Moving Targets: Homophobia and the Orlando Massacre

On Sunday morning, I woke up to terrible news: a homophobic man had opened fire in a gay club and killed 49 people. He happened to be Muslim. 

I knew immediately what would happen. Despite the fact that homophobia is rampant in every culture and every religion, this hateful man's massacre of LGBT people would be used to fan the flames of anti-Muslim hatred. Sadly, I was right.

What I did not anticipate is that this flame would distract people from what is obviously the main issue in this horror -- homophobia -- and our own culture's role in perpetuating it.

I was stunned and numb, but, me being me, I acted on  my confused emotions by creating an outfit, an outfit dripping with rainbows that screamed: QUEER. I wanted to show solidarity with my community, with those injured and killed because they were queer, and with all their loved ones who will now suffer the after effects of this homophobic act. 

Suddenly, I was afraid of being visibly queer. I joked that my outfit made me a moving target for homophobes. It wasn't a funny joke. I felt vaguely guilty for dressing as I did, as if, were I to be gay-bashed, it would somehow be my fault for not slipping under the radar. I haven't felt that way about being visibly out for over 20 years. In the wake of Sunday's events, I've been remembering how terrifying it was to be out, and realizing that it still is.

Yesterday, I wanted to talk about homophobia. I wanted to shout about it to the skies. But very few people were doing so. 

I did not want to engage in ongoing discussions about whether or not Islam is inherently hateful and violent. I did not want to watch white, western newscasters repeatedly call on Muslims to defend their religion and assert that, no, it does not condone massacres of homosexuals. But many people were doing so. 

The real issues were rapidly being obscured. In focusing on Islam, people's attention was deflected from our own culture's homophobia. Straight, non-Muslim Americans got to feel sanctimonious and smug about their supposed enlightenment about queer issues, while their very act of deflection and silencing proved that their sanctimoniousness was unfounded.

Me in the early 90s

I've been out of the closet since 1989. Because I've been out for so long, I know for a fact that no single religion and no one culture can be blamed for homophobia. It is and has always been everywhere. I remember when it took almost impossible courage to wear this shirt. Right here, in my mostly Christian, mostly white, liberal neighbourhood, I would shake with fear when I wore it. 

Things have gotten better, but only in pockets of North American culture, not all of it. It is, after all, founded on homophobia as much as any other culture. 

I came out before the rainbow was the LGBT image (and before we used the term LGBT, for that matter). I came out when we wore pink triangles to signal to each other, "I'm one too." Why? Because the Nazis made homosexual men wear pink triangles when they threw them into the concentration camps. Don't gasp in horror at that evil regime's treatment of homosexuals till you hear the end of the story. Do you know what "our side" did when we won the war? We transferred the homosexual men to our own jails! They were not seen as worthy of liberation. 

Gay men were, among other things, widely assumed to prey on male children. In other words, most people had a very difficult time differentiating between homosexuality and paedophilia. There are many who still do, right here, in North America. As late as 1978, a successful campaign against homosexual rights was named Save Our Children, and, in the same year, a group in California fought to ban all homosexuals from working in public schools. Who do you think was behind these campaigns? I'll give you a hint: They were religious, but they were not Muslims.

This was American culture. In many ways, this still is American culture. 

I remember the time I first held a girlfriend's hand in public. We were really just girls, both 19, in a freezing cold winter in Montreal. We were both wearing mittens. I remember the mittens especially because it made me feel even younger, and not nearly as sophisticated as I wanted to be. 

There we were, late at night, shyly holding hands as we walked along a side street. A car swung around a corner and, as its lights hit us, we instinctively dropped each other's hands. We knew, without speaking, without planning, that we must do this. We knew that, if we did not, we were moving targets. The danger of violence, rape, and murder was real and intense. A few years later I dated a woman who had been gang raped at 18 by three men who just didn't like lesbians, especially butch lesbians -- and knew they could get away with it. 

It's not like we could go to the police if something did happen to us. Everyone had heard the stories about male cops taking lesbians into back allies and raping them. The cops called it "showing them what they were missing." "I'll turn you straight" rapes are still common in many places in the world. I've heard it's particularly bad in South Africa. But it still happens here too. Ever heard of "corrective intercourse"? Look it up.

