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Published on

June 1, 2016

Review of Prostitution Narratives: Stories of Survival in the Sex Trade

Civil Rights Rape Reviews

Warning: Some graphic descriptions of violence against women.

Prostitution Narratives: Stories of Survival in the Sex Trade, edited by Caroline Norma and Melinda Tankard Reist, contains nineteen testimonies by women from around the world who have survived the sex trade, with three commentaries, a prologue by Rachel Moran, and an introduction by the editors. These are the voices of women who have been trafficked, used in pornography, worked in legal brothels, worked on the street. Some of them were addicted, some were sexually abused as children. All of them survived.

Reading this book, the question that kept coming up for me was, “How can anyone believe that prostitution is a legitimate job?” I believe the answer lies in the fact that most people will believe what they are incentivized to believe. Long-time abolitionist Melissa Farley is cited in the introduction:

“There is an economic motive to hiding the violence in prostitution and trafficking… prostitution is sexual violence that results in massive economic profit for some of its perpetrators… Many governments protect commercial sex business because of monstrous profits.”

But what about the average person on the street… the average liberal, perhaps? I am reminded of what Hitler wrote about the “Big Lie:”

“… in the big lie there is always a certain force of credibility; because the broad masses of a nation are always more easily corrupted in the deeper strata of their emotional nature than consciously or voluntarily… they themselves often tell small lies in little matters but would be ashamed to resort to large-scale falsehoods. It would never come into their heads to fabricate colossal untruths, and they would not believe that others could have the impudence to distort the truth so infamously.”

It is this belief in the Big Lie that enables governments and organizations like Amnesty International to overlook the truth about prostitution, and it is actions like the writing in Prostitution Narratives that will render that Big Lie unsustainable.

Rachel Moran, who wrote the Prologue, speaks about the lying at Ground Zero… in the victim’s own consciousness. (A footnote on Moran: She is the author of the astounding memoir Paid For: My Journey Through Prositution. Her memoir performs the near-miraculous feat of describing in detail the emotional state and psychological syndromes and strategies associated with the violations of prostitution. Her courage in writing that memoir reminds me of Harriet Tubman, who didn’t just get herself out of captivity, but who retraced her steps back to hell, over and over again, in order to bring out others.) So here is Moran:

“… I lied to others about what prostitution was; I did not lie to myself… My deepest compassion is with the women who must mine deeply within themselves to uncover the subterfuge, go through the pain of examining its shapes and edges, and find a way to squarely look at the thing it was designed to conceal. In this process they must acknowledge the carnage of their own complicity.”

“The carnage of their own complicity.” And, the carnage of all our complicity.

The only way I know how to do this book justice in a blog is to give the space over to some of the voices in these pages, starting with the writing of Jacqueline Gwynne, a woman who was a receptionist at an upscale brothel in Melbourne. (In Australia, prostitution is legal.)

“My job title was ‘receptionist.’ I had a brothel manager’s license. But in reality I was actually a pimp. I had to sell women…

When I started, I was pro-porn and pro-sex work. At first I thought it was cool and exciting. I had read many books and watched films about the sex industry. It is glamourised in the media. But, in reality, the men are mostly fat, ugly, mad, old, creepy, have poor social skills, very few sexual skills and appalling personal hygiene. They generally can’t have normal relationships with women because of these reasons and they also have no respect for women. Any man that walks in to a brothel has no respect for women…"

"I was only allowed to call the police if a client got angry about the service he received. I could have called the police numerous times, but abuse, intimidation and sexual harassment were all just part of the territory. The owner didn’t want us calling the police. We were expected to handle it all on our own…

The men would request exactly what they had seen in porn and wanted the girls very young and blonde. They would request extra for no condom: that would happen every night. I have no idea if any girls did, there were rumours of it happening. When you haven’t had a job all night, can’t pay your rent, it’s 4am and some guy offers you $500, what do you do?...

Being paid for sex is not what I think of as consensual sex. If you met these guys elsewhere you would not want to have sex with them. Prostitution is virtually paid rape…”

Rhiannon in “Didn’t Come to Hear Bitches Recite Poetry,” elaborates on that theme:

“When a person is paid for sex they are being paid precisely because of the fact the sex is unwanted. Sexual autonomy cannot exist when a person is sexual for any reason outside their own desire, for their own pleasure. The sacrifice of my bodily autonomy was precisely what I was paid for.”( p. 72.)

“He told me he had $200 and I followed him to his apartment. In the world I lived in, the sum of all I was worth was $200. That fact filled me with more pain than I could contain. In his bathroom I took the rest of the pills left in my bag, found his razor and used it to cut my wrists, then removed my clothes and went and lay down on his bed with blood sticking to the toilet paper I had stuck on the cuts. He only had a hundred dollars, he said. It was all he could find. I insisted on clutching the cash while he used me. This man felt it was worth paying a hundred dollars to have sex with a woman who had a tear-stained face and bleeding wrists."

Was that kind of callous or sadistic indifference an exception?

Caitlin Roper cites from a study done by Melissa Farley and colleagues, “Comparing Sex Buyers with Men Who Don’t Buy Sex:”

“Two thirds of both the sex buyers and the non-sex buyers observed that a majority of women are lured, tricked, or trafficked into prostitution” and that “41%... of the sex buyers used women who they knew were controlled by pimps at the time they used her… The knowledge that women have been exploited, coerced, pimped or trafficked failed to deter sex buyers from buying sex.”

Linda explains what that looks like:

“A lot of them [johns] seem hypnotized, like they don’t know that the whole thing isn’t real. A lot of them say, ‘I love you’; a lot seem normal, but not many realize that you are there because you were initially desperate and then you just got lost in the money or drugs or whatever. It’s inconvenient for them to think about our circumstances.”

So why aren’t more survivors speaking out?

Here’s Tanja Rahm:

“A lot of women around the world have been trying to tell the truth about prostitution and what is going on in prostitution. But when you speak out, you take a high risk. You run the risk of being threatened, hated, being told that you are weak, weren’t strong enough, that prostitution isn’t for everyone, that you chose it for yourself, that you got a lot of money from prostitution and are therefore a whore. What the pro-prostitution lobby tries to do is frighten women into not telling the truth about their experiences, so that you won’t be able to hear the truth. The fact you don’t hear from [survivors of prostitution] very often is not because they are not there. It is because they are not ready to confront society’s neglect of their experiences.”

