This short bio was written in 1997, and so has my perspective of life's events as I understood them at that time. For a greatly enhanced and deeper understanding, see the long bio Book Of Life, written in 2004.

The Life of Joan

Joan Ann Lansberry

Chapter One: Childhood

My earliest memories are few, but well-engraved. I am three years old. It is night, and I am in a large truck with a man I do not know.. I didn't fully understand what was going on. But the awe of the situation impressed itself very clearly on my young mind. I knew this night was significant and important. I studied the man with his hands at the wheel. Who are you?, I blurted, for my curiousity would hold no longer. Why you should know ME, I'm your Uncle Bill!, he replied in a baritone voice. Oddly I felt guilt feelings. I should know him, yet I do not. This mystery bore itself into me, and it is prehaps the intensity of it that wedged itself into memory.

I didn't understand then that he was helping us move into a large red brick house a couple of blocks from our small home. What I do remember is being carried around our new house and seeing a dark burgundy velvet curtain that was gathered at the entrance to another room of the house. This curtain seemed a mystic portant, and what lay unrevealed beyond it held a fascination for me.

But the most vivid early childhood memory occurred when I was about five years old. I remember well the golden checkered tablecloth, the lemon walls, the faintly tobacco yellowed refrigerator. It was Saturday. Saturdays were special. Dad didn't work on Saturday. He would often make fried egg sandwiches, with bacon garnish. They were delicious. I was enveloped in the aroma it produced, smoky, for he cooked with high heat. As I savored the sandwich, every sense so fully engaged, my mind also was engaged. Why was I here? Why are any of us here? There had to be a reason.

I looked at my Dad in his shorts and white T- shirt. Maybe he knew. I asked, Why am I here? This threw Dad for a loop, momentarily. He stammered and stuttered, Well, because we loved and wanted you. That was comforting, but not quite what I was asking. No, Dad, I mean, WHY am I here? Dad became really flustered, not quite believing a five year old was asking about the meaning of life. Suddenly, the answer came to me, with sparkling brilliance. `I'm here to do great things, to make the world a better place. Oh, I know it!' I felt triumphant with the coming of the answer. I looked forward with eagerness to all life had in store.

I was, indeed, a thoughtful child. Perhaps because I was an only child and had much time to myself to think. I was nearly eight years old before my next remembered time of deep thought. My mother had a large white plaster bust of Beethoven and she had told me a little of his story. The composer's impassioned fury seemed to have been trapped and held within it. I wondered at his passion. I thought of his life and wondered if reincarnation was real, if our souls did go on after our lives ended to begin anew. No answer came to me, rather just a sort of wistful indefinable longing filled me.

I also experienced a small precognition about this time as well. The initial strands of this tale began back when I was eight. Back then, my family thought it no more than the babbling of an imaginative child. I was at my Aunt June and Uncle Bill's house visiting telling my cousin Sharmon. I told her I would get married when I was twenty eight. She, and her mother, both thought it amusing and strange that I would wait so late.

Another instance I clearly remember also occurred when I was about eight. It was a hot summer night, perhaps in June. I was looking out my bedroom window, through the screen, at the trees and the neighbors. A sing-song came to me, I lived in a house, and I made my spouse a blouse, which I repeated over and over. I did marry when I was twenty-eight and I have since made both my spouses many blouses.

I've often wondered how these things came to be. On June 4, 1995, I got a glimpse of possibility and recorded it in my spiritual journal. Something eerie happened last night. I was sitting in front of the open window in our computer room, staring outside, as our cat is often wont to do. I was looking at the trees and at our neighbors across the way. The grid of the screen made not a large intrusion, when suddenly this electric feeling surged through me and I felt `a jolting forward.' For a moment I was that eight year old again staring out that open, screened window of the past, seeing the house, those trees, that neighbor of long ago. Then a few seconds passed and I felt again in the present. What does it all mean? As a serendipitous extra measure, the movie we watched later that night featured time travel.

I've always been a metaphysically and spiritually inquisitive person. What effect did other people's views of these matters have on me? I was born into a Christian Fundamentalist family, with the exception of my mother. Naturally my Dad took me to church from infancy onwards. I don't have any very early memories, except once I recall chagrin after dumping a whole plate of communion crackers on the floor.

The church figured into another memory later on in my young life. I was ten years old, and the chill of early spring ate through my coat. But the promise of the blooms to come warmed me. I was with Dad on a trip to the new church that was being built. He took his plumbing trunk, a red trunk with a covered back that was thoroughly packed with all sorts of plumbing equipment and supplies. As plumbing work is dirty, the truck was dirty. But since I was wearing old clothes, I didn't mind. I was excited to be on this trip. Dad was doing the plumbing in the new building, and this was the first I would see it.