When it came to brutal violence, it may have been even worse for gay men. One night, I was in the gay area of town on fireworks night. All gay men feared fireworks night because it was when their neighbourhood was flooded with heterosexuals, many young and male, many drunk. 

Three menacing white men approached me and my friend. One had a glow stick protruding from his pants. He waved it around at my friend and, mere inches from his face, said, "You like that? Does that turn you on?" It was clear that his intent was violent. Idiot that I am, I threw myself between my friend and this homophobe and yelled, "Leave him alone!" He look down (waaay down, I'm short) at me and seemed confused. This gave his nicer friend a chance to pull him away and offer us an embarrassed apology. (I've always wondered what became of that nicer man.) 

Instinctively, without any words, my friend and I threw our arms around each other like a straight couple, and walked away, disguised as heterosexual, and trembling all over.

I come from a time when being openly, visibly gay was an act of defiance, and an act of courage. It was dangerous. Don't kid yourselves: it still is. If the massacre in Orlando teaches us anything, it teaches us that.  Gay-bashing is not a thing of the past.

In 1990, I briefly worked at the LGBT bookstore, Little Sisters, where we frequently received abusive and sexually graphic phone calls from homophobic straight men. Packages of books crossing the border addressed to us were regularly opened and stopped by censors, even when the same books were waved by if they were addressed to "normal" bookstores. The assumption was that anything being sent to LGBT people must be perverted, filthy, and illegal -- just like us.

Little Sisters was bombed in 1993 -- again. It had been bombed twice before, in 1987 and 1988. Sunday's shooter was not the first to attempt to murder masses of LGBT people; he was just one of the most successful. 

This is not ancient history. I'm only 45 and I remember it all.

Remember when all those people fought hard to prevent gay marriage from becoming legal in America? Ancient history? That was last year! Remember who was fighting the hardest to prevent it? I'll give you a hint: It wasn't Muslims.

My point in telling you all this is to tell you that homophobia is American. It is Canadian. It is global. It is not a problem restricted to Muslims. Regardless of who ends up pulling the trigger, homophobic acts would not occur if a culture of homophobia did not already exist.

Christianity cannot be let off the hook here. No religion can. No culture can. America cannot be let off the hook.

Anyone in the LGBT community can tell you stories about people whose conservative Christian parents kicked them out of the home when they came out as queer. The streets are filled with homeless kids who are homeless for one reason only: they are queer and their families think this is an abomination against God. This is not just history. This is now. This is not just Islam. This is conservatives in all religions.

Just this year, Reverend Franklin Graham said that homosexuals cannot be Christian and cannot remain in the church. 

Reverend Graham's father, by the way, was one of the many Christians who said that AIDS was God's punishment on gay men for the sin of being gay. In other words, he said that God wanted all gay men dead.

This sentiment is also alive and well today. We saw its hideous outcome on Sunday.

Most of us know about the hateful, homophobic rants of the Westboro Baptist church. Predictably, they have already come out in praise of the shooter in this week's attack on gays in Orlando.

But they're not the only Christians to do so.  

As soon as the news of the shooting hit, the internet swarmed with those who condoned the attack. Many of them were Christian. Some of them were Muslim. Most were not.

This shooting was about homophobia, here, now, everywhere, always.

In a world so full of homophobia...

Me, on the right, with friends at a Gay Pride march, in the early 90s.

... is it any wonder LGBT people seek each other to form our own community? Is it any wonder we speak of each other as family? 

When I came out, it was all about the gay bars. We didn't have the internet then. If we wanted to find our community, our family, we had to go out, and most of the time, we went to the bars, bars just like Pulse.

Finally, we felt at home, loved, accepted. And we had fun! We were young. We danced (back when I could still dance) and flirted and lusted and fell in love. We told each other our coming out stories and found a way to laugh at homophobia. The clubs were our refuge, our playground, our safety.

Despite the internet, I don't think much has really changed. Gay bars are still much more than mere bars. And this is why the attack at Pulse is an ultimate act of homophobia. It's an attack on our home. It's an attack on all of us. 

