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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

I cannot tell a lie
What happens when a hooker confesses to her parents.
By Tracy Quan
[10/15/99]

Anyone for a poop daiquiri?
I can't do the stony-face thing when it comes to bathroom humor.
By Carol Hall
[10/14/99]

Bad fortune
When the nanny foretold disaster, my son gave me a lesson in blind faith.
By Allison Hoover Bartlett
[10/13/99]

My seeds are sprouting in two wombs
Hank Pellissier, giver of sperm, is about to receive. Last heard from while contemplating insemination, he's now got a girl coming with the wife and a boy on the way with the lesbian gal pal.
By Hank Pellissier
[10/12/99]

Dump the big bang, bring on the blue ox
Kansas isn't going far enough with changes to its science curriculum
By Vicki Rosenzweig
[10/11/99]

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By Lee Uttmark

Oct. 18, 1999 | Some parents spend their weekends at the edge of the soccer field or in the bleachers at the gym. Not me. My daughter Ali never liked team sports, but after she came out I became a spectator to her new life as a gay woman and soon discovered a culture with its own music, theater, politics and rules.

It was not enough for me to accept her. That was the same as a mother telling her daughter she's beautiful. It was not enough for me to like certain movies -- "The Birdcage" comes to mind -- or gay hairdressers, or hotshot lesbian softball players. I soon learned that most images of gays and lesbians are rife with offensive stereotypes, and that Ali had become part of a family I did not know.

I don't like being left out of her life. She called me one Tuesday afternoon, begging: "I know it's a weeknight. I know you go to bed early. But you can't miss Peggy Shaw. Please come see her with me. You'll like her. I know you will!" So I said sure, even though I wondered how I'd possibly stay awake. Turns out I didn't need to worry.

We ate at the college dining hall and then headed to the theater. As we entered the lobby we joined a sea of women in some of the ugliest clothing I have ever seen, mostly black, shapeless and wrinkled. The best-looking women in the crowd wore tight black jeans and muscle shirts. At that moment I experienced one of my occasional pangs. I really miss shopping with Ali: standing outside the dressing-room door, watching her make instant judgments in front of the mirror, enjoying moments of absolute joy for both of us when I was able to say, "Let's take both dresses. You'll use them."

My mother looms up as I tell these stories. She wants to say, "Serves you right. I told you you'd have a daughter of your own someday and then you'd understand." My mother also lost the experience of shopping with me after I went to college, and it had nothing to do with sexual orientation. In August of 1963, we had filled a trunk with kilts and sweater sets, and dresses I would wear to mixers, and off I went to Emerson College to major in theater. I only needed one semester to discover Pinter and Albee, mourn the assassination of John Kennedy and change my wardrobe to black jeans and turtlenecks. My mother hated the way I looked. She kept buying me things I never wore (she still does). So there's one lesson. Ali's sexual orientation has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I can no longer buy her clothes.

In the theater lobby, Ali started introducing me to her friends. As soon as someone turned away, Ali would tell me her story: She used to be with the woman who is now with the woman who dated the best friend of the woman she dated two years ago. The relationship histories sounded just like my friends' and mine. For three years, six of us got together once a month to learn to knit. We never knit a thing, but our stories got all tangled together into one knotted ball of disappointment. And we thought men were the problem. We were convinced of it. That's why I thought it would be better for Ali. And then I learned that every woman who's having a hard time getting some man to commit and thinks, "Oh, life would be so much easier if I were gay," is wrong.

Ali and I made our way to our seats. Many Hampshire College faculty, who normally offered only a cursory nod at administrators like me, turned to smile. Ali gave me a hug. I ran my hand along the shaved bristle of hair above her thin neck. Yes, the hair went early! Sometimes she looks no older than 12. The lights dimmed and I turned my attention from her intense profile to the stage.

When the lights came up, Peggy Shaw stood on a nearly empty stage, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else. She has heavy, thin-skinned, middle-aged breasts and the legs and thighs of a field-hockey player. Her hair is short, her face pleasant but unremarkable and void of makeup as I recall. She seemed more naked than wholly naked women I have seen in movies. I could see freckles and a lattice of broken veins on the backs of her legs, above the knee, same as mine. Then she began to talk in a bland, conversational tone while she wrapped an ace bandage around her breasts.

Next page | "I was jealous. I wanted her to sing to me"