man they held dear yet STILL ran an empire. 

What’s hard is not knowing about the ancient sarcophagi containing some of the First People, male remains buried with tender female objects because these were the things treasured in life. It was hard to grow up in the South thinking I was the only one, all the while this history existed untold, the first people, gender-fluid, but still honored by their tribe, that was hard. It was difficult struggling inside with shame and guilt, shunned by classmates and threatened with damnation, all because I’d fallen in love with my friend, fell in love the way all teenagers do - an open, dazed stumble like falling into flowers – surviving that was hard. 

Being gay wasn’t hard.  It was being alone.  

Mother, the hard was you calling me queer, sneer in your voice. Belittling me, as I cried post-breakup on the bathroom floor.  The hard was learning later that so many queer children die needlessly for the same reason, taking their own lives, when had they known about Caleph Al-Hakeem and Queen Christina, and those Two Spirits, the absolute inevitability of LGBTQ people throughout time, well, they wouldn’t have died. 

No, mother.  Being gay isn’t hard. Seeing a college friend, jaw wired shut after being bashed in Alphabet City, that brings pause. Begging for politicians to recognize gay men dying of AIDS, to allow them healthcare, a basic human right, yeah, that sucked, I agree. But we threw the ashes of their dead bodies over the White House fence and eventually those inside got the point. 

Mother, you were worried about me in your own way, but what you missed was the joy. What  you didn’t foresee was the dancing. Limelight, NYC, a former church, now lit by spotlights.  You didn’t know about the Pyramid Club down in the Village, friends dancing to the all-80s night. Or Private Eyes, where they misted the room with wet smoke and how we swam through it like a sea to meet lovers on the other side. 

Mother, you missed the parades. We marched down 5th Ave from the Park, following a lavender line through the city.  Held kiss-ins in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, grabbed the person next to us and went to town. It reminded me of being young on Sundays when we’d say peace be with you and reach across the church to shake hands with strangers, only in the protest it was WITH TONGUE. Yes, mother that was fun. That was exultant. The great rainbow ribbon of balloons. The dykes on bikes. Rounding Christopher Street past the Stonewall, queers cheering from their balconies and throwing streamers down on our heads like we were wartime heroes. The parade would dump out on to the west side Piers, into a rally, and drag queens would lip sync from the stage.  They’d call us names, yell out, hey bitches happy Pride! And I’d be pressed in among the masses, a glorious press of bodies, love, and joy,  we’d say our goodbyes and plan to meet back later when we’d dance by the water and kiss beneath fireworks, and the moon. 

No, mother, that wasn’t hard. That was life.  That was being myself. Feeling myself, feeling free.  Free of hatred, particularly of self-hatred, and no, that wasn’t hard. THAT was grace.

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Laura Jones is a writer, journalist and teacher. Her nonfiction essays have been featured in two anthologies, including THEY SAID, edited by the poet, Simone Muench, and the upcoming, HOME IS WHERE THEY QUEER YOUR HEART. An excerpt of Jones’ graphic memoir "My Life in Movies" was published in 2019 in Fourth Genre, along with a companion essay commissioned by the journal. Her nonfiction work has also appeared in numerous literary journals including Creative Nonfiction, Foglifter, The Gay and Lesbian Review, The Drum, and Wraparound South, to name a few. Jones earned her MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Northwestern University, where she also won the 2015 AWP Journals Prize. She is currently co-teaching a curriculum she co-designed in LGBTQ+ history and theory to high school students at the Springhouse Community School.

Mothering During Covid-19

“Shame, guilt, and white western standards of productivity were things I needed to cast out long before becoming a parent.”

It was December and I was due back at work in a few weeks. I didn't have childcare covered and I convinced myself that I was ready to balance the dual responsibilities of my job and a newborn baby. In reality, I had no choice. My maternity leave was almost over and I couldn't live on State disability assistance alone.