On the way to the church, we stopped at a convenience store. I don't remember what Dad got, probably it was a cup of coffee. I got some translucent rubber snakes, and bugs. Their realism fascinated me. Soon we arrived at the large expanse of land. A grove of trees was in the distance. This was the first building in the area. Not all the walls were in. I remember an airy structure of concrete flooring, with pipes crisscrossing through parts of it, thin indications of where walls would be.

In what was to be the front of the auditorium, a concrete ladder of intricate sections went from floor to ceiling. Later, the holes would be filled with jewel colored glass. I felt such a sense of joyous awe. This was a thrilling project. I was proud that my Dad was part of this God-honoring work.. The concept of God was as a Good Shepherd, a strong Healer who would lovingly attend the weak. A Hero whose great Love, that so potent creative Magic, brought the worlds into being. The creative force was made out of love for his creations and I was so warmly impressed with that love. It would be later that I would hear screaming, chilling, frightful, guilt-producing words from someone claiming to be an emissary of God. How heartbroken I was then. But for now, this bright joy shined within me.

The earliest memory that scarred my psyche happened when I was still ten, but it was now summer. I was at a special revival meeting. It was not at our usual church. I believe it was at a campground. I hated the itchy dress I had to wear. The wooden pew was so hard, and it seemed as though I'd been sitting forever. The preacher, a tall thin, dark haired man ranted and raved with fury. I'd never seen anyone act like that before. The preacher at our church was calm in his presentation. The very act of this man's screaming scared me. And then I began to listen to his words. He said I `personally' nailed Jesus to the cross, that every sin I committed was another nail driving into him. I was horrified. Fear came about me and I didn't understand. What could he mean? My sins ... what were they? Wrong things I've done, what things had I done so evil that they could nail the Son Of God to a cross to die a wretched death? I felt so frightened. I never wanted to hurt anyone, much less nail the Divine Being to a cross. I felt sick to my stomach with deep remorse. Shame and disgust filled me. I must surely be such a wretched mess to do such a horrible thing. The fear and shame stayed with me a long time. I would remember it again and again when at our regular church the preacher spoke of sin.

Fortunately not all visits to places of supposed teaching were filled with dread. School for me was mostly an enjoyable experience. I did love to learn. I enjoyed reading, and would often read past my bedtime. I would take the book and a flashlight, sneaking under the covers to read as late as I wanted.

My interactions with the other kids at school were often less than joyful. Lacking in social skills, I was one of the kids singled out for most unpleasant attention. I was called many unkind names, the most stinging of which was `Retardo'. But by fifth grade, I did begin to make friends. In my junior high years I had lots of friends whose company I enjoyed.

I enjoyed the mind expansion my growing awareness was causing. It was when I was about twelve years old that my mind seemed to come alive. A quote of Henry David Thoreau was posted on a wall at school. I read it and it was as if he was speaking directly to me. If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. (From Walden Pond) The words seemed to fill me. I felt as though I did not keep pace with those around me.I felt new, and so full of wondering. Others did not seem to wonder much. They just took the course laid out for them. I cocked my ear to hear MY drummer. I knew it was new music, which I'd never heard before. I pointed myself in that direction, and knew I'd go `a different way'. That's all the clearer the vision was, then. But it was like a beacon, leading me eagerly onward.

High school began with a disappointing revelation. All the friends I had in Junior High suddenly seemed obsessed with boys. They no longer had time for me. I did not understand it at all, nay, could not even begin to fathom it. There were things I did not want to think about at all. It was whispered about that I was `queer'. I did not want to even think about it, and so I didn't.

All except at night, before going to sleep, or on leisurely Saturday mornings, sleeping in, then I would think what ever I wanted. I could be anyone I wanted to in imagination. And so I was. One character I played was a certain french gentleman named Jean Chevalier. He was a ladies man and would persue them with great ardor, kissing them intensely. He had most definitely the fevered passions ala `Heathcliff' of Wuthering Heights, so not in keeping with proper society mores. Yes, he, and I, enjoyed those passions.

Every once in a while, the troubling thought came to me that I really ought to play the female in these fantasies. That if I didn't at least do that SOME of the time, I might indeed end up to be the horrid lesbian I was rumored to be. But, no matter how I tried, I just couldn't play that role.

Most of the time, I got along by just not thinking about it. In high school, I was the loner, always reading books. I found much to absorb my mind. The Ayn Rand books, and the book of her follower, the psychologist Nathanial Brandon, The Psychology of Self Esteem intrigued my mind. I found many mind bending ideas. These were contraband literature in my household, which I smuggled into the house. I read them in my bedroom, pillow at the ready, in case I should be intruded upon. At first hint of nearing footfalls, down would come the pillow over the book, and I would feign sleep. I'm sure Gramma must have thought I was getting an excess of sleep, though she said nothing.

