OCR Text |
Show Moon -135 able to act just like men, which isn't surprising, when you think about it. I went to a consciousness-raising group for a few months. We met in each other's apartments and told our stories of guilty avoidance of our oppressed mothers and fearing our fathers, of denied athletic talent, suppressed intellect, and submissive sex in a non-orgasmic wasteland. We wept and hugged each other, for our lives finally made some sense, and it was a staggering relief not to be alone any longer. It was a time of clean anger, open grieving, and great joy at the new possibilities for love. But I didn't go the whole revolutionary way. I didn't tell them the entire story of James, for no one spoke of such things back then. I didn't try lesbian love, though for some that was essential to the Cause. I admired these women who let their bounteous breasts spill into their shirts and spoke with bold loudness, their hands waving and plucking at their wild wire hair. But what if I loved a woman and she betrayed me, too? What then could I hope for? And, well, I couldn't help it, I kept on loving the way men's arms showed every sinew. The hard difference of men, this mattered. Like the clashing of cold and warm, difference was what kept the weather coming, made the currents of air in which we rise. And in the midst of this came my mother's death, which strained these new friendships with women. They were into being joyous in liberated love, doing their marches, organizing company protest groups. They didn't want to hear about early losses whose time had not yet come for them. And so, my time in New York after Mark became a time of planning for escape. I needed to start myself over someplace new. I call Josh collect from the hotel. "I don't know why I'm here," I say. |