CROW’S CAWS

by crow cohen

\)

-N

Let’s Talk About Class

Now here’s a topic that sets
folks on edge. I think it’s prob-
ably harder to discuss class in
our so-called “classless soci-
ety” than it is to discuss sex,
yet I would venture to say that
it was class politics that divid-
ed the Burlington lesbian com-
munity 20 years ago more than
any other issue.

l’ve been interviewing sev-
eral women who were lesbian
feminist activists in the
Burlington area from about
1975-1985, and I’d like to
share with you some of their
memories about the class con-
flict. As one lesbian said when
I interviewed her, “Class isjust
as hard to talk about now as
racism. lt’s almost taboo, like
you’re swearing, taking the
name of God in vain. ljust see
so much shit being repeated.
Maybe even today it’s worse,
because at least in the women’s
community [back then], we
could talk about this stuff.”

Let me start with myself. I
grew up in a middle-class fam-
ily. Both my father and mother
came from very poor back-
grounds (my grandfathers on
both sides were Russian Jewish
immigrant peddlers), but my
father managed to go to phar-
macy school and buy ’a little
drugstore in the late ‘30s,
which earned him a ‘good liv-
ing. He was also able to invest
his money at a time in the ‘50s,
‘60s, and ‘70s when this coun-

  
 

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try had economic policies that
favored the middle class, as
opposed to the super-rich. I
was sent to college, married
young and came out as a les-
bian in my thirties.

At that time, my class poli-
tics changed dramatically. I
became downwardly mobile
like so many of my sisters in
the community. I was desperate
to fit in. Many of these women,
like myself, were from middle-
class backgrounds, but pre-
ferred to work menial jobs and
live cheaply so they could
focus on women’s movement
activities. K

One dyke described her liv-
ing quarters this way. [Notez
names have been changed to
protect anonymity.] “Our
apartment was really funky.
When I first moved in there, I
thought it was beautiful. It was
really a one-bedroom apart-
ment. Susan had the master
bedroom and sometimes she
had a girlfriend in there with
her. Then me and Cindy shared
this dining room that was
divided by a thin little Indian
blanket, which was our bed-
room. I didn’t even realize it. I
always thought it was just a
room with no door. Then there
was a closet that Judy paid
$25/month (or was it year?) to
keep her canned tomatoes and
pears in that nobody ever ate.
Me and Cindy had four milk
crates each stacked up, and we

had this futon mattress on the
floor. That was our room.
There was no walking space.
At some point, we’d have five
or six people living in essen-
tially this one-bedroom apart-
ment. My parents came
through one time and it broke
their hearts to see how I was

June 2000 | Out in the Mountains [17

“It made me pretty angry,”
said one woman, “that women
who came from clearly privi-
leged backgrounds all of a sud-
den could stand up and speak
for the underclass. Give me a
break. They" didn’t know what
they were talking about. If
you’re sleeping on the floor
now and throwing your clothes
on the floor because you don’t
have a closet, that doesn’t
make you working class.”

Some women lived from
hand to mouth for a while, but
got sick of eating beans all the
time. “One of the things that
really set me apart from the
women’s community was that I
had a ‘real’ job [from a large
corporation] — a real patriar-
chal job — and I liked it. It paid
me handsomely. It paid me bet-

”They didn’t see me as a homeless
person, but as another woman in
the community who didn’t have a

designated bed.”

living. I thought my life was
great. I was pretty excited
about it, but if I pressed them a
little, I’d get the tears from my
mother.”

Another woman said, “Most
of the women I associated with
didn’t have straight jobs. Most
of them had something going
with SSI or welfare or part-
time work, or they made food
and were able to sell it, or they
worked at the co-op. We really
lived on so little.”

But not all lesbians back
then related to this downward-
ly mobile lifestyle. To some, it
was pretty offensive — especial-
ly to those who might have
lived through the Depression
or grew up in poverty them-
selves.

ter than 99 percent of all the
women I knew then, who were
getting food stamps or cleaning
houses and working crappy
jobs.”

Another dyke who tried to
share her privilege kept getting
burned. “I had a feeling of
being politically incorrect,
because I wasn’t doing a
poverty lifestyle. People would
ask me for things or borrow my
stuff, and in the beginning I’d
loan stuff out; but then it didn’t
come back, so after a while I
started saying no. That was
horrible. You can’t imagine the
strange social, emotional rejec-
tion I felt from the person to
whom I said no because I did-
n’t want to lose any more. It
seemed like I was vaguely

being bled dry on a number of
levels.

“None of these women were
my close friends, but they
always wanted me to give,
give, give because I had, had,
had. It would be different if I
was offering; but they were
asking, and it was all couched
in, ‘You have to do this
because this is the politically
correct thing. If you don’t do
this, you deserve to incur our
righteous anger.’ There was a
lot of righteous anger directed
toward me because of class
issues.”

What, me ashamed?

Class hurt includes a lot
more than just how much
money you lack. Because of
this country’s condescending
attitude toward the poor, many
of the lesbians who grew up
working class carried around a
hidden shame that was difficult
to acknowledge when most
women were focused on the
excitement of building a move-
ment.

“It was so weird to me that
women I was hanging out with

had braces or music lessons. I

They just assumed they were

going to college and did. When

you don’t have all of that sup-

port, you can think that you’re

not as good, so I struggle with

that all the time. I don’t come

from a family that ever encour-
aged me to be confident. You
were encouraged to keep the
house clean and make sure you
have a job; and if you did those

two things, you were OK. To

me, fundraising was’ the most

terrifying thing you could think

of doing. Putting together

incorporation papers? Those

words were enough to send me

scun'ying under a chair.”

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