But some of these women do speak out… and here is Simone Watson’s experience:

“Yes, those memories linger whether I am meeting with politicians, or trying to be heard among the cries of ‘sex worker rights’ in the media. Or intellectuals who calmly look at me as an interesting subject—who view it all as a sociological phenomenon of interest. Rather than violation. Rather than agony. Rather than urgency. And when traveling all the way, with the resultant PTSD, to meet politicians in my own or another state in fear and desperation that another generation of human beings will endure what I went through, and telling them I am a survivor. Then going back to the hotel room to sleep and being woken several times sweating and suffocating. Feeling weights on me. Crying, then feeling stupid. Checking the internet for news from home and finding another person telling me they hope I die and that I am feminist scum and a man hater and too ugly to fuck. That I needed to get raped and that would sort me out.”

Finally, I want to end with the writing of Christine Stark, a friend and fellow author. I reviewed her book Nickels: A Tale of Dissociation a few years ago. In her essay, “When You Become Pornography,” she tells of her experience:

“Every single piece of pornography is a picture or film of me being raped. Raped as a child. Raped as a teen. Raped as a young adult. And it is for sale. Rape is intimate. It turns you inside out, exposing your pink and bloodied insides, cracked bone, marrow, rivers of hemoglobin, the softness of your pulsing heart, the exchange of fluids between cell walls, the underside of your skin. All things not meant to be seen, not meant to be exposed. Not meant to be public. Rape is violation, taking, stealing, crossing boundaries of another’s self. Rape is destruction. It is brutal. It smashes, caresses, smashes, caresses. It takes bits of the body, bits of the mind, bits of the soul. Like Frida Kahlo: a nip and tuck here and there. Each rape bloodies the spirit…

When you become pornography and your heart does not stop and oxygen continues to cascade through your bloodstream there is no mercy. There is no transformation into a delicate, shimmering spirit bird. There is only forgetting and moving on, as dead as you are, as best you can. Or there can be remembering. But if you remember, go back to the horror, there are raw loops of pain, photos of welts, of debasement so extreme many will no believe and most will not care. If you look to others you might not make it, but if you look to yourself, that girl you were, ripped anus, semen coated mouth, the one pinned to the stinking floor by pain and exhaustion and despair, and you strike a deal with her, no one will or can do this for you, and no matter how terrible the day or how splendid, you are alive and that is a gift, to be grateful for, though you may not be able to feel it or know it.”

I'm so grateful these women survived and I am in awe of their courage in telling their stories in Prostitution Narratives. I'm grateful to the editors, to Rachel Moran, and to Spinifex Press. I encourage women to take this book and not just read it, but deploy it.

Order here.
Published on

April 28, 2016

Florynce "Flo" Kennedy

Civil Rights Reviews Women's History

Florynce Kennedy… The first and only time I ever saw her on camera was in the cameo role of "Zella Wylie" in the Lizzie Borden film, Born in Flames. A kind of women’s liberation “Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Zella mentors the young female militants who are engaged in overthrowing the patriarchy and taking over the world in this feminist, science fiction classic. Here’s "Zella," addressing an age-old feminist concern:

“All oppressed people have a right to violence. It’s like the right to pee: you’ve gotta have the right place, you’ve gotta have the right time, you’ve gotta have the appropriate situation. And believe me, this is the appropriate situation.”

And Florynce would know. She had organized a "pee-in" at Harvard University to protest the lack of women’s bathrooms.

Flo as "Zella Wylie," in Born in Flames. She apparently named her own character, choosing the first name of her mother, "Zella," and that of her father, "Wiley."

In the 1960's Florynce was everywhere. Seriously, everywhere. Early in the decade, she became the attorney for the estates of Billie Holiday and Charlie Parker, discovering that their publishers had been collecting royalties without notifying the artists or their estates. Understanding the need to fight media fire with media fire, she contacted Adam Clayton Powell, the highest profile African American member of Congress. It was a shrewd move to politicize the fight, and she won. But it signaled another episode in her progressive disenchantment with the practice of law as a path to social justice. Her life experiences as a Black woman prior to law school had already, in her words, set her up for an “appalling lack of success in accepting, embracing, utilizing or even recognizing such valuable legal techniques as how to walk past a pool of blood and say, ‘what a beautiful shade of red.’”

Florynce would step up as legal advisor to Valerie Solanas after her attempted assassination of Andy Warhol in 1968. Solanas was insisting on conducting her own defense, and the first order of business was to prove to the courts that her mentee was not crazy. This required a writ of habeas corpus, because Solanas had been taken to a psychiatric hospital.

Florynce decided that the best defense was a good offense, and to that end, she placed the judge and the court on trial for sexism. When the judge attempted to reprimand her for pants in the courtroom, she didn’t miss a beat: “Well, your honor, you are there in a dress. How can you question me?”

She was also an attorney involved with the landmark Abramowicz vs. Lefkowitz case, arguing for women’s right to safe abortions. This was the first case where women who had been victimized by illegal abortionists were called to testify. Prior to this, it had only been physicians, and this trial established valuable precedent for the later Roe V. Wade case. Florynce went on to publish a collection of some of this testimony, titling it Abortion Rap.

Florynce not only called out the National Organization for Women for their failure to stand with Valerie Solanas in her trial, but she would also call out the Black Power movement for its opposition to abortion rights, at a time when the male leadership was framing it as a genocidal conspiracy against women of color.

And here, let me pause to say something about why so little has been written about a woman who was so aggressively and so outrageously present for nearly every social justice movement, every nationally prominent protest, and every media-circus courtroom trial in a decade of unprecedented historical unrest and reform. Why has it taken over a half-century for a comprehensive biography of her life to be written?

Author and tireless researcher Sherie M. Randolph gives us the key to solving this conundrum. In a word: intersectionality. Yeah, that thing that was supposed to have been absent from the 1960's. Well, Flo Kennedy was the Empress of Intersectionality, and, for that, she paid a price.

