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The Life of Joan
Joan Ann Lansberry
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I with nervous, grinding stomach, awaited each long day until I went away to Northern Illinois University. Finally, that day arrived. The campus was gigantic, far bigger than the Junior College had been. I was assigned to Lincoln Hall. The little room was quite well compartmentalized in order to fit the belongings of two people in there. I wasted no time in covering the barren walls with posters. Relations with my roommate was tense. I could sure tell she thought I was strange. I felt strange. Everything was a little bit overwhelming.But that didn't stop me from exploring the Gay Community Organization. The meetings were Thursday at 7:00. I told my roommate I was going to the Library. `Lie'brary, I thought. To make it look good I did walk through the library before heading to the meeting. Oh, such a fearful pounding as I headed towards the room. I was plum terrified. When I got there, an odd assortment of maybe 15-20 people were there, mostly men. A feeling of sheer terror hit me. `What the hell am I doing here, with these strange people? I don't belong here.' As I listened to the proceedings of the meeting I began to relax a little, and began to examine my surroundings. One of the women was short, of petite build. She had short brown hair in a rather boyish style. She had on a white oxford cloth shirt. No bra I noticed, as I looked at the gaping space between the buttons. Nice curves, I thought. `Oh, yeah,' a sinking sensation hit me, `That's why I'm here. I get hot over women.'
Life on campus was quite a revelation. Most of the girls in the dorm loved to party. They could get quite rowdy. I had led such a sheltered life, that even this seemed a bit wild. Getting out in the real world was like a shock to my system. The reclusive world of Christian Fundamentalists is so different from the world at large. Dancing is not allowed, drinking alcohol is not allowed. My family would not even eat in a restaurant that served alcohol. They did not go to movies in a movie theater. They didn't even listen to radio stations other than the Christian one. All of this repression left me ill prepared to deal with the world at large, let alone my own `deviant' nature. I found it harder and harder to cope. I would get nervous. I found myself becoming more and more nervous. After a couple of years, I succumbed to nervous exhaustion. I couldn't think. Trying to decide what to wear was a monumental decision. All the time my brain seemed bathed in this weird icy cold liquid. I couldn't sleep at night. I couldn't eat. All I could force down me was grape juice, milk, and peanut M & Ms.
While working for a supermarket at a deli counter, I did a strange unpredictable thing. While walking by the aisle with various assorted nuts, I grabbed a small bag of pecans. It was a long walk home. I had to work late, and there were no buses. I hadn't really thought about whether I was going to pay for them or not. I don't know why. I was having such trouble thinking those days. Someone at the store saw me put the nuts in my pocket. I was fired the next day. My co-workers were shocked at my behavior. I was in a state of shock too. I called my Mother on a pay phone in one of the school buildings. Fortunately it was summer session and there weren't so many people walking about.
I sobbed and sobbed to my mother. Great tears of remorse. I could not understand why I had done what I had done. I felt so ashamed of myself. I was ashamed too because I felt so nervous all the time. I must surely be of weak stuff to have fallen so low. I felt as if I could not get any lower. `I don't deserve to live, not when I'm like this,' I thought. I realized that meant suicide. Shocked at how low I fell, I called my Gramma up, and told her I felt I didn't deserve to live. Gramma said, Hang in there, Aunt June and I will be up there to bring you home tomorrow. I said I would wait until then.
They did come and they brought me home. After a week, I didn't feel any better. I called the school and withdrew from my classes. As I got my belongings, as I left the school, I felt that it would be such a long time before I'd ever see the school again.
Aunt June and Gramma wisely said that we wouldn't go to a shrink. They believed the natural way was best. Indeed the school psychologists had only made me feel worse. So they gave me beading materials and I made little Christmas ornaments to try to calm my nerves. After a month or two, I began to feel guilty about what my overwrought, sick presence was doing to Gramma. I thought I should go live with my Dad. My Dad and his wife Nancy took me in.
They tried to fatten me up with healthy foods like liver and onions fixed to taste like steak. One day I was reading the horoscope in the paper. I took it to mean I should get a job. Sick as I was, I went off in search of a job. Wonder of wonders, in a town so small that you can walk across it in a half hour, I found a job at a fast food restaurant. I learned how to make change, make milk shakes, etc. The co- workers all thought I had a problem. They thought I was on drugs. I grew discouraged and wondered to Aunt June if I should quit. She didn't want me to quit. She knew that if I quit, it would only be another failure pulling me down. So she encouraged me to stay. And it was good for me. As I mastered each task, I grew more confident and felt better and better. By summer I felt better than I had ever felt before. Come the summer Nancy decided I was the cause of her and Dad's marital woes. She called from her work and ordered me out of the house. An understanding neighbor who knew how awful Nancy could be helped me out and took me back to Gramma's. By then, I had saved up a good chunk of money for school and felt stronger than I had ever felt. I was enrolled to return to school in the Fall.
I would take things at a pace I could handle. I didn't go to the gay meetings that semester. I went instead, to a church that I knew was gay-friendly and became active in its small choir. I was able to graduate at the end of the semester. It was a proud day when I got my BA in Studio Art and Art History, with a minor in Philosophy.