In February, I secured childcare. My daughter began to take naps and eat solids. I felt all the Black Girl Magic dust flowing over me. She had a safe space while I found comfort and freedom at work. On Mondays, I would leave staff meetings thirty minutes early. We were usually home in time for dinner, a story before bed, sometimes followed by prayers if she wasn't already sleeping. This pattern continued every week. Weekends consisted of walks with friends and laying out in the sun. I changed diapers in bathrooms without changing tables, drank coffee with one hand and supported her head on the other while she chugged back breastmilk. I finally felt like I had reached my stride. I even traveled without her for the first time. I felt at ease. I wasn't worried about her safety or eager to return home. It was strange interacting with others without her. Everyone assumed how I would feel, and in fact, it was the exact opposite. Within a week of my return, California was ordered to shelter-in-place. I spent the first few days of this experience daydreaming about what it would look like when we were back in the office and my routine afternoon pattern of dodging traffic in time for pickup.

It’s always challenging balancing work and family. Given the severity of the virus and it's spread, I felt even more stretched with the weight of anxiety and fear. I have, however, had a lot of time to reflect on parenthood. As the days turned into months, I sometimes found that I didn't know when to stop working and found myself ignoring the one person that mattered the most, my daughter. It was at this moment that I realized that I needed to make a change and acknowledge my new reality.

So much of my identity as a Black Queer Caribbean woman was defined by my work. I hate to admit it, but I didn't want to be seen as weak. I felt that admitting that everything wasn’t going well would change how others viewed me as a mother and a person. The feelings and thoughts are more about how the world views me rather than how I view myself.

See, parenthood called me to take more risks. I was being asked to ground myself in a new way. I can no longer bury myself in work or the expectation of a tipsy weekend brunch. I needed to take care of myself. I spoke a lot about self-care as a radical act but didn’t live into this until recently. Shame, guilt, and white western standards of productivity were things I needed to cast out long before becoming a parent. At many points, I hit a wall. I felt alone, anxious, and scared. While I was grateful for my job and the support of friends and colleagues, I struggled to find balance. I knew that I needed to confront this for the sake of my daughter.

I began to make a word of the day a daily ritual. The same word has been on my fridge for the past two months.

P-A-T-I-E-N-C-E

I need to be patient with myself. I need to be patient with others. Every time I don't feel unhappy or ashamed, I allow myself to acknowledge the feeling instead of pretending it doesn't exist. I give myself a few moments and then I cast it out. I name the thing that does not serve me. When I'm leading staff meetings or a webinar that will be recorded and shared with others, I take a deep breath and say to myself. Cielo will be recorded in webinars and attend Zoom meetings “This is your life. [Insert negative feeling] you do not serve me. I cast you out." This isn't a perfect practice. It is, however, something I'm committed to for the rest of my life. I've found this to be empowering. I relinquish control of things I can’t change. I want my daughter to see me at my best, but I also want her to see me when I’m frustrated and don’t have all the answers.

I don't think there is ever a going back to what was, even if some parts of the puzzle fit. The more I cast things out, the more I can grow deeper into a place of liberation and freedom.

Here are a few lessons I've learned:

1. Breathe. Sometimes when I feel off-balance, I stop in the thick of it and begin to take deepbreaths. This provides clarity and a moment of relief.

2. Laugh. I often find myself in the middle of a teething baby’s cry. This has brought me a lot of joy.Laughing is medicine and often contagious. She will begin to laugh and for a momentthe world stands still. We laugh together.

3. Get lost in something. Do something. This moment and activity aren’t about perfection or mastering a craft. Takethe space to disappear into the thing and become one with it.

4. Connect with your brave person. I’ve always been the friend you go to for advice. The pandemic and mothering havetaught me to connect more with others. I don’t have to perform with my brave person. I can breastfeed without shame or sit in moments of silence.

5. Food is an act of radical hospitality. Be kind to your body.

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Jodie Geddes is a nationally recognized restorative justice practitioner. She uses her New York and Jamaican upbringing as a source of inspiration and storytelling. She is also the co-author of The Little Book of Racial Healing.

Where the Dancing Never Stops – an Essay

A couple of months ago I wrote a post about how shaming sex workers makes you a bad feminist, which you can read here. It was an argument that women who shame other women for their line of work was not uplifting, but instead incredibly harmful. One thing that this article failed to review however, is that sometimes the cost of empowerment is high; and the labor of feeling empowered in the face of misogynistic men in a sexist system can be overwhelming. We support all types of sex workers and think every reason to do sex work is valid, and understand that it is an excruciating job, while at the same time this essay is a different perspective on some of the potential effects working in such a marginalized industry can leave on a woman.