In an era where the media was identifying Women’s Liberation as a white women’s movement, and Black Power as an African American men’s movement, Kennedy was busy calling out the former on their racism and the latter on their sexism. She was dragging feminists from the National Organization for Women to Black Power conferences that specifically banned whites. She was arranging with a Black-owned resort in Atlantic City for housing and meals for the predominantly white protestors at the legendary 1968 Miss America Pageant.

Single-issue organizing was difficult enough, but Florynce wanted everyone to see the connections between the many oppressions and to follow her example in showing up for them all. As a result, historians found it easier to focus on less intersectional--and less controversial leaders. This reductive approach to history has led to the erasure of the anti-racist work of early feminists and the anti-misogynist work in the early Black Freedom Movement... and the erasure of Florynce Kennedy.

At a protest rally in support of Joann Little, a young African American accused of murdering her jailor-rapist in 1974.

In 1973, Florynce became one of the attorneys defending Assata Shakur. Prior to this, she had organized fundraisers and boycotts in support of Angela Davis, the Soledad Brothers, and various anti-war protestors. Noting the absence of white feminists in these struggles, she remarked, “As far as black women are concerned, I would certainly be most appalled if they all rushed into the women’s movement. It’s clear that most black people should be involved with the problems of the black liberation struggle.”

Interestingly, she also served as a defense attorney for Jerry Ray, the brother of James Earl Ray, convicted for the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King. He was before a Senate sub-committee, and Florynce used the occasion to place the government on trial for conspiracy. Jerry had been accused of robbing a bank with his brother, in order to explain the large sums of money that had funded James’ elaborate escape. In the end, the committee decided that James Earl Ray could not have acted alone, but they rejected any theory of government involvement. (“What a beautiful shade of red...?”)

Kennedy supported Shirley Chisholm’s bid for the Presidency, and she went on the campaign trail with her, visiting colleges and universities. At this time, she founded the Feminist Party, envisioning Chisholm as the perfect candidate to bring about a coalition of both black and white feminists. Two years later, in 1973, she organized the National Black Feminists organization.

We owe a debt of gratitude to Kennedy's biographer, Sherie M. Randolph. She spent fifteen years researching her subject. Florynce had written her own "autobiography," Color Me Flo: My Hard Times and Good Life, but it is less a biography and more a collection of speeches and interviews, with photographs and copies of leaflets. The papers she had donated to the Schlesinger were filled with gaps and omissions. Sherie found that Florynce's sisters had their own collections, but these were also incomplete. It is important to remember that Kennedy had been under FBI surveillance through many of her years of activism, and that, after her death, friends and colleagues had removed and destroyed papers that they felt might have jeopardized the safety of other activists. Florynce's biographer has performed a Herculean feat in assembling the details of her subject's life and causes. And now, finally, the errant papers are all at the Schlesinger, along with an extensive collection of video. And there is, at long last, a biography.

Florynce Kennedy’s life is a inspiration for the timid activist. She never hesitated to say the thing that was on her mind, no matter how disruptive or how unpopular it was. She was never afraid to call out her own movements. She was not intimidated by accusations that she was being "divisive," that kiss-of-death word used so effectively to silence in-house dissent. To her critics, she would say, “Unity in a movement situation is overrated. If you were the Establishment, which would you rather see coming in the door, five hundred mice or one lion?”

Oh, the lion, by all means. Give us the lion.
Published on

April 19, 2016

Vintage Women's Sports Cards!

Interviews Women's History

CG: So…Cindy Dick, I understand that you have the largest collection of vintage women’s sports cards in the world. That’s amazing. I see that you refer to your collection as “Tiny Treasures, Giant Legends.” How did you come up with that?

CD: I first must clarify that I think it’s the largest. I currently own close to 1,100 original cards between the 1850’s and 1972. The cards also have to be printed around the time the athlete competed. I tell myself that there has to be a finite limit but even after 23 years of collecting, I keep finding cards I’ve never seen before! I’ve never run across another collector with a similar collection anywhere near this size so I say it with some confidence, but can’t say it unequivocally.

I have two goals for the collection; a book and a museum show so I needed a name for the collection. After mulling the options over with friends, “Tiny Treasures, Giant Legends” was born a few years ago. The name encompasses what they represent in four words. The cards are tiny. Most are smaller than a credit card. Finding them is like a treasure hunt, and they are also treasures of history. These were the best athletes of their day. Many were giant legends in the world of women’s sports. Some were the grandmothers of women’s sports, establishing rules and leagues. Because of these women, we are blessed to have the opportunities we have today.

CG: When did you start collecting, and what was it that got you started.

CD: I had some baseball cards as a kid – even had a Hank Aaron card but sold them all before I was 10. I didn’t do anything with cards for 20 years. Finding a women’s card was a complete accident. I was at a yard sale in Virginia around 1993 and this little boy was selling his sports cards. I glanced at the cards on the table and was shocked to see a woman’s card! I’ve always loved visual images of women in sports so this caught my attention. It took me a while to define the collection’s time frame of pre-Title IX (1972) cards but now that’s pretty much all I collect.

CG: Can you remember your first card?

CD: I joke that you never forget your first one. Manon Rhéaume was the card at the yard sale. She was a Canadian minor league ice hockey goalie. She also had the same appeal as Danica Patrick (read, she was pretty) and between those two factors, there were great hopes that she would break into the professional league and become a hockey phenom. Card companies made many different cards of her.

CG: So why women’s sports cards?

CD: I love images. A picture is so powerful, and with trading cards, the magic is that you can hold your hero in your hand. And they are neat because they have infiltrated the world of men’s sports cards. I focus on cards and not stamps, posters, postcards, etc. because trading cards were meant to be collected and traded. Most cards were made to be sturdier than the other forms mentioned because they were created as a collectible. I like the older ones because they are rare and hard to find (unlike contemporary cards today) and I enjoy the challenge of finding them. And, financially, it also keeps me focused. These trading cards are also artistically beautiful. I started by only buying cards that used photographs because that showed that the athlete actually was competing. But then I grew to love the lithographs, drawings, caricatures, hand painted cards…all the different styles that were used in the vintage cards.

CG: And if I can get a little personal here… what about you? What’s your sports history…? Should we have a card for you?

CD:   Lol! No. I had Olympic aspirations but my talent wasn’t at the same level as my dreams. I ran track in HS and played college volleyball. Today, I am an avid cyclist and I swim.

