The Mothertongue Era, the 80's

When I joined a gay synagogue and left the Lutheran church, I came out as a lesbian and got involved in feminist pursuits. My main avocation was writing and performing with Mothertongue Readers Theater. I worked on anthology scripts concerning identity, survival, sexuality, and peace. And now I present some of my pieces:

My name is Dana. I've always thought it meant Dane, a native of Denmark, which I'm not. But I since gathered that I was named after a close male friend of my father's, possibly a lover of his.
I always liked my name. I didn't have to share it with a lot of other people. In fact, I never met another Dana until I was in junior high school, one boy and one girl, and still we were few and between.
People often tell me I have a pretty name, which is not the term I would have chosen, but I appreciate the sentiment.
There are more of us Danas now, so I'm less unique. On the other hand, fewer people misspell the name these days.
Yes, I like my name; I think Dana is a neat, spare name, simple and without a lot of connotations. I think of it as straightforward and androgynous, two characteristics I like to think I share with it.
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I needed to have a Hebrew name by Yom Kippur this year, so I could be called by that name to chant blessings for a Torah reading. I had known for at least a year that I would eventually have to choose a Hebrew name, but I hadn't chosen one. Making choices is not my strong suit.
I liked one name, Shira, because it means "song," and I'm a singer; but to me it belonged to someone else, a teacher of Israeli folkdance. This gave me mixed feelings. I admire Shira, and wouldn't want to take a name associated with a person I didn't respect, but I also didn't want to take a name that already belonged to someone else. That feels like cheating, like being a copycat.
I had even worse problems with Devora, Hebrew for Deborah, the first woman judge of Israel, because, although it is an honorable name and shares some letters with my own name, the Hebrew and English versions of the name already belong to my therapist and my boss, respectively.
So I called the rabbi for help, and he provided a book of English names and their nearest Hebrew equivalents, by sound and by meaning. It turns out that Dana, or Danah, is a perfectly valid Hebrew name, meaning "to judge." Since I'm a member of the State Bar and have a somewhat critical personality, the name seemed appropriate. Moreover, it's simply derived from my own name and doesn't belong to anyone I know, so that it's as rare a Hebrew name as my English name used to be and I don't have to take a whole lot of responsibility for selecting it. I hate making choices.
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Somehow I always knew I would have to earn my own living. When my brother and I were babies, our parents got divorced and sent us to live with our grandparents. When I was 9, Grandma died, and two years later Dad took us from Grandpa, to live with him. When I was 15, Dad died, and we went to live with our mother. It seemed to me that the only person I could count on to be there was me.
Grandpa had told me that I would be taken care of when I grew up. Maybe he meant that my husband would take care of me. Well, I don't know how I managed to grow up without any interest in marriage, but I did. I couldn't decide whether to be a comedian or a psychiatrist, but housewife, I knew, was not for me.
While I was in college, I discovered that I was a lesbian, and that marriage really was out of the question. I enjoyed studying music in college, but it finally became clear to me that I could not earn a living as a musician. So I went to law school, even though I had never met a lawyer, because I thought that as a lawyer I could earn a secure, professional living. After I learned something about the practice of law, I took my law degree and went into legal research and writing instead. I worked for a research service, then for a court, and now in legal publishing, writing, editing, and managing publications.
I love seeing my name in print. I love figuring out complicated problems of legal analysis. I love working on a word processor. Sometimes there's deadline pressure; sometimes the material is boring, or gruesome, or not on the shelves. Sometimes, though I look around my office, which has my name on the door, African Violets on my handsome wooden desk, and a view of the Bay out my window, and marvel at my good luck, but I also know that I do good work and earn my salary. And in my spare time, I sing, compose, and conduct a choir. My father, also a professional, also a musician, and also gay, would have been proud of me.
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I often call myself Singer when I make restaurant reservations. It's easier than Vinicoff to get across to someone on the phone, especially to someone whose English is poor. And, anyway, I am a singer, so I'm entitled.
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Two different women look at me from the mirror. The one I see most often has a round face, a pasty complexion, and acne. Her expression is blank; she is plain. The other woman looks much better. She has cheekbones and a chin line. Her skin is clear and she looks wise and confident. She is attractive and I enjoy looking at her.
How can the women be so different? How can they both be me? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is the difference in my head rather than my face? Is it that how I feel about myself affects how I look? Or maybe a bit of both? Maybe I just look better at some times than others.
I don't know. But it would be nice if that attractive woman were the only one living in my mirror.
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I stand at the open refrigerator. I am hungry, but I know that food will not satisfy my hunger. All right. If I'm not hungry for food, then for what?
For people, I think. For friends, for a lover. I feel so paralyzed. But it's not that I can't reach out to people. I call women for dates, friends for lunch. Sometimes they call me. But it doesn't seem to be enough. Some friends say that they really enjoy being with me and value my friendship. I wish I could believe them. I see their comments as nourishment, but I just can't seem to absorb it.
So, I stand at the open refrigerator.
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I hate crying unlabeled tears. Crying itself doesn't bother me; it makes me feel better to cry. But I don't like crying if I don't know what I'm crying about. In part, it's because I want to be able to do something about the situation that's making me cry. If it's a problem, I want to solve it. If it's a joy, I want to savor it. If I'm simply tired or sick, at least I can understand what's happening and know that I'll get over it. But it's frustrating to cry without apparent reason. It makes me feel stupid or emotionally immature.
Well, it keeps on happening, and the intelligent, mature response would be to simply cry until I don't have to cry anymore. At the very least, it'll be good for my digestion.
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One day I came home to my mother in tears. I couldn't stop crying and I couldn't explain why I was crying. She filled the bath tub with hot water and told me to get in. "You can't cry if you're in a hot bath," she said. "I don't know why, but it works for me."
I got in. It worked for me, too. Why does it work? Maybe it's just relaxation caused by the heat. Maybe it's a symbolic return to the womb. I don't know and I don't care. A hot bath is good for what ails you.
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Did you know that it's illegal in California for a woman to appear in public barebreasted? Men may take off their shirts any old time they want to, but a woman becomes a criminal if she does it. How is it, I wonder, that bare breasts are considered so threatening to the body politic as to constitute a crime?
Is it that poor, innocent, weak-willed men will lose control of themselves and rush like starving beasts to grab and bury their faces in the unveiled and beckoning bounty? Is it that young children will see the ordinary, human sight that lies beneath their mother's shirt? I think it's the possibility that allowing women to control when to reveal our bodies would give us the revolutionary notion that our bodies belong to us rather than to men, and that would bring the patriarchy crashing in pieces to the ground.
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Woman 1: The world is in such trouble. Sometimes I just lose hope. Why bother working and planning when tomorrow may never come?
Woman 2: I know. Sometimes there's nothing I can do but pray.
Woman 3: Sometimes I have to just get out of the city and watch the sun rise.
Woman 4: It helps me to use my body. I do tai chi.
Woman 5: I run.
Woman 2: I need to be with a group of people, like my synagogue.
Woman 3: My coven.
Woman 4: Mothertongue.
Woman 5: The point is, do whatever works to make you relaxed and strong, but do it. There's work to be done, and we need to get on with it.
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Ah (with mild embarrassment). There's an explanation for that. It has been scientifically proven that humans need to be touched and held as much as we need sunlight or fresh air. If a baby isn't held enough, it can get sick or even die. That's why babies who have to stay in incubators are put on sheepskins, because the animal fur provides some substitute for human touching. Scientists believe that most people suffer to some degree from touch deprivation.
And that's why there's a teddy bear sitting on my desk.
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