Just when we were all feeling like things were changing and we could safely be ourselves even outside of LGBT bars and the LGBT community, we find that we are wrong. This is something many around the world already knew all too well.

We suddenly again know what it feels like to be a moving target.

We know what it is to be afraid, just for being who we are, not just then, but here, now, everywhere. 

And it is not just a Muslim issue, or just an American one. It is a global issue. It is homophobia.

(I'm sharing this with Not Dressed as Lamb, Elegantly Dressed and Stylish, Honest Mum, High Latitude Style, Fashion Should Be Fun, Rachel the Hat, Adri Lately, Tina's Pink Friday, and Sydney Fashion Hunter.)

The 1950s: the Dress, the Dream, the Reality

If you read Sublime Mercies with any regularity, you know that I often find that something small becomes starting place on a winding and interesting path of ruminations about a million, seemingly unconnected things. This 1950s day dress, for example, is no exception. It got me thinking about the huge difference between people's idealized visions of the American 1950s, and the reality of the American 1950s. 

This great vintage clock was a present from Sal.

I often hear people say of past eras, "Things were so much simpler then. They dressed so much better then. Life was better then." Don't you believe it! If we take advertisements, television shows, movies, and fashion shoots as our models of reality for any period it will seem better, simpler, and spiffier than reality, past or present.

Because I love vintage style, people often think that I would love to live in the past. God no! Of course I wouldn't have wanted to live in the 50s. They were not a good time to be female, or middle-aged, or queer, or anything but white and Christian. I'll delve into all this more throughout this post.

But, of course, this post is also about fun: 50s fashion, 50s décor, and our fabulously kitsch, 50s kitchen.

When most of us think of women in the 1950s, we think of something like this smiling young blond here, beautifully attired in high heels, and a full skirted dress with a painfully narrow waist -- all while she does housework! But was this the reality? My feet ache just thinking about it, as do my gut and my back: a girdle, to clean the house? Are you kidding me?

Dress, brooch, locket, chain, and shoes: vintage; Tights and cardigan: Mod Cloth; Earrings: boutique; Apron: I got it at a discount store

Because of the dominant image of the perfectly quaffed 1950s housewife, I found my dress a bit of a mystery. The women selling it on Etsy billed it as 1950s house dress, but it did not conform to my image of one. I wondered if it might actually be a dress from the 1930s.

But what did I know of 50s reality? I could be much closer to 50s reality here, in my more comfortable dress, with my messy hair, and wan, tired face, unaided by even a spot of make-up.

I mean, seriously, was anyone ever this delighted by a dishwasher? Did women really cinch their waists and wear crinolines and high heels to do dishes? Maybe. But did the majority of women do this? I have my doubts.

As with today, the magazines in the 1950s were full of images of such housewives. As with today, my guess is that these images served less to reflect reality and more to make women feel inadequate and insecure so they'd buy more products: make-up, household cleansers, tinned foods, kitchen gadgets, etc. Sadly, some things don't change much.

Take the average age of the women depicted as housewives in old magazines. It's true that, on average, women did get married much younger then, but they did not simply disappear the minute they passed thirty-five. 

And what I found over and over again in my search for examples of 50s house dresses, was that, while some young women did attempt to wear those wasp-waisted dresses, women "of a certain age" invariably wore dresses more like my own, complete with sensible shoes and freer waists.

So maybe I was dressed like the real 1950s housewife, at least the older one, after all.

Wouldn't you agree? God I love this woman!

I'm becoming increasingly disinterested in trying to wear what I'm calling young women's vintage. Less and less often do I take my sartorial cues from old advertisements and fashion shoots.

Instead, I'm more and more enchanted by sartorial choices of the less glamorous, more practical, and wiser middle aged woman of yore. I want to honour the thicker, bosomier, worldlier, grownup women of the past (and present), not the lithe young ingénues. They get plenty of the spotlight.

I like to shine that light on other women, the older ones, the ones more like... me. I take pride in emulating them, even as I know that I no longer have the kind of beauty I once had. So what? I have so much more to give the world than mere beauty. Don't we all have more to give as we mature? 