CG:What’s the history of the marketing of these? And were the women’s cards marketed the same as the men’s?

CD: Trading cards were initially known as “tobacco cards” in the 19th century and the first half of the 20th century. When cigarette packs were first made, they were floppy so the manufacturers inserted a blank piece of cardboard to keep them stiff. Marketers quickly realized that blank space was marketing space so every topic under the sun is pictured on tobacco cards. Athletes were one of the subjects and became one of the more popular ones to collect. These are, therefore, the predecessors of the sports cards we know today. When women were on tobacco cards, they are mostly seen as movie stars or as ‘beauties’. Seeing women as athletes flies against the ladylike image that society pushed on women back then.

While most of my cards are tobacco cards, some were distributed with chewing gum, chocolate, shoe polish, margarine, and even a piano! What puzzles me is that it was not fashionable for women to smoke before the 1920’s. So I have to wonder, who were they marketing to by adding female athletes? I’ve asked some card aficionados why manufacturers would include female athletes and the answer is always, “Because they were a novelty.”

The neat thing about the cards back then is that the images do not sexualize the women. They are athletes. Today, there is a lot of discussion and research about how women are portrayed in the media so it’s refreshing to see that the majority of these images portray the women for what they were – athletes.

CG: And about collecting… You began to collect several years before the internet. How did you collect in the early days, and how did that change with the internet?

CD: In the 1990’s I started by asking sports card dealers at shows and stores if they had women’s cards. Dealers sell what sells so once they knew I was interested they started holding them for me. They would sometimes even give them to me for free because to them, they didn’t have value. At card shows, upon asking, I’d often get that blank, puzzled look as if I just asked them something that they had never heard before.

Sometimes they would have a card or two, and sometimes I was even told, “I have coaches wives” or “I have cheerleaders.” This was before eBay became a household name, the WNBA was still a dream, and before women’s soccer exploded. One by one, I learned of sets where women’s cards were inserted into a men’s sets because women were rarely sold as a set of their own. After a little while, and armed with knowledge, I'd ask the seller if he had women’s cards. If he said “no” I’d ask if he had ‘x, y, and z’ sets. He’d pull out the boxes of cards and I’d leave with a stack of women’s cards. I started to get a good collection of contemporary cards…and then I came across my first vintage card and that one card changed my focus.

The Internet opened the world of collecting and at the same time, that accessibility also closed many bricks and mortar card stores. The cards in my collection were printed in 25 countries around the world. The main challenge with buying over the Internet is trusting that it’s an original card and not a reproduction, while praying it doesn’t get lost in the mail!

CG: The “baseball cards” of my youth, about men, of course, were pretty much all sports statistics. But I understand that this is not true about your cards. What are some of the most memorable “factoids” that you have gleaned from your cards?

CD: Yes, I love the stories and language used on the backs of these cards. My uncle translated the German cards, and he kept coming across the phrase “Olympia of Grace” in German. We looked it up and discovered there was a women’s only Olympics hosted in 1931 in Italy! I had NEVER heard of this before. It was not sanctioned by the International Olympic Committee and Americans did not compete in it, but it did have an impact on the Olympics thereafter. Italy was a fascist country then and the games were allowed because of the belief that “strong women made strong babies,” so it was acceptable for women to be athletes, as long as they didn’t forget their main purpose in life; being a mother.

With the swimming cards I noticed that the images never showed the athletes wearing goggles so I asked former Olympian and world record holder, Misty Hyman, and she said that goggles weren’t used until the 1960’s. When I look back at records and distances swam, understanding this gave the times context; knowing that the swimmers could only swim as long as their eyes could withstand the chlorine or salt water.

I learned that women boxed in the 1880’s thanks to the card of Hattie Stewart. Her card is significant because the illustration shows her as both bare-fisted and wearing gloves. The card is from 1888 and that’s the time of transition between when women boxed bare-fisted, and sometimes even bare-breasted, to the rules boxing recognizes today.

I’ve learned about more stories than I can mention here. These cards are a perfect way for me to do my own history research with each card I find. They’ve made learning about history fun!

CG: Talk about the women of color cards in your collection… Who was the earliest one?

CD: This is an important point. I like to say that it’s important to acknowledge the women portrayed on these cards, and it’s equally important to acknowledge the ones that weren’t. Sports, as a microcosm of society, were beholden to the racist beliefs of the times; therefore the collection is mostly of white women. Financially, it was a luxury to be able to compete, travel, and tour, but the biggest barrier was to be allowed to compete – many women of color were not selected, even if they were of equal or better ability than their competition, when trying out for teams.

My oldest card portrays Kinue Hitomi, a Japanese runner from the 1928 Olympics. She was the first female medalist from Japan, but she medaled in a sport that she didn’t even train for! She was a sprinter (100m) and a field specialist. 1928 was the first time the 800m run was offered to women (two laps around a track) and the officials asked who would like to join the race. She did and she came in second place, earning a Silver medal. Two side stories – the 800m run did not return to the Olympics for women until 1960 and sadly, Hitomi died two years after her Olympic debut.

African American women from the US don’t appear on cards until 1960. Wilma Rudolph has several cards, and I have one rare card that was printed in Greece of American Earlene Brown, a Bronze medalist who broke the 50-foot barrier in shot put.   Unfortunately, I’ve never seen a card of Alice Coachman; the first African American to win a gold medal in the 1948 Olympics in high jump. There have been cards made of her jump decades after the fact.

CG: I have a musical about the athlete Babe Didrikson, and the years I spent working on it, and, of course, studying the history of women in the sports she played (basketball, track and field, and golf), enriched my life, but also really gave me “game.” So many of the barriers she hit as a woman in a traditionally male field are similar to what I encounter in theatre… and the same strategies apply.

CD: Babe was a force to be reckoned with! As you know, she endured awful comments from the press because her sheer athletic ability, and her boyish appearance challenged what it meant to be female. But she had some admirers too. She pushed the barriers of women in sports and inspired countless young girls to be like her. Ironically, Babe’s card is one of the first vintage cards I heard of. She was my inspiration as a young girl, so, as an adult, I had to have that card. Because it is part of an American set (Goudey Sport Kings, 1933), and because all the other athletes, except for Babe and Helene Madison (swimmer) are men, the card is expensive if it’s in good condition. I finally won it in an auction and it's one of my most treasured cards. I have many cards of Babe from different countries: U.S., Germany, Italy, and Holland.   I’ve never seen a card of her playing golf that was printed in the time that she played (she was one of the 13 co-founders of the LPGA in 1950 and she died in 1956).