Ayn Rands' philosophy Objectivism is atheistic. She presented it all so logically. Indeed, what I had seen of belief in God through my church seemed very strange indeed. How could the ultimate Creator, who is supposed to be all-knowing, all-present, and all loving, condemn people to an eternity in hell, some of whom had never heard of him? This god they worshipped was far worse than Hitler. Hitler's torments at least ended when Death came. No, I could not fathom that at all. Atheism had then to be the logical choice. And an atheist I was for a couple of years. When I announced it to my Gramma, she developed a case of high blood pressure.

Then high school was over and I soon started at the local Junior College. I would study art, having proven to have some talent in it. It intrigued me greatly. I was enthralled when Dad, Gramma and I went to the Art Institute in Chicago. Oh, what wonderful things of imagination lay there!

Life was changing for me. One day, I saw on TV, a brief coverage of the Chicago Gay Pride day parade. This riveted my attention. The picture showed a man, wearing white, carrying a large banner. The choice of white seemed significant, as if he was proclaiming his purity and innocence. I felt an unaccountable sense of awe, just utter awe that overcame me. Somehow to love, whomever to love, could not be wrong. I knew it couldn't. Fear gripped me, as I remembered the rumors of high school. Then I put it out of my mind. I could not think about it. Just could not think about it. Besides, with a new school to look forward to in the fall, life held great possibility.

One evening soon after I had started college, a most magical thing happened. It was in the evening. We were just coming home from somewhere, I don't remember where. But as I got out of the car, I gazed up at the stars. There were zillions of them! An immense sense of awe filled me. Oh, how mighty the Power it was that caused those magnificent things to come into being! An immense feeling of love and wholeness entered me. I knew suddenly that I was not an end unto myself as Ayn Rand had preached, but that I was part of a much greater whole. But this did not engulf me, or diminish me. It was profoundly comforting. I felt embraced by a Power from Beyond. I knew then that I was seeing the `real' face of God. Awe and joy welled up from within me like an endless fountain. I felt truly reclaimed, truly redeemed, truly `Reborn'. After this experience, I was never the same. No matter what, I would never feel alone.

I knew I was deeply loved by this, my Creator. And so I began to blossom. Things long feared floated to the surface. I became ever so much more aware of my surroundings and of the beauties of nature. And, oh, among those beauties of nature I began to notice, was the infinite beauty of women. Their walk, their shape, oh my, yes, their shapes, full-busted ripe melons, tender perky peach breasts, budding small delicate blooms of femininity. They all entranced me! But, if I looked at women like that, it meant most assuredly that I was that horrible creature they call a-a-a-a lesbian. Arwwwak-k-k-k!

Horrors! What to do!? Oh, what to do? I headed to the library of the Junior College, and did some research on lesbians. I wasn't alone! The pictures of the people in the books there looked surprisingly normal. Certainly not horrible wretched creatures of the dark, or whatever it was that society said we were. One resource book gave lists of various gay and lesbian organizations. I looked up Northern Illinois University, the school I would be attending in the fall. And oh, my god, they really did, they really did, have such an organization. My mouth dropped open, one part amazement, the other part terror. Oh my god, what would it be like to meet others such as myself? This I could scarcely imagine.

One thing I knew I was fit to bust now. Painfully fit to bust. I could not contain the secret within me any longer. But I certainly could not tell my fundamentalist family. Once, when I was worried about the Jean Chevalier fantasies, I asked Gramma, Would you still love me if I was a lesbian? She had assured me she would, but then she immediately got us down on the floor, on our knees, praying to God to take this evil from me. Not an entirely comforting experience.

No, I knew I couldn't go to them with the definite fact of being a lesbian. I hadn't talked to my Mother since my parents divorced when I was thirteen years old. I had been fairly spooked that `she was a witch' by my family. On one of my court-ordered visits there, I saw strange mysterious diagrams which certainly looked satanic. At least to my young, unknowing mind, they did. So I didn't go there anymore. But perhaps she could understand my concerns. After all, she was a bit of a renegade herself and once, I recall, she had said she always felt like she was a boy inside. She wished she could have done like Christine Jorgensen, go to Sweden and have surgery performed.

Yes, my mother might understand. So I let it be known I wanted to see her. This was scary enough in itself. It had been so long since last we talked. We sat in her car, in front of Gramma's house. I told her I had something to tell her, something I couldn't tell anyone else. But I had a terrible time speaking it out loud. All I could do was stammer. To help, my mother started naming things. Is it drugs? Have you gotten into drugs?

No-o-o, I timidly replied.

Finally, she asked Boys?

No, no, GIRLS, girls, I like girls!, the words painfully gushed forth.

Is that all, Joan? I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant.

I weakly laughed and answered, Not hardly.

I was indeed, relieved my mother did understand. Still, what of the world at large? And, what of that ephemeral lesbian community I had not yet met? Would I be able to find a lover? I felt such a longing ache.

Go to Chapter Two, Joan Meets The Outside World