So, yes, I enjoy looking like a middle-aged, 50s housewife but I would never actually want to be one.

I would have had very little access to the pursuit of any dream but marriage and motherhood. My only access to security would have been marrying well. If I'd tried to have a career, I would have faced discrimination, harassment, and an impenetrable glass ceiling. And I would have been expected to quit my job when (not if) I got married, well before my 30th birthday. (As you all know, I didn't get married till my 45 birthday and I'm proud of that!)

If I had wanted to date and -- gasp -- be sexually active before I got married, I would have had a very difficult time finding birth control. It was often illegal for doctors to give birth control to unmarried women! Even if I had gained access to contraceptives, I would have been considered a "loose woman" and, therefore, unmarriageable. And that, in those days, was understood to be the worst possible fate for a woman. If a man didn't want you, your life was ruined.



It was inconceivable that marriage just might not suit some woman. It was inconceivable that a woman might not want to get married -- ever.

I can hear some of you thinking, "What about lesbianism?" Yes, there were lesbians then as there have always been but it was a damned rough time to be queer. I would have had to hide my own lesbian relationships for fear of being fired from my job, kicked out of my rental home, banished from my family and religious community, thrown in jail, or put into a mental institution and given electro-shock "therapy" to "cure" me of my "perversion."

Some lesbian and bisexual women were brave enough to be themselves and pursue lesbianism but I think we can all forgive those who capitulated and followed the expected path: heterosexual marriage and life as a housewife and mother. We can equally forgive those women who followed the expected path even though they would have preferred to pursue a career, or remain single or childless.

Once married, I would then have been expected to immediately begin having children. At my age, 45, I would have been married for about 25 years, my children would be grown or mostly grown, and I would be a grandmother a few times over.

And I would be considered entirely past my years as an attractive, desirable woman. At best, people would say of me, "You can tell she was once an attractive woman." I know this because I see such statements over and over again in novels from the period and earlier.

And I would be invisible. Even as male movie stars were allowed to age, their love interests remained in their 20s. Cary Grant was 20 years older than Eva Marie Saint in the 1959 movie, North by Northwest. Fred Astaire was 30 years old than Audrey Hepburn in the 1957 movie, Funny Face. Models in magazines were in their teens and early 20s.

Sadly, some things don't change.

What is it with a world that renders older women unworthy of even photographing? It's getting a little better, but not much. 



Were middle-aged women unworthy of love? Had we nothing left to give the world? Were we all used up?

How absurd! Of course we were and are loved.

Let's get real!

And even if some think we are no longer beautiful and sexually desirable, is that really all we're good for? We have so much to offer! We have laughter ...

... lots of laughter ...

... love and loyalty ...

... sisterhood ...

... and friendship ...

... in sensible little cardigans.

Why render all that invisible?!

 

There is also our value on our own, on our own terms, not as sisters, wives, mothers, or grandmothers, but as individuals, as ourselves.

But wait, that's not all! Do you notice something else wrong with all those stereotypical images of 1950s housewives? Who else is missing?

Even in the "real life" photos from the 50s that I was able to find, the images form a monolithic wall of white faces. 

A segregated bus in the southern United States

The 1950s might have been a nice time to be a white woman, and that's highly debatable, but they were most definitely not a nice time to be African American, or, using the now distasteful, politically correct term of the 50s, Negro. Look at this photo taken on a segregated bus. Most of the women, black and white, are wearing dresses like the one I'm wearing in this post, but no-one but a racist could look at this photo and feel nostalgia. Look at the hard faces of the white women. This is not a pretty picture.

Here's another beaut: white women, wearing typical house and day dresses, haranguing a girl simply trying go to a newly integrated school. I get a smug satisfaction seeing that this girl is about ten times more fashionable and well put-together than the racist white women are. Good for her! Without opening her mouth, she is saying a lot just by being fashionable and having wonderful poise and deportment.

Anyone who looks squarely at the reality of the 1950s, or the 1500s, or today, simply cannot say it was (or is) "simpler, kinder, and better."