It felt so good to simply feel well. So my first job after graduating, working in an all-you-can-eat restaurant did not seem that bad. It really wasn't in my nature to be cooking huge trays of cakes every day though. I saw an ad in the paper for a seamstress at the `Golden Needle', got together examples of my best sewing, and headed down to the shop. From the time I was a young girl I loved to sew. At first I sewed doll clothes and then, later on, my own clothes. Still later I sewed for relatives and friends. In any event, I was hired! Each new thing I learned was exciting. At last I had a job that utilized some of my unique skills. And thus it has been my vocation ever since.
Every day I would take the bus to work and where ever else I wanted to go. My mother was encouraging me to learn how to drive and so she taught me in her big, white with red interior, Ford. She had a relaxed way of teaching me and so had success where Dad had failed. Not soon after, I bought a used light blue 1976 Ford Maverick with money I had saved up. It was a nice little car. It put me on the road to independence.
It wasn't long before I began to chafe under the collar of the house rules at Gramma's. I was again smuggling in `contraband' materials. I could not yet `come out', but every conceivable piece of gay and lesbian culture `came in' to my room. Books, records, tapes, I absorbed them all. Soon I began to grow frustrated. What I wanted was contact with real live gay people. Living at home with Gramma was quite limiting. But salvation soon came. I saw an ad for the New Dawn, a lesbian penpal club! It surely was a gift from the Goddess. I, so shy in person, am never shy in print. I rushed off my registration and soon the booklet with listings and code numbers arrived. What joy, what delight! One dear penpal I met through the penpal club I wrote for many many years. She was a true friend. Her name was Jackie. I told Jackie everything. We would still be writing today, except that one day her letter was returned, with the word `DECEASED' written on it. It was a true heartache. But I was getting gutsy. I knew it would not be long until I was out on my own. Indeed, I had been buying and storing away pots and pans and the like for some time and was already well prepared.
One Sunday morning, Gramma came into my bedroom to wake me to go to church. But I had been a burnin' and a churnin'. Holly Near's `We are a Gentle Loving People' could be heard through the headphones. Calmly, I told my Gramma, No, Gramma, I'm not going to your church anymore. It goes against everything I stand for.
Well, then, you can't live here anymore.
Okay, then.
I immediately found an ad for a small studio apartment. The rates seemed reasonable and I went to check it out. It met with my approval and I soon was there. The first night alone was scary. The apartment was across from a private high school for boys. There was a tall flag pole which had something metal on it that clanged and clanged and clanged. I could hear horns of the boats on the nearby Desplaines River. Every sound seemed louder than normal. But gradually I settled down and got to sleep. Independence definitely agreed with me. The very first Sunday I went about searching for a new church. I tried out the local Unitarian Universalist church. They were a nice bunch of deeply spiritual people and I was glad to make their acquaintance.
I had ordered a book about Gay and Lesbian places in the country. And so the next Sunday, I investigated the nearest gay church, twenty four miles away in Hinsdale. Indeed, it was a profound healing. All of us were together, reclaiming our stolen birthright of spirituality. I knew I had found 'Home'. I grew a lot in that church, both spiritually, emotionally and socially. I got involved not only in the choir, but also in the altar guild as well. I was the secretary and enjoyed making the minutes sound as lively as possible.
But still I felt lonely. I hadn't met that `special someone' yet, though my prayers rose constantly to God. I went to one church social, feeling a little out of it. I didn't really feel like going, but thought, `I'll never find anyone if I just stay at home all the time.' There were a lot of couples at the party. They all were dancing and having a good time. It only made me feel more wretched than ever. I left the church basement and went upstairs to the dark auditorium. The dark, quiet was comforting. No one could see me. Tears flowed freely. I did not think I would ever find love.
The ache was great, so great I thought I would never get used to the idea of not having someone to love. I had so much love to give and no one wanted it. I wiped my eyes dry, pulled myself together and got through the rest of the evening as best I could.
Some time went by and I soon felt a little better. The pain of unfullfilled desire would only go away if I could learn not to want so much. I told myself that it just wasn't my destiny to have a special love. I consoled myself with the fact that I did have friends and vowed to reach out to all sorts of people, simply with the thought of connecting to them, without making demands. I wanted real connections.
I was doing fine in the gay church community, but hadn't came out to any `straight' folk. The Chicago Tribune had an article about a penpal organization called The Letter Exchange, or LEX for short. It was expressly for the purpose of making friends, not to be used for hunting lovers. It seemed a great way to experiment with coming out to straight people. Prehaps I could make some good pen friends. At any rate, it was worth an experiment.
I became a member and sent in my listing:
Hello, future friend. Let's talk mind to mind, which has no gender and no skin color. Let's strip down to the heart and talk about those things which really matter...hopes, fears, passions, dreams, and the faith that gets us through the night.
Soon, a nice thick booklet came. There seemed to be a fair representation of the whole of humanity. But the most intriguing listing was as follows:
I love letters, reply to all. Age 45+. Subjects: Humor, computers, psychology, transsexualism, books, movies, science, life, et al. Sincerity and openness.---- Laura
The word 'transsexualism' leaped out. Hm-m-m-m-m. She could be open to my being a lesbian. I wondered if she was a transsexual herself or someone in her family was. At any rate, she sounded as though she would be a most fascinating co- respondent.
