I don’t know how easy it’s going to be to explain Saturday night. I went to a concert. It’s the first time in YEARS that I’ve been to any musical performance. It’s not that I don’t like music, oh god no. But between the cost and some of the drawbacks (huge performance arenas, crowds, impossible transportation issues) I have just stayed home. The concert that got me out of the house may baffle some people because I went to hear a performer many/most of you may never have heard of Cris Williamson so her impact on music, and on my life (since after all that’s what this is really about) will bewilder you.

Cris isn’t a big name. I don’t imagine she’s ever been what most would consider a success in music; probably sells in the fractions of what most successes sell. But she represents for me some of the best of times. She’s got a voice of clarity and grace and she represents some wonderful times and wonderful feelings in my history.

Back when I lived in California, (I moved to Oakland in 1976) part of what the women’s movement was about was what was called women’s music. It was primarily and I think completely lesbian. The performers were lesbian, they sang about being lesbian, about being women having women in their lives, about not hiding and coming out. And they sang about love and laughter and friendship and the hills of home and all those things that “real” singers sing about.

For the next several years in California, my life changed around a fair amount. I had moved 3000 from home knowing no one but my sister. I didn’t care; I was finished with grad school and had no job (I’d hoped to get something connected with the work I’d done with a professor but it never panned out) and I was finished with snow, and cold and miserable wind after 22 years of it. I wanted California. I wanted Berkeley and bookstores, free speech and lettuce boycotts, university movie theaters and moderate temperatures. In the first few years I discovered science fiction fandom, worked on a few Star Trek conventions (co-chaired and worked my ass off in a somewhat thankless job working for a piece of work who was self-absorbed, thought he knew things, listened to gossip as credible information, gave little credit and generally was a pig. I got married. I got divorced. I hung out with some of the best people in the world, hung out at a great magic club every weekend. I had girls night out dinners with friends. I went to conventions and worked on conventions. I marched in parades, demonstrations and marches – lots of them. Including the what was then simply the Gay Pride March. I had energy and places to go and people to see.

After moving out from the apartment I shared with my husband, several things changed. I changed addresses from respectable Piedmont neighborhood in Oakland to south-of-campus Berkeley, had back surgery (again) and stopped working a “straight” job as a legal secretary. I shifted a lot of gears. My apartment was a few blocks from People’s Park, I started working at the Center for Independent Living. I remember it as a time that – while underpaid and often overworked – I felt like I was doing good stuff, stuff I was meant to do. More than a job for once. At the same time I was surrounded by good and interesting people both at work and play. Some of it didn’t last (CIL got harder and harder to deal with) but the joys of living in the bay area filled my life. There were always places to go eat, always bookstores and places to buy cool clothes that no one else had. There were vendors on telegraph who sold stuff I wanted to use and wear. There were craft fairs where I could buy great presents. There were Little Mens’ meetings where we’d talk about things science fictional and then go out and socialize. I learned about Irish Coffee then, and later about beer. (Ok, I new about beer from grad school.) I had the energy to schlep across the bay to shows and to go here and go there, to meet people, go to a signing, go to a Tom Paxton concert, usher for Bread & Roses’s annual 3 day acoustic music concert and fund-raiser, go hear Baez at Stanford. Go to conventions, hang out late and night and be silly, wear a radio on my hip, run security at conventions where even then, I got double takes for being the person in charge of that department. I was involved with one guy, then another. I had great friends with whom I did everything from play scrabble to eat dinner, wandering around a street fair or going to an evening of short films. Three of us had season tickets to the ballet. It wasn’t all grand but it was awfully awfully good.

During that time, a lot of my friends and coworkers were lesbians. I don’t know why but It never mattered. I was once asked by some co-workers if I were lesbian and I took it as a compliment; hoping that it meant that I seemed okay. No, I said, so far I was straight. And that was pretty much always the answer. From the first time I went to the Gay Pride parade, when I marched with straights for gays, to the last time, when I worked as a safety monitor, I felt wholly comfortable with the women’s community, no matter what that meant and it often meant the lesbian community. I was comfortable with women; I try not to think of women as superior to men because that strikes me as elitist (I hate being elitist but even anti-snobbism is snobbism) and simplistic but I can’t help it, I tend to be of the opinion that women are better than men. And given how much l love Stu, I know how that sounds.