The white, suburban life most of us think of when we think of the 50s wasn't even great for the people living it, let alone for those firmly excluded from it.

It was a fantasy for most, not a reality. And, yes, this is just the fantasy we had fun trying to duplicate in our kitchen. 



We did it with a keen awareness that what we were creating never really existed, any more than the "perfect" homes and families on television today exist.

I hope we also did it with a healthy dose of humour, irony, and even camp. The 50s dream is pretty darned camp, when you think about it.

Meanwhile, what was the reality? On whose backs were the white families standing? I think by now the answer is clear.

The most "benevolent" white conception of African-Americans was as servants ...

... and only servants ...

This ad is probably from the 1930s, not the 1950s but the image of black men as porters and servants persisted through the 50s.

... happy to serve, jolly, uneducated ...

... intimately tied to the white families whom they served, families who seldom cared or knew anything about their servants' own family lives.

If the supposed dream of the American white woman was to marry and start a family, the supposed dream for the African American woman was to serve such a family ...

... helping to create a life that was inaccessible to her and her children and grandchildren. Indeed, the very law itself often shut African-Americans out from this life.



That's why I was so pleased when, struggling to find images of African-American women wearing house dresses in the 1950s, I found this brilliant photos of two icons of the civil rights movement: Septima Clark and Rosa Parks. Indeed, it was, in part, finding this photo that set me on the path of writing about the realities of the 50s, about those who were excluded from or erased by the American dream of the day.

My slip was the other thing that got me thinking about the topic of race in the 1950s. Yes, my slip.

Let me clarify. A friend of mine recently gave me this beautiful, vintage slip and I absolutely love it. It has pretty lace trim, it's comfortable, it's warm in the winter, and it's lined! Yes, the slip itself is lined. They simply don't make them like this anymore.

Anyone with any interest in old movies will see a slip like mine immediately think of Elizabeth Taylor in the movie, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

You see what I mean?

When I tried this pose, I decided that Taylor was a genius. How did she do it? Genius, I tell you. Of course, good lighting, make-up artists, professional photographers, nylons, girdles, hairdressers... these things helped a little too.

As usual, reality is so very different from fantasy.

Tennessee Williams

And Tennessee Williams, who wrote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, knew this all too well.

The play, first produced in 1955 on Broadway, addresses many of the issues I've already discussed in this post, especially homophobia and sexism, including the cultural irrelevance of older women.

Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor in the movie version of the play. The movie excises the theme of homosexuality, thus rendering the tensions between husband and wife inscrutable.

His heroine, Maggie, had dreams of rising above her working class roots and, as I mentioned before, her only avenue for doing so was in marrying "up" which she did when she married Brick, the wealthy son of a plantation owner. The problem is that she is expected to start producing babies immediately, little heirs to the empire. This is difficult, since Brick is gay (and in huge denial about his homosexuality).

Luckily for me, Maggie's predicament is not my own.

She loves and desires him but he neither loves nor desires her.

Brick escapes from his self-loathing by drinking, a lot.

Maggie attempts to seduce him with alcohol, not just because she desires him sexually, but because his entire family considers her a failure as both a wife and a woman because she is childless.

(I tried this pose as well, to little success.)

So far, in describing Williams' play, I am describing something written by a man with great compassion and empathy not only for homosexuals like himself, but for women too. But Williams, like everyone, like you and me, had his blind-spots when it came to oppression. Just as in the 1950s families I've been describing, Williams grew up with black servants who seem to have become, to him, a mere backdrop to white family life. This is, sadly, evident in his work.

I taught Cat on a Hot Tin Roof to college students several times and was always deeply jarred by his treatment of the "Negro servants" in the play. While the cast includes two servants, Lacey and Sookey, our first introduction to them is as "a Negro voice," which, we are told, answers the phone with "Mistuh Polly's res'dence." Later, we again read of a "warm Negro voice"; again it doesn't even seem to matter whether the "Negro voice" is Sookey or Lacey. Apparently, to Williams, they are interchangeable, like set pieces, not real characters.

What, pray tell, is a "Negro voice"? Would Williams ever have dreamed of writing of "a white voice"?