CG: So… getting the word out about these “Tiny Treasures…” What are your plans? I see that the Phoenix Art Museum is doing a display of men’s cards. Are you trying to get these into museums? What about touring into schools? Internet presence?

I would love to see these in a museum show! In 2012, the MET hosted an exhibit called “A Sport for Every Girl” but their collection showed mostly cards of illustrations of women playing sports, or women that were dressed as baseball players but were actually the gals that rolled the cigarettes. Using the MET’s credibility as justification for a show, about a year ago I sent the Phoenix Art Museum a proposal. The significant difference of my collection is that most of my cards are of actual athletes. PAM declined. About a month ago, PAM opened the “Ultimate Baseball Collection” which is a premier collection from the Arizona Diamondbacks. It was disappointing to see that the women weren’t considered but it was their business decision.

I have been approached by the Women’s Museum of California for an upcoming show about women in sports. I would love to see this collection in the National Women History Museum in Washington, D.C. as well. I don’t expect a museum to show all 1,100 cards but it would send an impressive visual message to see so many women being athletes and loving sports since the 1850’s! I’ve also been asked to give some talks locally by the people that watched the Ignite Phoenix presentation.

CG: What can we do to support your work?

As a follow-up to the Ignite Phoenix video, I created a video to help show that there is interest for a collection of this nature. It’s hard to sell someone something that they don’t know exists…but if there’s interest, well, many voices are always stronger than one. Also, I’m looking for a publisher that would be interested in this type of history/collectible/women’s sports book if any of your readers can suggest a good fit. Most sports books are about men and all trading card books are of men so it’s hard to identify a publisher that would understand the importance of these cards. If you enjoy vintage women’s sports items, please visit the On Her Mark website. The funds allow us to do what we do and honor women’s sports history, one great story at a time.
Published on

April 4, 2016

Realization by Augusta Savage

Reviews

Realization with sculptor Augusta Savage

I want to blog about the sculpture “Realization” by African American sculptor Augusta Savage for two reasons: 1) It has affected me deeply and permanently, and I find myself haunted by its image for a number of reasons I hope to be able to explore. 2) It is very difficult to find information about it online.

In fact, it is difficult to find detailed information about Augusta Savage. There are several internet sites, but most of them appear to be reposting the same biography. There are significant gaps in her history, and especially about her later years. The only published biography I could locate turned out to be an illustrated children’s book.

In terms of the sculpture, I could only find one photograph. It turns up on several sites in various cropped, tinted, or photoshopped permutations—but always the same photo. All I could find out about it was that it was commissioned in 1938 by the Work Projects Administration of the New Deal. I couldn’t locate any information about the current ownership or whereabouts of the statue, or even if it still exists. Sadly, it seems that many of Savage’s sculptures have not survived, because she lacked resources during her lifetime to cast them more permanently in metal, and also because she destroyed much of her work.

What do we know about Savage? She was born in 1892 in Green Cove, Florida, and her childhood was fraught with terror and violence. Early on, she had discovered that she could shape the figures of animals from the clay near her home. Her father, a Methodist minister, considered these “graven images,” and he would stomp on them and then batter the little girl in his efforts to control her. Savage later said, “My father licked me four or five times a week, and almost whipped all the art out of me.”

We know she married at fifteen and gave birth to a daughter within a year. Her husband died shortly after this, and she married again, divorcing the second husband before she was thirty. Leaving her daughter with her parents, she moved to New York in 1921 to study art at Cooper Union.

Around the time of her graduation, she was selected to attend a summer art program outside of Paris with a hundred other young American women. When it was discovered that she was African American, her application was refused by the French. A scandal ensued, but the decision was not revoked.

This same year, Savage married Robert Lincoln Poston, an associate of Marcus Garvey, the charismatic Jamaican radical who had founded the United Negro Improvement Association (UNIA) in Harlem in 1916. Garvey also founded the Black Star Line, a shipping and passenger line, and promoted the dream of using these Black-owned ships to return African Americans to their ancestral lands. Poston had been sent with a delegation to secure lands in Liberia for these settlements, but sadly, he died of pneumonia on his return voyage, just one year after marrying Savage. She was a significant figure in the Harlem Renaissance and sculpted busts of both W.E.B. Dubois and Marcus Garvey. Savage was one of the first artists in any genre to consistently work with black physiognomy.

In 1929 and 1931, Savage won fellowships to study in France. She also won a Carnegie fellowship for eight months of travel in Europe. Returning during the Depression, she founded the Savage Studio of Arts and Crafts in Harlem, and five years later she was appointed the first director of the Harlem Community Art Center. She took a two-year leave-of-absence to work on a commissioned sculpture for the 1939 World’s Fair. This sculpture, The Harp, received much press, but was ultimately destroyed at the end of the fair. Savage found that during her leave-of-absence, she had been replaced at her job. She attempted to found another art center and a small gallery, but after a series of frustrations, she retired to the town of Saugerties in the Catskill Mountains of New York. About twenty years later, she returned to New York, to live with her daughter.

So that’s what we know through biography. There is another encyclopedia of knowledge encoded in Realization.

Unable to find anything Savage wrote or narrated about the piece, I am going to share my subjective response.

First, it appears to be about enslavement. The title, in my understanding, refers to the moment when the last shreds of denial, distraction, or wishful thinking are stripped away, and these two are confronted with the absolute horror and helplessness of their situation. Because of the placement of the woman’s arms, it appears that her shirt or the top of her dress has been intentionally stripped away, and that she is attempting to protect herself.

The male could be either her son or her partner. In either case, he is posed in a position suggestive of a frightened child. This is a radical choice on the part of Savage.

