Carol Leigh
Excepts from
"THANKS MA"
from UNCONTROLLABLE
BODIES: Testimonies of Identity and Culture (copyright Bay Press, Seattle,
WA 1994)
Feminism Circa the
70s
I decided to devote
myself to less esoteric goals, like feminism (which provided a very useful
map to my psyche). In l976 I organized a women's writers' group, dedicated
to improving women's images. The 'great artists' were mostly men. History
was told from a man's point of view. Women were silenced and anonymous,
but we would change all that. Together we would tell our secret stories!
And I would find a place for my weird self.
Feminism was almost
perfect for me... except for the fact that I was bisexual and couldn't
stop fucking men. Of course, women had to attack me for that. I understood.
Women had been so oppressed. And maybe I should stop fucking men? My comrade,
anti-porn heroine Macha Womongold (Pornography: A License to Kill), introduced
me to some strategies to fight the patriarchy. Macha taught me about the
goddess and about how proud I could be of everything female. Macha was
even arrested for some obstreperous anti-porn activism. I admired her,
but my feminist angst manifested itself in different ways.
For example, occasionally
I'd don a few little lacy black things and jill off to my whore image
in the mirror. And once, compelled by a passionate curiosity, I dressed
up in my sexiest lingerie to dance on amateur night at the Golden Banana
in Peabody, Massachusetts. Get over it or get into it. I advised myself.
I never told my friends. They might not like it, but I didn't care. Cavorting
publicly in lace and garters seemed bad (in the context of the patriarchy),
but couldn't I explore that role and write poetry about my findings!?
Maybe not. How was I to fit my talents and interests into the scheme of
society? My college career had been a bust. My political beliefs con§icted
with my masturbatory practices. I was a good girl in a bad girl's psyche.
Or vice versa. Anyway, the blizzard of '78 was the last straw. I moved
to San Francisco to find my fate.
Bad Luck at Lucky'
s, or Caught between the Rapists and the Police
In 1978 I began to
work at Lucky's massage parlor. I knew there was some danger, but I suppressed
my fear so that I could survive. Measuring danger is a complicated science.
As a woman, I live in constant fear of rape. If I were really careful,
I'd never leave my house. You gotta take risks.
I'll fuck for money
if I want, I told myself. My co-workers and the management assured me
that arrest could be avoided and violence was very rare. Women taught
me how to screen customers when it was my turn to open the door. Trust
your gut feeling, they told me, then went on to describe factors ranging
from wardrobe and facial expression to race. As a novice, I was confused.
Women claimed to get by with a sixth sense. The idea that women were advising
me to weed out cops and rapists based on a subtle intuition was shocking
in itself. I resented the notion. I never felt safe. Some of the women
were skilled in self-defense-like Kim, who could chew up and spit glass,
I heard-but I wasn't good at that.
The management should
have hired a security guard. There was enough money around, though not
the huge sums people suppose. Women earned upwards of a hundred a day.
The management kept seventeen of the twenty-dollar massage fee which added
up to nearly a thousand a day. Security guards might eat up a sizable
chunk, but perhaps the women could chip in.
I asked the boss.
Connie insisted that posting a guard was just not done in this city, as
it would not be in keeping with the 'low profile' that prostitution businesses
are forced to keep. As a prostitute, I had no recourse for challenging
her. She was a gentle woman with a laissez-faire approach to business.
The other workers were not at all inspired about instituting any kind
of change. It' s hard to explain, but the whole situation is kind of paralyzing.
I had been working eight months when I opened the door for the wrong person.
It was 10:30 a.m. I guess I was off my guard. I should have known better.
It was my fault. He was clearly disqualified, according to the criteria
espoused. He pushed his way in and another man followed. One put a knife
to my throat and they raped me. For around twenty minutes I was afraid
of being tortured or killed. Susie was there with me.
"Who do you think
you are, bothering girls like this. You leave! Go now! Leave us alone!,"
she shrieked. They didn't rape her.