The walls are strange. They slant so the roof skims above my head in the darkness and a far off light shows what I’m wearing: suspenders, a black bra, thigh-high stockings. In this sloped room, the shadows are dancers, or should I say strippers, and the shapes around them their customers. My dream soon finds me in the changing room surrounded by fluorescent lights and big mirrors, the reflection showing something unformed, and when I stare at the beast, time stops. I’m in a night terror. I have them regularly in different variations. Here’s another: I’m in a Victorian-style house rich with velvet curtains and rugs and I’m crawling between rooms because a man is chasing me. I don’t know who the man is or why, but I keep going. I scuffle between rooms until I can’t tell one from the other. I never know how the dream ends because I usually wake before it ends, stiff with anxiety. I don’t tell anyone these anxieties because empathy is limited to those from the sex industry. There’s a level of shame implicit to sex work which sticks like warm molasses and marks every aspect of life, no matter how forward-thinking people are. I’ve danced for most of my 20s and still have a bitter taste in my mouth whenever asked of my past.

Photo by Obi Onyeador on Unsplash

It’s not strange for a feminist to decry the sex industry, but it’s also not strange for feminist sex workers to tell of the empowerment they find from using their bodies as they wish. The dancers have agency when it comes to the right to choose, and a wield sexual mastery not otherwise seen in everyday life through pole dancing and expressing themselves sexually. You can be a feminist and a sex worker, but when considering the industry as a whole, the bitter taste only sours.

When writing this story, I contacted an old friend I’d stripped with to ask her perspective on the industry since she’d danced for almost a decade and was one of the biggest earners I knew. Quickly, she declined. She was doing the same thing I’d done since quitting, a voluntary witness protection program hiding her identity from society. Even for the most confident of dancers, anonymity is vital for self-preservation, both mentally and spiritually, something I understood well.

For a short while in 2012, I took it on myself to be proud of my job, mostly stripping, and told people about it honestly. Of the reactions I received, here are a few: one man asked what it was like to sleep on a mountain of cash for fucking men. Another sent a long, detailed email listing the reasons I was an embarrassment and disgusting, and some men asked for favors, either a boob flash or a 'private show' depending on their confidence and how well they knew me. Although the women's reactions were more supportive, there was still an air of concern for my career choice and that I was doing something wrong.

Sometime later, feeling discouraged, I looked up the nicer things people wrote on blogs and forums, finding perspectives from strippers. I read about sexual liberation and the choice to use the body and having a say over who could and couldn't use it. This was when the industry started to leave a mark, and something in those words resonated. I'd first started dancing for the rush of using my body and wanting to emulate the women who worked hard and saved for their future. They were confident, beautiful, interesting. But I was drained. I'd told myself I'd get used to the late hours, and the bruises on my knees, and the spiteful words, and the grabbing, and the managers trying to fuck me, and the security guards groping me, and the waitresses looking down on me, and the expectation of giving something for nothing, and the need to party, and the burning taste of vodka, and the 'extras' you needed to do to earn money because everyone else did them, and the dirty looks from women with their friends, and the men who got too attached, and the men who waited and followed me after my shift, and the constant bodily assessment, and the fingers that probed too close to my vagina, and the men who threw beer and coins on stage to make me feel cheap, and the way even after I showered the grime stuck to my skin and never quite washed out.

Photo by Eric Nopanen on Unsplash

Looking back, the liberation is faint and unclear. Where is the liberation in an industry formed by a society that shames women? The job is sexually liberating but within a short spectrum of acceptability dictated by the men and club owners. I've never seen a hairy dancer. Nor have I seen larger dancers. I've seen curvy dancers and older dancers (I was told at 25 I'd soon be put to pasture), but on the whole, dancers are expected to look the same, dance the same and alternate the same outfits provided by the sex stores, usually lycra and seven-inch heels. On induction to some clubs, a pamphlet is given with the accepted attire and the places to get it.

In 2014, before I quit dancing, I started at a club known for its beautiful women and luxurious outfits. After my audition, I received a guide on the weekly outfit changes. Wednesday was lingerie, Monday bikinis and swimsuits, weekends for ballgowns, long spandex numbers provided by the club at a $150 fee. With fines for not dancing the correct way or wearing the correct outfits, we were the unified, undistinguishable embodiment of male desire.