Unquestionably, Savage was familiar with the sculpture The Greek Slave, by American sculptor Hiram Power. Completed in 1844, it went on to become one of the best-known and critically acclaimed artworks of the nineteenth century. Unlike Savage, Powers’ words about his creation have been preserved:

"Her father and mother, and perhaps all her kindred, have been destroyed by her foes, and she alone preserved as a treasure too valuable to be thrown away. She is now among barbarian strangers, under the pressure of a full recollection of the calamitous events which have brought her to her present state; and she stands exposed to the gaze of the people she abhors, and awaits her fate with intense anxiety, tempered indeed by the support of her reliance upon the goodness of God. Gather all these afflictions together, and add to them the fortitude and resignation of a Christian, and no room will be left for shame."

When the statue went on international tour, the pamphet read: “It represents a being superior to suffering, and raised above degradation, by inward purity and force of character.”

In fact, the victim appears to be calm and complacent, and I suspect that the great popularity of the sculpture had more to do with its pornographic implications than with an abolitionist sentiment.

Without any knowledge of Savage's grandparents, one could reasonably conclude that, if they were in Florida in the mid-1860’s, they were most probably enslaved on a plantation. Savage’s work reflects a perspective that, in my eyes, is uniquely female and, unlike Powers’, deeply identified with the victims of enslavement. It is impossible to “pornographize” Realization. In fact, I find it difficult to imagine that anyone viewing the piece could do anything except empathize with the suffering represented in the figures. Also, it is important to remember that Savage's childhood was that of a captive, forced to endure multiple beatings every week.

Trauma is difficult to depict in art, because trauma is about having to accept the unacceptable. One can depict the adjustment after acceptance (which Powers claimed he was doing), or one can depict the post-traumatic dissociation (The 2000 Yard Stare by war artist Tom Lea, a 1944 portrait of a Marine at the Battle of Peleliu)… but to capture that moment, that fragile and terrifying moment of utter freefall after denial is ripped away and before the mind can split or numb itself… that is the genius of Realization.

Emily Dickinson wrote, "After great pain, a formal feeling comes." There is no formal feeling in the moment that Savage is capturing. I try to imagine the work of creating this: conception, armature, models, drawings, calculations, grids, the clay- sculpting of thousands of tiny carvings and shapings. Savage probably spent two years on it—holding that moment, that nanosecond too fleeting for a camera to catch, that second when the bubble bursts, before it dissipates.

This photograph is itself a work of art. The creator is part of the grouping. She is touching the shoulder and the foot of the male victim, putting herself into the work. Savage's face says, “I bear witness.” I cannot imagine the fortitude it took to create this piece. The world that celebrates The Pietà and The Greek Slave will never be able to look this work in the face. It should rank as one of the great sculptures of the world.

I wrote this blog to say, “I see you, Augusta Savage. I see what you have done. I will live with the impact of this work for the rest of my life. You have given me and the world a great gift, and I know it came at incalculable cost to yourself. Thank you.”

Augusta Savage
Published on

February 21, 2016

Stealing the Herd

Women And Theatre

Miss Snooks was really awfully nice
And never wrote a poem
That was not really awfully nice
And fitted to a woman,

She therefore made no enemies
And gave no sad surprises
But went on being awfully nice
And took a lot of prizes.
---Stevie Smith

Stevie Smith’s poem is on my mind this week, because I just had a meeting with a New York producer about a musical for which I wrote book and lyrics. He told me that the lead character was “unlikeable” and “off-putting,” and that it was impossible for him to care about what happened to her. Same feedback I got from a Broadway producer, and before that, from a top theatre critic in the state where it was workshopped.

But enough about me. Let’s talk about male lead characters in musicals—the ones that make big bank. There’s that man with such a hideously deformed face he has to wear a mask. He has an out-of-control sexual obsession with an opera singer, stalking and abducting her. There is a carousel barker who is an alcoholic wife-beater and a thief. Oh, and what about the scam artist whose racket is selling non-existent band instruments to innocent children? There is the pederastic older man, arguably also a pimp, who trains his band of street urchins in the art of picking pockets. The colonial plantation owner on the lam for committing murder who has fathered a couple of children with his native concubine—who was too much of a social inferior for him to marry. The patriarch who rejects his daughters for marrying without his permission. And, of course, the demonic barber who slits the throats of his customers.

Well, you get the picture. No one has ever asked me if I found any of these male characters unlikeable or off-putting… or if I found it impossible to care about what happened to them. In fact, if they had, I would have answered in the negative. Not because I have not known and loved women who have been stalked, battered, pimped, sexually abused as children, exploited by colonialism, rejected by their fathers, and attacked with knives and razors. I have. And I have worked with these women, written for them, lobbied on their/my behalf, and loved them.

But that’s real life, and this is theatre. There is that “willing suspension of disbelief,” which for women in the audience translates into a willingness to believe that these onstage male stalkers, wife-beaters, slashers, etc. are nothing like their real-life counterparts. These men are not dangerous and scary… Well, okay… but scary in a good way. They burst into song, and so do their victims. Whatever the nature of their perpetrations, we understand them to be idiosyncratic dissipations custom-tailored to enhance our fascination and augment our empathy. It goes without saying they had terrible childhoods.

Women are smart enough not to spoil our own fun by too literal an interrogation of our responses to these musicals, and only the most paranoid man-hater could read into them sinister ulterior motives.

Well, if throat-slashers and exploiters of children still warrant the patronage of Broadway producers and critics, then what horrendous atrocities has my character committed that have placed her beyond the pale of “likeability?” Fair enough. She cheated against her teammates in the 1932 Olympics. That’s it. Doesn’t beat anybody up, maim or kill anybody.

It would appear that there exists a significant double standard for what is deemed acceptable behavior for male protagonists and female ones. Could this have some bearing on why women playwrights are so notoriously underrepresented on Broadway, and especially in musical theatre?

People come to the theatre for spectacle, for something larger than life. These male reprobates are certainly larger than life, and because of this, their narrative arcs can be huge. They are not excoriated for their hubris; it’s the very diving platform for the dramatic plunge we’ve paid to see. These men can be reformed, or they can sink deeper and ever-more-colorfully into the abyss of their depravity. Because of their flaws, criminality, perversions, vices, addictions, dementia, and so on, there can be a sweep to their trajectory, and a catharsis or an exorcism for the audience. And when their personal arc meshes gears dramaturgically with the larger historical or sociological arc, such as the Pacific arena in World War II or the French Revolution, the result can be an epic musical.