I sent a basic letter of intro, responding to her various items of interest. As to the subject of transsexualism, here's what I said:
Transsexualism - an unusual subject. I watched with great interest Renee Richard's story, Second Serve, when it aired on TV. My gramma insisted she changed sex for her tennis career. No amount of explaining could convince her it wasn't for that reason. A sample of Telewoman I sent for carried another story about a male to female transsexual. This one was different because Geri saw herself as a Lesbian. This presented extra difficulties in getting the procedures accomplished. She had to keep her feelings in the closet for fear the surgeons would think she should keep her male equipment.
I thought it good to list all experience I've had with the subject. Mentioning Geri would be a good way to test the waters on Laura's reaction to lesbianism. If she said, Oh, how disgusting, I may be a transsexual, but at least I'm heterosexual., then I would know. Oh, how I hoped she would not mind. I sent the letter off, using the alias Joan Chevalier. I eagerly awaited her answer.
Soon, a short letter came. It started right off with I'm transsexual...actually bi-genderal but that's another story. I live primarily in the role of a woman. She mentioned that she raised four boys, mostly as their mother. Prehaps feeling defensive, she added that they were all heterosexual with no complications. At the end, she said she'd like to read my poetry.
It sounded a nice, but cautious letter. Understandable, for transsexuals have battles to fight, also. My second letter inquired about her family and their reaction to her transsexuality.
My cautious coming out began with I know sometimes parents aren't too tolerant of their children's differences. You might call me the lavender sheep of the family. But my 85 year old Gramma (victorian AND fundamental baptist) is surviving me!
I asked her what she did for a living, or if she was a `hausfrau'. Also, I spoke of the various gay/lesbian history books I was reading at the time. As a lesbian, it is precious to me to know my history. You can't know where you are unless you know where you've been.
I sent her five of my poems, including one with just a touch of flirting in it. I felt free and spontaneous in doing so.
This elicited a much more responsive and lengthy letter. She noticed the romantic poem. I liked the one about Butterfly of a moment alighting then rising ... it reminded me of some of my most intimate moments. Joyous yet sad, filled yet not fulfilled, satisfied yet not content ... fluttering away.
I want to float down like a snowflake into sleep And in dreams to be reborn in your, where i in vivid iridescense would dance. Flickering warm shadows across the screen of your sleep journeys And i would brush your lips with mine, a butterfly of a moment alighting and then rising fluttering away. Sky is light now.
And she mentioned that she had what could only be called lesbian relationshops with a few extremely special women ... Since I wasn't born female I don't know if the word Lesbian is legitimate, but in fact it is how I like to respond.
A feeling of deep happy excitement came over me. In my next letter I told Laura Yes, you're a legitimate lesbian. Ignore those man-hating separatists who are so rabid. You sound so wonderfully sensual.A subliminal message perhaps, I had stamped butterflies all over the bottom of the letter.
In the next letter, Laura told me of her unhappy marriage with Mary. In any event I was `allowed' to live as a woman so long as she could think of me as a sick male.
She spoke of an unpleasent experience at a lesbian bar, One night I even approached a lady who seemed open and friendly and asked her if she would like someone to talk with ... she said she would but was afraid if she talked with me it would chase off the real women. She'll never know how bad she hurt me. But I understand ... it took me a long time to understand who and what I am ... I can't expect others with no reason for knowing to understand.
The depth of her pain moved me. Also, her clear headed rationality about it all moved me. She seemed to be of a stable mind. I was beginning to fall in love with her.
She ended the letter with I just wish I was 28, born female, and in this day and age, I think the world is there for you...just reach out and pull it down to you. Don't let any one ever mess with your mind ... it's clear, beautiful, and real. Write soon!
Oh, yes, I was definitely falling in love with her. Our next letters grew more and more intense. Her next letter said Joan, I love you. I'm not in love with you although that would not be in any way objectionable ... but I love you. Your mind, your heart, your poems speak to me of depths and awarenss and tingly sensations in my mind. Thank you for being my friend. With that encouragement, I made overt seduction. But it was not merely of the flesh, as is so often the case. Our souls were meeting and merging.
One of the sexy photos Laura sent me during our mail courtship
My next response was I am truly glad you enjoyed the poetry book. It causes such joy to know that my `art' can give pleasure. That I can truly reach to the soul. That is the intimacy which matters most of all.
Our romancing grew aggressive. We made love through our letters. And then I sent her a Valentine's card with my phone number shyly placed in the corner. Laura did take the bait and called. The first call we were both nervous. In the next letter I told her of my great shyness and hoped we could go beyond merely a literary romance. In our next call we were free and easy. Conversation flowed.
My next letter: ...how do I start? I feel so happy that this miracle of love has happened to me. Me! And I enclosed some more poems.
This 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.
Something Having the Appearance of Truth Something having the appearance of truth
knocked on my door.
I didn't know whether it was
false
or true appearing.
I let it in,
that much daring,
and found
faith..........Joan