I never have been anything but straight and while there were a couple flirtations in my life, I never seriously co0nsidered experimenting. Part of that was that I think it’s way more than sex and I respected most of my lesbian friends too much; trying on lesbianism wasn’t uncommon, god knows, and I know a lot of women who started out straight who aren’t now. I had friends who surprised me, but more than that there were women I knew OF as straight, who, hey, she’s not? Oh. Okay. I’ve got a few friends who have dealt with the complexities of gender and being transgender but most of that has been relatively recent. It was a great world to be in.

I’ve never understood why people are threatened by gay men and lesbians but the simple idea of homosexuality never mind the actual existence of such people. I went to Pride because I just thought, well um of course. It seemed so honestly DUMB. A bit of it I suspect was because as a Jew, I could GET being hated simply for what you are and that seemed dumb, and something I had to fight against. I don’t GET fearing someone because of their skin color, who they love. I was raised simply not to understand these things. I don’t understand the hate and fear.

Did I know gay people growing up? Probably although it was still hushed and not spoken of. I went to a college that had been all female until 1968 so it was mostly still women. Were there dykes there? Of course there were but it still wasn’t very open

At one point while I lived in the bay area, I tried for a job at Redwood Records. Redwood was one of THE women’s music companies – if you know the name Holly Near, you know Redwood. While I didn’t get the job I applied for, I did end up working for Redwood, off and on for some time, maybe 4 years. When I left to move to Boston, I left Redwood as well, although there had been some hint of developing a job for me there. I’m fairly sure I was the only straight woman who worked at Redwood; maybe for all time, certainly at that time. I’m proud of that. Not that I was straight but well, I dunno. Why exactly? Because I was accepted? Maybe. Because I contributed? Certainly. Because I got the jokes? Yeah, okay, some.

Redwood is no longer around. They did good stuff. (I admit to feeling oddly glad that if they went under, at least they didn’t turn into a cruise company. I know that’s mean, but apparently that’s all that Olivia does now. It might be great for some but music? I can share music, I can have access to it. A cruise? First off, I wouldn’t go on a woman-only cruise since I really WOULD be out of place I believe and second, it’s for an income level that I cannot even aspire to. It’s elitist – the last thing I would expect from a company that started out doing women’s music. Women have succeeded but we’re still lagging behind in the financial realities of the world, so ten day cruise ship adventures? It just doesn’t quite sit right.)

I went to concerts sponsored by Redwood as well as countless other concerts. I remember Sweet Honey in the Rock – who well, god, if you’ve never heard them, there is a hole in your musical life you should fill. I heard Kate Wolf – at the Julia Morgan Center, a gorgeous former church designed by THE woman architect. And I first heard Connie Kaldor on the stereo at Redwood and she’s one of my favorite singer-songwriters of all time. And I watched the interpreters almost more than the singers because back then women were the first performers that I everknew to use sign language interpreters for their concerts. And music interpreting is so very different from straight ASL. And so fine to watch. Since I was studying ASL too, I would pay attention, but really? I was just watching a skill I enfied.

I saw Margie Adam and Linda Tillery, Judy Small, Robin Flower and Nancy Vogl, obscure artists with enormous talents like the brilliant Nina Gerger. I was still combining it with my love for California bluegrass (shared by almost no one) and was listening to Kathy Kallick and Laurie Lewis and Susie Rothfield (now Suzy Thompson) who I was in a play in HIGH SCHOOL with and who dreamed of becoming a musician 9I remember a backstage conversation) and often some of these folks backed others on albums. I went to the appropriately named Grass Valley Bluegrass Festival several years in a row.

Saturday’s concert took note of a landmark recording which was a big seller (within women’s music circles) for Cris and it was really cool, celebrating the 30th anniversary of the release of CHANGER AND THE CHANGED. The first half showcased each performer, from Barbara Higbie who can play everything and anything, to cellists and banjo players. After the break, we had a live performance of the album, song by song. The album which I still have in my head and heart. Word for word, note for note. Not exactly a shocker but we got to sing along a lot and the songs – some of which celebrated women who loved women (GASP – a truly remarkable song topic back in 1975) were really important and meaningful to many in the audience who might have been dealing with coming out then and needed to hear a song about it. I don’t know – I have no idea how hard it was to come out, or what the music meant to others. I know I loved it. Cris has a a soaring voice and I like her songwriting Some is a tad too touchy-feely spiritually for me (in this context meaning songs about how you know the earth is our mother and we love all her creatures) but well, you know it was the seventies and we were all earth mothery types and recycling everything in sight. (anyone seen the cat?)