In yet another scene, "One of the Negroes, Lacey or Sookey," it doesn't seem to matter which, "peeks in, cackling" in her childlike excitement about Brick's father's birthday. If you think I'm going too far in saying that the African-American servants are presented as being like children, consider that Williams tells us that "everybody, even the Negroes and Children, joins" in singing Happy Birthday.



I don't want to belabour a point, and I don't want to attack poor Tennessee Williams, who was, for all his faults, light years ahead of his time in many ways. Instead, I want to illustrate the lies on which the 50s American dream was built. And I want us all to realize that our realities today are also built on lies, and blindness (wilful and otherwise). When you think life is or was "better" now, or then, ask yourself, "Who is left out? For whom is/was this life better? For whom is it not?"

This is why I never wish I'd been born in another time, no matter how much I might like vintage fashions and designs. And this is why I also refuse to assume that we are all "better" now, more enlightened, and less prejudiced. Like Williams, we have our blind spots our unrecognised prejudices. All we can do is try hardopen our eyes and really see the world in which we live.

And so we return to the fantasy and fun I created with this dress in this kitchen, even if my fantasy doesn't quite match the young perky one women were fed in the 50s.

My hair is a little messier, my face less made up, my shoes a little more practical, my tights a little less silky, my body a little curvier, and my age a little older.

But, as I said, this sort of dress seems to have been the territory of older women, not the young.

I wonder why. Did they just not want to bother with the cinched waists required of the new look? Were their dresses actually left over from the 1930s? Or did older women see no reason to mess with a good thing? Did they just make and buy more dresses like the ones they wore as young women?

These dresses certainly do seem to stand up over time. Here we see some in the 1940s.



My dress is now at least 55 years old and the cotton is still strong and sturdy, its colours bright and crisp.

Regardless of when my particular dress was made...

... it looks just great in our retro 50s kitchen. Our house was built in 1949 and we've had a lot of fun returning the kitchen to its 50s splendour.

These great, Deco style hinges are wonderful and original to the house, but the boomerang cupboard door handles are our own addition. They are original to the 50s as well. A fan of mid-century modern design was selling them on Craigslist and I snapped them up.



It's been fun to make our kitchen as 50s as we can, from our dishes ...

... to the ribbon on the light above our sink.

The cupboard made just for tinned goods is Beau's favourite part of the whole room. Though our landlords painted the whole darned house boring beige, some of the original colours remained, like the turquoise cupboard interiors you see here. It's almost what I call my "bad blue," the one that triggers me, but it's so right in the kitchen, that I decided I'd learn to be okay with it. So far, so mostly okay.

Even in own home, which is mostly set up to accommodate my disability, I do suffer a little bit for design. This tea kettle, for example, is much too heavy for comfort.

(But Beau does most of the cooking and kitchen work. We've learned that this is the best arrangement; when I try to help out, I end up hurting myself so much, Beau has more work while I lie in bed convalescing for days, or even weeks. The two times I've tried to unload and load the dishwasher, I've thrown my back out for a week!)

I knew what I wanted to do with this room from the very first minute I saw it.

Unlike in the rest of the house, when I decorated this room, I fully embraced my kitsch side. In my 20s, I was all about the kitsch, the camp, and heavy doses of irony in my sartorial and design choices. I'm less so now ...

... but this room just screamed to be restored to its original 50s kitchen kitsch.

Despite the kitsch, our kitchen is gloriously practical. By today's standards, it's huge, with tonnes of cupboard and counter space. It really is a delight to prepare food and eat in this kitchen.

You see? Even as I recognize the lie of the perfect, 50s American dream, I can still enjoy aspects of it. I hope I take the same approach to my own time, right here and now in 2016, enjoying the good and recognizing and working to change the bad.

Sushi is definitely one of the good things about 2016. This dress and slip are definitely good things about 1956.

To me, this is all part of living a full life.

Now get along with you, and live your life fully too! See you with my next post, in whatever decade it shall be.

(I'm sharing this with Adri Lately, Rachel the Hat, Not Dead Yet, Not Dressed As Lamb, and Fashion Should Be Fun.)