Plays with female protagonists are handicapped before the pen ever hits the paper. And it’s an ingenious form of discrimination. Nobody is barring the work of female playwrights. In fact, these days, there is a veritable Greek chorus of critics and producers lamenting our lack of representation in commercial theatre. They want to help us. They share their wisdom with us when we present them with our work. And that wisdom includes what they know personally and professionally about “likeable” heroines. What they know, and what I am learning, is that “likeable” means feminine. Even if the protagonist is the world’s greatest sharpshooter, she must still throw a match to get her man and take a number that says “I enjoy being a girl.”

What these helpful critics and producers are not critiquing is the implications of their association of likeability with femininity. What happens to the narrative arc, so dramatic with those deeply flawed male characters, when it is applied to a “likeable” female protagonist? She can travel all the way from “likeable” to “more likeable.” Her dramatic arc becomes a dramatic arc-ette, ladylike and petite, like the half-moons of her perfectly manicured nails. One is reminded of Dorothy Parker’s review of Kate Hepburn: “a striking performance that ran the gamut of emotions, from A to B.”

Ironically, in my musical, the unlikeable female lead complains about a similar double standard in the 1930 rules for women’s basketball:

"What do I mean? I mean we’re not allowed to play full court, that’s what I mean. We gotta stop on this center line like it’s a game of “Mother May I” or something. And this business about “travelin’ with the ball?” Three bounces and pass? You don’t see no rule like that in the boys’ game. They get to have the ball as long as they want and go with it as far as they want. Why don’t they come right out with it and tie our shoelaces together? And then people have the nerve to say that girls’ basketball ain’t as interesting to watch, because there ain’t no star players, and that’s ‘cause girls ain’t no athletes. Like to see the boys get to be star players with all that stop-and-start shit."

But I haven’t been entirely forthcoming about my musical. The lead character is a butch. There, I said it. And that’s actually why she cheats against her teammates. It’s the 1930’s, and these other girls will go on to have husbands and babies, but the working-class butch, with her Adam’s apple and rippling muscles, is facing a lifetime of marginalized spinsterhood and low-paid women’s work… unless she can figure out a way to become the greatest athlete in the world.

And that’s not going to happen by being nice. She is rejected by her mother. She is bullied and ridiculed in high school. She is lesbian-baited by the media. They revoke her amateur status after the Olympics, and they revoke it again when she takes up golf. The catch, of course, is that there are no professional sports for women in that era. For my protagonist her choices are clear: “Get tough or die.” She chose to get tough, and that is why I wrote the musical.

I need that kind of role model, because I, too, am up against a boys’ club. I, too, am needing the emergence of a professional producing organization for women to enable our financial and artistic autonomy in a field where dependence on male producers has resulted in our permanent status as amateurs or tokens. I believe that the Disney princesses, for all their multi-cultural permutations, tell a limited story and one that is largely dependent on magic, coincidence, and luck. I believe there is a powerful untold story in the lives of butch women. It is a story packed with self-determination, analysis and strategy, the identifying of enemies and the locating of allies.

I am coming to understand that it is the power of that story that is what is actually so “off-putting” and “unlikeable.” It is a feral story in a world of sexual colonization. The chorus line of fishnet hose and high heel shoes does not hold up on the same stage with a chorus of butch athletes, dressed to maximize human potential. These are mutually exclusive universes. And when two women end up together, how can we tell which one is the princess… and, even scarier, what are the implications for heterosexual romantic narratives when neither of them is “the girl?” If masculinity can be a normal female attribute where does that leave men? The lesbian butch strips away the mystique surrounding male power, unveiling the privilege that it masks.

This is how it works. This is how it worked in the sports world in the 1930’s and how it works in theatre today. You can’t build muscle and worry about femininity at the same time, and being an exceptional individual is not enough to change the game. The game changes when a critical mass of exceptional individuals pool our assets, raising our own money to name our own terms. Until that day, my philosophy is this: As long as they will hang me for stealing a chicken, why shouldn’t I steal a horse? And when I write about the lesbian butch, I take the whole herd.

Originally published in Howlround: A Journal of the Theater Commons, August 5, 2012.

Interested? Check out Gage's "Butch Visibility Project."
Published on

February 17, 2016

Cross-Gendering Shakespeare and Boyfriend Jeans

Women And Theatre

I get it. I do. Shakespeare is brilliant, and— as the world of theatre continues its fatal slide down the rabbit hole of four-person, single-set, and fifteen-minute plays—the Bard is one of the only playwrights with large-cast plays who is still being produced on any kind of regular basis.

But, of course, Shakespeare was a man. Not just a man, but a man writing for theatre companies that were all-male. And, on top of that, his plots often reflect the stories of kings and princes and military leaders. Not surprisingly, the roles for men outnumber those for women five-to-one, with all of the major characters being male.

In recent decades, we have seen an increase in women cross-dressing some of these roles, and even all-women productions. Why not? Acting is acting. If we can pretend to be Lady Macbeth, why not Macbeth himself? If Shakespeare’s actors could impersonate women, we can certainly have a shot at his male roles.

And there is another way for women to get a larger slice of the Shakespeare pie: cross-gendering the roles. This means Queen Lear, Romeo as a lesbian butch, and so on…. turning the male roles into female ones.

This is what I want to talk about—this cross-gendering of Shakespeare.

Some celebrate this as a kind of bringing down of the dramaturgical Berlin Wall between the sexes. I actually see it as a form of shoring it up.

Before I explain, I am feeling a need to put out some of my credentials in the gender-bending department. My first directing project as a theatre major was an all-female, cross-gendered production of Edward Albee’s The Zoo Story. The actors played the roles of Peter and Jerry as women. I considered this very daring. I remember that I did make one adjustment… small, but significant. Jerry’s use of pornography did not resonate for me in the landscape of lesbians in the early 1980’s. This was before the Internet and before the rise of lesbian pornography. I switched the reference to romance novels, which women did and still do consume in mindless quantities in order to generate feel-good endorphins. It seemed to me to be the female counterpart to porn.