The liberation fades further when I consider agency and the choice to dance, choosing who to strip for and when. Private dances work on a commission basis with a 70/30 cut between the dancer and the club, and when you're having a bad night and the money is slow, it's hard to say no to a half an hour private show paying a hundred dollars. I recall picking the bad eggs from the crowd when dancing on stage and groaning when they approached me afterward for a private show as I'd only earned fifteen dollars and couldn't say no. These were the men that grabbed too hard, probed too close, and requested things like 'spreading my lips apart' so they could get a better look. And for the right price, I indulged them because everyone else did. My threshold was someone else’s payday. But the point is if men didn’t feel the need to be sexually placated and need to indulge in a spectacle of feminine sexuality, these clubs, these requests wouldn’t exist. There’s also the drug use: customers constantly looking for a coke hook-up and the need to re-examine your limits each night if you want the big money.

Strippers aren’t always the victim in this narrative, but they’re not respected either, and the ramifications for working in the sex industry are far-reaching and insidious.

After I made a clean break from the industry, I experienced something beyond my usual anxiety, which kept me tense and unable to forget the past. At night I'd wake in a sweat with nightmares reliving a bad night dancing, or I wouldn’t dream at all, just wake frightened and lost. In the daytime, I’d have flashbacks. I’d stop and be lost in a private room or on the stage in a club while my chest squeezed around my heart, aching. The feeling was so strange and vague words can’t describe it, though it’s somewhat like being adrift in time and reliving the worst days, every day.

I approached a therapist, and after telling her my history and symptoms, she informed me I was experiencing PTSD. The words themselves felt strange on my tongue. I'd heard of soldiers and people with trauma experiencing PTSD but not for stripping and entertaining drunk men. The symptoms under the disorder include 're-experiencing trauma' through memory or flashbacks, 'physical and mental distress', 'avoidance of thoughts and feelings', and others like restlessness, anger, and sleep problems. I recognized and knew all the symptoms, but I couldn't connect my experience with the words. The place where the issue stuck was the fact I'd chosen to strip. There was no coercion or desperation. Usually, there's the perception workers of the sex industry are trapped with the need for money, but the money was only a bonus for me, and I never felt forced to maintain the lifestyle only that surrounding circumstances made it difficult to leave, like having a five-year gap on my resume and not adapting to the nine to five day. I wasn't a victim yet my body was telling me otherwise.

After leaving my therapist’s office, I thought about all the times I’d come home after work and cried, either from being groped in a private show or being shamed by men when they’d ask whether ‘my parents were proud of me’. I thought about this last incident in particular. On a Thursday or Friday night, I’d been dancing on stage and just finished my set, when two men called me over. Their table was on the path to the change room, so I walked over, holding my bra over my breasts. 'Your parents must be really proud of you,' one of the men said. The other laughed, and I didn't say anything. In isolation, this seems insignificant, though when taken in context with the physical harassment and countless other slurs, the abuse becomes more apparent. But an answer to this is why not leave? And an easier response is it didn't seem so bad at first. The first year, you mark it off as drunk men, not knowing what they're doing. You're sure he didn't mean to slap you that hard or touch your breasts that way. The second year, you expect the insults and the grabbing, but you're weathered to the fact. You make sure you're always watching for wandering fingers or unwanted slaps. The third year is when you start thinking about getting out, but it's harder than you think because the money's so easy and the work's so easy if you just put in the effort. Everyone else does, so why not you? The fourth year is when you question things in detail, like the motive of the man who verbally abused you in a private show for lying. He asked several times if I had kids and only got madder the more I said no, but that’s not the point. It’s not relevant whether I had children or not, the goal of this man, and most other men that I experienced who go to strip clubs is to enforce a level of power over women either physically or psychologically. This is where the trauma started for me.

For some, dancing is a way to control the narrative, to take back control of bodies and feminine power and sexuality. But if society weren't formed around a culture that shames and reduces women physically and psychologically, would these impulses need to be fulfilled in the first place? We can choose who we dance with and when, but we don't choose how men speak to us and how men treat us. It's them who choose, them who pay and they who decide to come back if we're good enough.

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Lisa Easey is a recent university graduate completing a Bachelor of Creative Writing and is currently a freelance writer on Upwork. She also hosts a small book review podcast called Book Island that you can follow on Instagram @bookislandthepodcast.