Difference between revisions of "SassafrasLowrey"

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[[Image:GSA_working_cover_%28front%29.jpg|thumb|left|Homofactus Press]]
 
GSA to Marriage: Stories of a Life Lived Queerly weaves a tapestry of raw and honest tales to explore the paradoxical nature of one queer’s life. Memories of childhood sexual abuse, coming out in a conservative semi-rural area and being kicked out as a teen for being queer emerge in these tales of survival, escape, and triumph. Following Sassafras through multiple gender changes from butch, to FTM, and finally to high femme, the stories play with fluidity and the politics of passing. GSA to Marriage charts a sometimes perilous journey to adulthood through the lessons learned in escaping the demons of one’s past.
 
  
 
Sassafras Lowrey is a queer history obsessed genderqueer high femme, militant storyteller, author, artist, and activist. Ze believe that everyone has a story to tell, and that the telling of those stories is essential to creating social change. An accomplished storyteller, ze was an original member of "The Language of Paradox" founded and directed by Kate Bornstein, contributor to numerous anthologies including: LGBTQ: America Today, The Femme Coloring Book, Gendered Hearts, and Visible: A Femmethology. Sassafras and was honored as one of Portland's top emerging writers by In Other Words feminist books in 2004, and is the editor of the highly anticipated Kicked Out anthology (Fall 2009) from Homofactus Press. Sassafras is also the author of GSA to Marriage: Stories of a Life Lived Queerly (Homofactus Press, Summer 2010). Ze lives in New  York City with hir partner, two puddle-shaped cats, and a princess dog. www.pomofreakshow.com
 
 
 
 
<u>
 
Where I Come From:</u>
 
 
an excerpt from the memoir ''GSA to Marriage: Stories of a Life Lived Queerly'' to be released from Homofactus Press Summer 2010.
 
 
 
Bar
 
 
New York
 
 
1945
 
 
Butches sit posed
 
 
Scuffed saddle shoes
 
 
Half smoked cigarette
 
 
Black and white
 
 
Postcard
 
 
99 cents
 
 
Yuppy card shop
 
 
Fingering cardstock
 
 
Bent edges
 
 
Stare into faded eyes
 
 
Smiles
 
 
Smudged with times fingerprints
 
 
What would two old butches think
 
 
Of me
 
 
Purchasing there
 
 
Anonymous photo
 
 
61 years
 
 
After the flash
 
 
 
Bar
 
 
Checkered floor
 
 
Wrong
 
 
To be buying
 
 
History
 
 
In card stores
 
 
Purchasing truth
 
 
That someone came first
 
 
Beside
 
 
Whoopee cushions
 
 
 
I've always loved butches, hearts of stone. Found my body pulled close, trembling beneath a firm touch. In the moonlight I can make out the faint line of scars. As darkness envelops us, your fingers stroke calluses, aorta, ventricles, valves, and chambers. Our hearts pull toward one another, songs of pain and longing spew forth as our veins sing as if a harpist's hand strums them together. Our journey, a harmony of collective pain, sorrow, and strength planting firm intertwined roots.
 
 
 
Bruises find one another. We know better than to shy away from the pain. Our hearts press into each other. Bruise to bruise, the sweet exquisite secret pain, which only the injured can ever adequately appreciate. Old wounds weep together with thick red blood. Pressed tight. Plasma trades aortas, telling fingers where it is safe to grip. Eyes locked, pupils focused on the first to understand.
 
 
 
Mouth to mouth we resuscitate each other. Our heat brings blood from trickling creeds into mighty rivers: Columbia, Clackamas, Willamette. Through your mouth I taste desert summers chasing lizards, through my lips you find your tongue coated with the metallic grit of dirt.
 
 
 
You hold my heart in your hand, callused fingers tickling my aorta as your nails and cuticles are dyed crimson. My blood warm and wet seeps through your fingers as they staunch its wounds. I beat tenderly in your palm, your fingers laced in intricate bondage around the subtle pounding. Don't let me go. Your touch, the most real I have ever felt.
 
 
 
 
Garage sales, flea markets, trashcans
 
 
Our families of origin
 
 
Burry our truths
 
 
Burned in oil drums
 
 
At the end of long gravel roads
 
 
Love letters charred
 
 
Marble fireplaces
 
 
Photographs left to rot in landfills
 
 
Buried under
 
 
Coffee grounds
 
 
Banana peels
 
 
Dirty diapers
 
 
Those rescued
 
 
Remain nameless
 
 
 
 
Circa 1943
 
 
Two men in polka dotted aprons
 
 
Stand thigh to thigh over a sink
 
 
In a kitchen that looks like the one
 
 
My grandma had
 
 
During the war
 
 
 
Circa 1954
 
 
Leather jacket
 
 
Jeans with rolled cuffs
 
 
Bound breasts
 
 
Beautiful woman on the back of the bike
 
 
Short-sleeved blouse
 
 
Stockings
 
 
No helmets
 
 
The way my cousins would ride there
 
 
Girlfriends
 
 
Through small hick towns
 
 
 
 
I want to know where we come from
 
 
Make a habit of scouring old photographs
 
 
Looking for faces of people
 
 
I can recognize
 
 
Family
 
 
Searching for pieces of history
 
 
Buried
 
 
Lost
 
 
Destroyed
 
 
Telling us that people came first
 
 
Is dangerous
 
 
Convincing us we are alone
 
 
Abominations
 
 
Unnatural
 
 
Keeps us scared
 
 
Quiet
 
 
 
 
Circa 1957
 
 
Four women pose together
 
 
An east coast beach
 
 
Three in black stripped swimming clothes
 
 
The forth
 
 
Whit pressed pants
 
 
Button down shirt
 
 
Dandy sailor cap
 
 
Arm around the femme closest
 
 
I stare into their faces
 
For clues
 
 
About who they are?
 
 
Clues
 
 
About myself
 
 
Who are we without histories?
 
 
We don't raise our young
 
 
Not guided to adulthood
 
 
With stories of people who have
 
 
Come (out) fist
 
 
Survival
 
 
Flower gardens
 
 
Picnics
 
 
 
Circa 1943
 
 
Circa 1947
 
 
Circa 1954
 
 
Circa 1963
 
 
Circa 1948
 
 
Circa 1959
 
 
Circa 1964
 
 
Circa 1946
 
 
Circa 1952
 
 
Circa 1951
 
 
Circa 1957
 
 
I place them
 
 
Folded corners
 
 
Smudged images
 
 
In a box
 
 
Time to time
 
 
Finger the rough edges
 
 
Stare into faded faces
 
 
Begging them to tell me their stories
 
 
 
Circa.
 

Latest revision as of 19:43, 5 November 2008