Even then, thirty-plus years ago I was aware of the perils of uncritiqued occupation of male narratives. In retrospect, of course, I realize that Jerry’s porn use was intrinsic to the storyline of The Zoo Story. He is cruising, with Peter as his potential hook-up. My simplistic substitution of a few words was inadequate to render the play coherent as a woman’s story. And certainly, the murder/suicide at the end of the play, came from left-field in my production. Sadly, life-threatening violence was and still can be the final act of an evening of attempted anonymous sex in the world of gay male cruising. In Albee’s play, this plotline may have been coded for a privileged group of insiders who understood the play to be about a hustler and a closet case, but there was still a ring of truth to the ending.

My production, in spite of my best efforts, lacked integrity. The women’s final choices appeared to be senseless, sensational violence. They had no historical precedent (the class tensions between gay males, with privilege temporarily and superficially leveled by shared outlaw status), and no social context (cruising in a New York City park), and no established archetypes (the middle-class, closeted family man and the youthful, gay street hustler). I liken my cross-gendering of the play to the wearing of “boyfriend jeans.”

“Boyfriend jeans” is a term for clothing made for women, cut intentionally larger and looser to be suggestive of—what else?—the wearing of one’s boyfriend’s clothing. “Boyfriend jeans” are marketed as a status symbol, signifying the confidence of a woman with a boyfriend, whose satisfaction with her appearance is such that she can afford to eschew uncomfortable, tight, traditional female fashions and wear what she damn well pleases. After all, she has already bagged her guy… right? From a marketing perspective, these “boyfriend jeans” are not as liberated as they might appear. The message is that the only excuse a woman might have for acquiring comfortable clothing is that her boyfriend is allowing her to wear his. This leads to subliminal associations with recent sexual activity, the careless casting off and the insouciant putting on of clothing left behind… perhaps as a way to extend the limerance of the encounter. But the clothing is not really hers. She does not fill it the way the presumed boyfriend would. It’s not her comfort she’s inhabiting, but his—and on loan at that. And when she steps onto the stage of life in her “boyfriend jeans,” the shadow of the boyfriend is permanently embossed on her image.

My production of The Zoo Story was clad in Albee’s “boyfriend jeans.” Yes, my production had a toughness, a sense of daring, a kind of tomboy swagger that was rare in the early 1980’s world of women’s plays. We were not doing a romantic comedy. We were not accepting the roles for women created by male playwrights. We were not doing a Wendy Wasserstein coffee klatsch, or a Megan Terry hippie play. We were hefting beefy chunks of tough male dialogue and heaving them into the gaping maw of our rabid male critics. Or so we thought. In fact, we were prancing around in “boyfriend jeans.” Nobody mistook our production for The Zoo Story… except us.

Fast-forward a few decades… I was hired to coach an actress who was auditioning for the role of Cassius in a production of Julius Caesar where many of the men’s roles were being cross-gendered. It was set in contemporary times. We talked at length about costume—the corporate “power suit,” which is designed to convey the message “tough enough to play with the boys, but feminine enough not to threaten them.” Short skirt, long jacket? Tight across the thighs in front, but with a subtle kick-pleat in the back to allow for mobility? Cleavage—but how much? Knotted scarf or foofy bow? Pockets, not purses. Shoes with a heel, but not too high. Flats, never.

This was territory we both understood. This was the no-woman’s land we had both learned to navigate in our careers. We knew the game completely, but when the conversation shifted to interpretation of the role of Cassius, we lost our footing. Because in this production, the women were supposed to share power with the men. It’s called “gender-blindness.” But we did not have gender-blind words. Cassius’s speech was written by one man for another man, who would be portraying a male character who was in the political elite of an all-male government in a country where women had almost no rights, no financial independence, and no political voice or presence whatsoever. There was no inner truth, no integrity to the interpretation, because neither of us had any cultural referent for “gender-blindness.” It is not possible to act political idealism. If it were grounded in any reality that could be embodied, it would not be idealism. Duh. Boyfriend jeans.

I also attended a production of “Queen Lear” done by a local girls’ theater company. All the characters were cross-gendered. These were high-school and middle-school girls. I was uncomfortable throughout the production, because I was aware that what I was seeing was something like “let’s all pretend to be fish who live on dry land.” From gills to fins to scales, there is no aspect of a fish that is adapted to life on dry land. Everything that makes a fish recognizable as a fish precludes their presence on dry land.

What are we talking about with Queen Lear? There is no woman, especially of a royal family, and especially as the head of that royal family, who lives outside of patriarchy. There is no mother whose relationships with her daughters has not been shaped by some dance of compliance and resistance to that patriarchy. I felt that the girls were being taught to believe that power was a question of temperament, of personality, and that it existed apart from social systems, historic precedents, political realities. The dreadful unraveling of Lear’s kingdom, family, and sanity are testament to the rigidity and distortions of a patriarch whose will has gone unchecked for his entire adult life. His ownership of his daughters was a legally defined relationship that informed his fatal choices. Well, I could go on. It was boyfriend jeans again, and the girls were getting a ton of props for parading around in them.

The problem I have with cross-gendering these roles is two-fold: They cannot provide powerful material for the actor. That fish-on-dry-land thing. Acting in a vacuum. Dialogue from a science fiction world that the director fails to establish and that the playwright never intended and that is not the actor’s job to create.

The second problem I have is more serious: The masking of the very real patriarchal context that pervades the world of Shakespeare’s plays and which his narratives continually expose and challenge. Hamlet gets in trouble, because the son of a warrior king cannot be allowed the contemplative bachelor life of a poet and philosopher. King Lear is a cautionary tale about even the so-called winners in a patriarchal hierarchy, because old age and impotence catch up to us all. And so on.

I do support women’s desire for more powerful roles. Sadly, the first two thousand years of Western drama were not by us or for us, and there is nothing we can do about that. We can play men and play them as well, or even better, than men. But we cannot do our best work in cross-gendered roles, and that has nothing to with our abilities.

The good news—the very good news— is that women have found our voices now, and some of us are actually writing classical dramas with large casts and epic themes. Ahem. I have several, myself. Just ask.

Tags

Review of Prostitution Narratives: Stories of Survival in the Sex Trade

Florynce "Flo" Kennedy

Vintage Women's Sports Cards!

Realization by Augusta Savage

Stealing the Herd

Cross-Gendering Shakespeare and Boyfriend Jeans