It felt like home. It reminded me of a time when I was part of something, something….big. It felt easy and relaxed even if I knew no one there. I actually did – I saw my friend Tamara almost as soon as I got there. Not a surprise and yet a surprise since she’s way more of a rocker; but she knows these people, she said, it’s a small enough community that even if she wasn’t a huge fan of – as she said they would call them “Girls with guitars” it was her world too. The woman running the box office is someone I work with on a regular basis at my local copying shop; turns out she and Cris are old friends. Cris apparently lives in my neighborhood now. But the women I sat with in the “handicapped seating section” were strangers. But we talked easily like we were old friends. And at the end of the show, when a song about friendship made me cry, the stranger net to me reached for my hand.

And it felt like the way things should be. It’s so hard to explain what it’s like to live in a world that isn’t designed for you but I’m sure enough of you have been through at least temporary disability situations and if not, you know enough about empathy to imagine what it’s like being a short disabled woman in this able-bodied world. No matter how much is done to make it easier(the show was in a building on the UW campus so it had to be aceessible) it never lets up. Every day is work. Sidewalks made impassible by tree roots, curbs without ramps, doors that are too heavy and open out, automatic doors that aren’t turned on when the business opens for the day, aisles made too narrow by book displays, and cartons of stuff to be unloaded onto the shelves, or just crowded stores with merchandise everywhere. Banks that don’t have lowered counters to write a check on and grocery stores wehre it seems EVERYthing you WANT TODAY is on the top shelf. Period.

For all of Saturday evening, I never had to ask someone, explain to someone, request that someone help me. Before I even had my mouth open, a woman would open the door that was hard for me to open. When I realized it was going to be a challenge getting to the sale table (I use a scooter, remember? Imagine a crush of people at an intermission and someone in a scooter, trying to reach the table, grab the CD, then get into the other line to pay.) “Can I get it for you? Which one did you want?” another total stranger. A third says “here, let me make room for you to come this way.” The woman at the desk starts to get folks to line up but says “no, I’ll take you now.” Not special treatment, she just realized in a matter of seconds that in the crush, I would need to back up, turn around or find the end of the line, get behind that person, and given the mob, it would be really difficult. When I was done, total stranger number four said “let me clear a path for you” and when I said “oh, no, I can…” realizing it would take forever (in what was probably a 20 minute intermission) if she didn’t, she grinned and gestured for me to follow her. No noise, no huge deal, just helped me find a path through bodies about 5 or 6 deep. When it thinned out, just as I was about to say I was fine, she said “you okay? Can you take it from here?” and waited for me to say yes, then went back to whatever she’d been doing.

When the bathroom doors (on a different floor so I had to find/take an elevator) appeared hard to open, someone was there to open the door and hold it for me. There was simply an understanding, an acceptance, an awareness that it wasn’t just MY reality but OUR reality if you wlll. I know that sounds way too woo-woo but every day of my life when I’m out in the world, there’s a barrier between me and most people. Every store is a challenge as I try to go down an aisle that’s too tight and I can’t get to the pants I want to look at. Or I get stuck and back up ramming into the rack of sweaters. Every door that isn’t automated involves backing and filling or going over what might appear to be a tiny lip to you but which is a painful landing to me. Sometimes the helpful people are extraordinarily Unhelpful, standing right where I need to go, in order to clear the door and then they just stand there looking at me. The look says “why aren’t you thanking me for being of assistance to you?” When I just about rammed into them because instead of getting out of the way, they got directly in my path when I needed to enter fairly quickly in order to get the door to move. No one at this concert wanted thanks or acknowledgement for the favor they were doing. No one gave me that sweet smile I get from strangers who think I’m brave. It just WAS.

