As far as gays are concerned, once people come out of the closet, it’s very hard to go back. We don’t know the future, but the situation now is very unjust for the sexual minorities of Russia, the Ukraine, and other former Soviet Republics. Activists who have come forth are brave, but they also want to live lives filled with love and promise. I appreciate their struggle and hope for a positive resolution. Our struggle in the U.S. is not over. Injustices abound worldwide. May we have a better life for all.
These days, as a professor of English as a Second Language in a community college in Oakland California, I try to bring what I have learned about culture and politics and queerness into my work with students. In 2009, I found my life partner, Sue, and we decided to get married two years later in New York City, then one of the few states that permitted same-sex marriage. We were married in City Hall in Lower Manhattan, and we stopped by to visit Occupy Wall Street. It seemed to be a moment of big changes in the U.S.
My seventh decade of life on this earth has begun. I realize how intertwined my immigrant experience is with my politics and my sexuality. My skills as a Russian speaker and translator, my Slavic heritage gave me an avenue to connect with queers in Russia. In a symbiotic way perhaps, through my efforts to learn more about Russian sexual minorities and their struggles, I learned about my own trajectory as a lesbian and political activist and a citizen of the world.
Now I return to the sea of words, this collection of memoirs, portraits, interviews, poems, and stories, My Pink Road to Russia. It has a three part-structure: the first is about my youth in the Bronx and my dreams, my complicated immigrant family; the second gives a taste of my political self as an activist, machinist, lesbian writer; the third is about my travels in Russia—my interviews, my theories about sexuality/gender, my experiences with Russian queers, ending with an interview with me.
Each piece in this book is intended to stand on its own so it can be read independently of the others, which inevitably involves a certain amount of repetition, but I wanted you to be able to dip into the book as you please. My hope is that you will read what interests you and that you will learn more about the lives and concepts you may not be aware of. There is much in this world we do not know. Enjoy!
Part 1: Bronx Beginnings
Girlfriends
“St. Paul’s, St. Paul’s, never takes a fall,” the cheerleaders yelled in unison, arms harmonious in precise strokes, the, pompoms at their feet on the shiny blond floor of the gym. Two marched forward at the end of the cheer to do splits. We let out a roar and clapped wildly.
We especially loved home games; many more people showed up from our side, and the team felt more confident. When the cheerleaders paraded onto the floor, white skirts pressed, navy blue sweaters dominated by a big white P, they were the image of what all us girls wanted to be—neat, blond, pretty. Their jumps made us so proud, as if they were dancers performing a choreographed piece.
After the cheerleaders on each side led their schools in singing their alma maters, the referee took the basketball out to the center of the court, accompanied by captains for the home team and the visitors. This year St Paul’s captain was Maggie McCarthy, a junior star player. When the referee blew the whistle and threw the ball up into the air, the two players leaped for it and the game began.
I always went to the girls’ games. My best friend, Patty, was on the team, a great forward. She was like a gazelle, dashing back and forth across the court, so capable and smooth in her movements, stunningly beautiful with her silky hair sweeping the air. She worked well with the other team members, and they liked her. I felt my heart skip a beat when she passed the ball suavely to Maggie, who shot it cleanly into the basket.
When I was a freshman I tried out for the team but didn’t make it. Disappointing. Now seeing how skillfully the girls played, I could never imagine myself doing what they did. I’d felt so clumsy with the ball in comparison. I was convinced of the importance of being a fan.
Maggie McCarthy was tall with auburn hair, a little chunky but a strong, tough player. She was actually from another parish in the Bronx, but she got a scholarship to play on St. Paul’s team, which had a winning reputation. She was a year behind Patty and already the captain. I noticed she didn’t hang with a boyfriend and didn’t flirt like the other popular girls. She seemed very serious about basketball, usually playing forward. On the court she looked completely present, her face focused as she dribbled her way through the players, her sweaty brow wrinkled as she concentrated on a shot. I never felt she was trying to impress anyone, just doing her job. After an especially good play, she hugged Patty or another girl with genuine exuberance. Her bent head suggested an insecurity and introspection I could identify with. Since she was not in my year and I didn’t hang out with her Sweet Shoppe crowd, I never got any closer than watching her on the court or passing her in the school hallways.
When Patty and I talked about her, it was always in the context of practice or a game. Patty’s face would warm and her eyes glisten: “Did you see how Maggie stole the ball from that Cabrini girl and pitched it way across the court?” I never felt threatened by her admiration of Maggie McCarthy because I was Patty’s best friend. Patty had other close girlfriends, but she most often chose to be with me. I didn’t really like the Sweet Shoppe crowd anyway, even when I ran into some of the girls in the bars on weekends. They were snobs.
Three girlfriends and I trekked across the 196th Street Bridge into Manhattan. From there it was another six or seven blocks to O’Neal’s. It was less likely we’d get caught there because people didn’t know us in Inwood, a very different neighborhood, almost like we were going into another state. We were seventeen, and the drinking age was eighteen and we used fake IDs. Of course our parents never knew and sometimes it was scary walking the streets in the dark. It wasn’t so much that we wanted to drink, it was just where we got together. The stinky smell of beer and the dark, sleazy atmosphere were pretty gross, but it was great to hear the familiar sounds of Vanilla Fudge’s “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” and other hip songs from the late sixties, and to see friends from school and neighborhood.
Patty had an older girl’s ID, and I’d changed the year on a xeroxed copy of my baptismal certificate. The bouncer peered at our proof with his flashlight. He looked up at us, gruffly motioning us inside. “Take it easy, ladies.” A long strand of ashes dropped from the cigarette between his lips.