I don't understand
why people always assume that when a prostitute talks about being raped,
she' s describing a situation in which she has sex and then she doesn't
get paid. The threat of murder and torture was the traumatic element of
this rape.
Later that week I
learned from some of the other women that these men had been doing the
same thing to women at other parlors in town. No one passed the information
around, I guess, from a feeling of hopelessness, from some idea that ideally
we should all be able to protect ourselves by using our intuition. Of
course, I didn't call the police after I was raped. Connie begged me not
to, as it might focus attention on our parlor, which could result in my
co-workers getting busted, the parlor getting closed down, and my friends
being forced out on the street.
We don't protect
ourselves against rape because we almost seem to believe that we should
expect to be raped, robbed, or beaten because prostitution is inherently
dangerous.
We don't protect
ourselves because we are prohibited and inhibited. We can't share information
about dangerous tricks. We are discouraged from any kind of organizing
or self-protection by laws that prohibit 'communicating for the purposes'
or collective organizing (charged as pimping). It' s hard to protect yourself
from the rapists while you' re busy protecting yourself from the police.
Feminists Unite!
Stop the Police Control of Prostitutes (Please)
A chasm exists between
women, based on our experience of and reaction to sexual abuse. Perhaps
communication can fill the gaping wound. Maybe a dialogue could ignite
a new feminist revelation, based on a union of the good girls and the
sluts.
This could be a pivotal
time for prostitutes' rights. Feminism has empowered women, so feminism
has empowered prostitutes. The pendulum swings away from patriarchy. Or
maybe not. Naturally, I went straight to Catharine MacKinnon.
"Catharine, you say
you care about prostitutes, but you refuse to engage in a discussion with
any of the feminist prostitutes or sex radicals. We all care about women's
safety and well-being. Why divide the movement by villifying us! Let's
talk."
"Sorry, Carol," MacKinnon
recently said to me. "I have nothing to discuss with you. We are too far
apart." But, but . . .
The current economic
crisis forces greater and greater numbers of poor women into survival
sex and sex for money. The health crisis escalates everyone's vulnerability,
particularly that of poor women, and particularly those who trade in sex.
Only the harshest approach would support the arrest of prostitutes.
When most middle-class
women experience harassment from their bosses, teachers, and peers, they
are taught to challenge the abuses in their lives. Meanwhile, prostitutes
are out there on the streets being harassed regularly by police and no
one advocates to protect their bodies, let alone their sensibilities.
Feminists as a whole have been eerily silent in the face of these violations.
To stop this hypocrisy,
we have to learn to work together, whether we approach this issue from
an anti-prostitution stance or as prostitutes' rights advocates. We need
a moratorium on arrests now. You may not like prostitution, but I'm sure
you don't want women controlled by police.
(Thanks, Ma. Thanks
a Lot)
thank you for teaching
me how to be sexy. without you it would seem so complicated. and thanks
for your enthusiasm over the padded, push-up bra. What a difference!
Even though, we both
agree, I'm big enough. Together we've thanked Clairol for my red hair,
since age fourteen. Redheads do seem more exciting.
And thanks, especially,
for taking me shopping once a year to the Charlotte Shop, where the rich
girls shopped. (still, you had me in ethnic primaries, daytime shades,
while my thin, blonde competitors displayed the dawn). Thanks, anyway.
Overweight, you said
I looked good in that red velveteen bikini I never bought.
No, it was too much.
these confessions make me aware of my calcium-
my mother's towels were thin and torn.
her sisters owned fur stoles and gold bracelets. she married Love, then
Love abandoned her.
Dad barely worked
and mom supported him Dad was always chasing her to fuck she did it lotsa
times to shut him up she felt like a whore and didn't get paid my towels
are as thick as steak. I own antiques and a glamorous wardrobe. I won't
marry Love. My daddies chase to Fuck. They pay. I fuck. I shut up. (thanks
ma, thanks alot).
I'm ready for that
red velveteen now, ma.
They like me better when I dress up. You were right, ma.
Rich princes are waiting
on line to rescue me.
Well, maybe not.
But middle class men are making appointments and keeping them. thanks
ma. thanks alot.
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