It was always easier among women for me. It still is. Don’t ask me why but every time I’ve been in an exclusively female situation, things are easier. Ive had a couple of jobs where all the staff were female; from that job at Redwood over 20 years ago to a short stint at the legal department of a computer company when we first moved to Seattle to the volunteer gig I have now, there’s a certain ease. Why so many lesbians worked at the independent living program and worked as attendants for our clients I don’t know. There are huge theoretical places to go about nurturing and helping professions and blah blah blah. I don’t have a clue. It sure feels safer; of course sexual harassment can happen anywhere and it’s not limited to one gender, but being in a women’s bar, as I was a few times in San Francisco is always more relaxing than being in a bar where men and women congregate. It felt safer to me. And I’m not saying there wasn’t a sexual overtone – there was, but even if there was flirting going on, it felt easier somehow. Like I wasn’t going to get in trouble if I said no, or didn’t respond. I dunno. During the 70s and early 80s I spent some weekends at an all female retreat called “Willow” up in Napa county. It was beautiful. It was safe and had the right level of friendliness and privacy.

It was nice being back in that world even for a couple of hours. The most fun specifically came for me after the show. I had bought a CD by one of the performers and I got to say to her the exact words that I had in mind when I saw that she’d recorded the CD. “I’ve been waiting 25 years for this.” Since I had first heard Vicki Randle, I’d wanted to hear her more. And I wanted her to know that someone out there had been waiting.

IT felt so good. It reminded me of a time in my life where not only did I have energy which I so lack today, but I was learning and seeing and hearing and tasting and coming into my own and figuring stuff out about who I was, what I wanted to do, what I wasn’t going to do any more. Getting married had been a mistake. I was changing the way I worked, living exactly where I wanted to. It was discovery of all kinds, from books to lovers to great music and Thai food. From spending time with people I admired and liked to talk with to learning what I was good at.

A few years ago, I heard Camryn Manheim use the phrase “dyke-friendly” as a way to describe herself. We get it, I think; we know what it’s like to be singled out and not in a good way. Manheim is famous for being a fat actress who insisted on being taken on her own terms. I’ve spent 30 plus years as a woman with a disability. We’re outside of the mainstream. And we are in many ways most comfortable there.

A day later it was back to normal. Sunday brought an email invitation to an event during Bouchercon in Madison. I won’t get specific because the person doesn’t deserve to be singled out but after being somewhere where, for a few blessed hours, I didn’t have to explain myself, I was back to reality and reality sort of sucked. Other invitations are for events at hotels so I haven’t had to ask “is it accessible?” But even now, in late 2006, I still have to ask. I still had to remind my host that I am disabled. I still had to point out that it’s not enough to have driving directions. I had to bring attention to my difference. Access is still not something automatic that people think of. Instead of simply going ahead and checking and getting me the information I needed, I got back an email which reminded me of the extra effort. The person commented that she hadn’t rough t of that, had no idea and would contact the person whose building was being used. Like that had to be said. I couldn’t just get an email back going “we’ve checked and yes/no, blah blahblah. So I was reminded of a) my outcast status b) how I add an extra layer of planning and effort and c) that still in 2006 people don’t think of this shit. And i was back to the land of Didn’t Belong.

I’ve left two voice messages for the hotel’s front office manager because while the hotel does have a shuttle to the airport, it’s not lift-equipped/handicapped accessible. I’ve got choices but this one is the FREE option and the others have downsides; paratransit is limited and if my plane is late, the van might have to leave without getting me. Taxicabs (there is a lift-equipped taxi service, unlike my own city) are pricy. The law is that if you do something for a non-disabled hotel guest, that service needs to be available for the disabled hotel guest. In other words, since the hotel does have a shuttle van to/from the airport, the law says they must provide that for me. I don’t want to make a huge fat hairy deal aobut it but the hotel staff didn’t know and the woman’s not calling me back., I called the very friendly cab company and Madison’s office of paratransit services, all so I can be sure to get from the airport to the hotel and back. Isn’t this fun? It’s not enough dealing with traveling alone, without water or whatever (gel insoles?) with a scooter that has been damaged in the past, that has a basket that’s been broken in the past, dealing with strangers, many of whom are very experienced and some of whom are not. Airline employees who don’t get that my scooter is not an optional item I choose to take with me like my hair dryer, that, as I explained to the airline cheesebrain a few years back when they LOST the thing in San Francisco Airport “you lost my legs. No, you can’t “just bring it to my house when you find it..” And I have a connecting flight, so the changes for problems multiply times a factor of about 4 the more people who touch the damn thing.

I wish I were back in Concert Land. For just a few more hours.