The Summer My Mother Made Me Pretend I Was a Lesbian by Hedy Zimra

Now that she is straight again, she would not even come to my play. If I were the vengeful type, I could easily just call her church and out her. She is a piece of clay, firmly in the grip of her born-again husband. The one that won’t look me in the eye.

This was the first musical that I have written, though not my first play that has been called vulgar. It’s really just a queer remake of “Grease”, set at Smith. Both leads are women, with Sandy being the young virginal scholar, naïve about all things sexual. Candy is the butch dyke, committed to building the world’s best vibrator and winning Sandy’s heart.

There is some original music as well as some redone covers of old favorites like “Greased Lightnin’”. I wish my mom could sing along.

Go, Greased Lightnin'You really get me wet inside
Go, Greased Lightnin'
You’re better than a horseback ride!
You are a dream
The chicks'll cream
For Greased Lightnin'

From her size D batteries to her plastic arteries
From the base to the tip, ya know, she really makes me flip
Greased Lightnin’

She would have loved it years ago.

My mother was a large woman and she occupied a lot of space. When she spoke, her voice boomed; her words and her backside both had considerable bulk. She was often the target of ridicule, but was impervious to this as she had confidence in the fact a face as attractive as hers would make them oblivious to her grand proportions. If she was insecure about weighing more than twice as much as my father, she never let anyone else know. He called her a big fat bitch, she called him petite feet, as she knew he was sensitive about his small stature and always had a difficult time finding work boots in size six.

When my mom was in graduate school for her masters in public health, she was no longer around only straight suburban types. She began working under a very butch professor, Mary, who shared her love of Great Danes. She was still living with my dad at the time, and while he was not particularly hateful toward lesbians, he loved saying that the carpet muncher had called. This Mary, who to this day I maintain had no sense of humor, made my mom begin to question her own life.

Was she happy with my dad? Not ecstatically. But those were happier times for her, I would say.

It began before the divorce was even final. We were staying in North Truro that summer. That Mary had suggested we stay there, as she stayed in P-Town every summer and Truro was quieter. It was only for two weeks, but they changed everything. For both of us. It began with innocent walks down Commercial Street. My dad worked construction and could only come out on the weekends, so it was just the two of us. I never had boys look at me, as I was flat-chested and had my head shaved, but in P-town, I was young and glam.

That summer was the first time I ever saw my mom in a swimsuit. I rubbed oil on her back, broad and waxy.

My mom was very curious, so at night we ventured into shows. The first was Lea Delaria at the Post Office Cabaret, a night I both had my first vodka drink and learned what a butt plug was. That was the night when I knew without a doubt that theater would be my life.

Seated at a round table with a group of other women of all shapes, we were asked if we were a couple. I shuddered and must have had a look of horror on my face, but my mom jumped in and said no, I was her daughter and she was “the understanding mother”. There are just times when we need to let the lies lead lives of their own

My mother and I drank champagne cocktails in the dark at a drag revue, singing the show tunes that we had always loved. She made faces, she made noise. There was pensiveness in her face. I know she did not want to return home.

In 1990, when mothers and daughters were fighting, I was at a bar with my mom picking up queer friends. When teenage girls were misunderstood, the way it was supposed to be, my mom was “outing” me for her own bi-curiosity.

After the divorce, she moved in with Mary. I lived with my dad, so I could finish school. And because Mary had three dogs.

She changed her name from Jeannie Robertson to Jean Ritasdottir in the matronymic tradition, despite the lack of Icelandic roots. She wore shorts for the first time ever, in muted tones. Comfortable shoes were purchased and toenails were left unpainted.

Eventually, I went to Smith and that is when I knew my mother was not a lesbian.

When I visit, she is distant. She and Mary seem like roommates, not lovers. I open her closet and see her clothes tightly lined up next to Mary’s. The shoes are in neat rows. The clothes still smell like Opium, as they always have.

She called too often. Mothers in new relationships should not call so frequently. Mary called once and asked if I had seen my mother. It had been three days, but I was twenty and didn’t worry in those days.

When I finally hear from her, she says that she is just trying to remember what happiness is like and I do not understand. She was never happy. She is going to stay in Ohio with her sister and try to lose some weight. Could I take the dog? Uncle Ricky said she couldn’t bring him with her.

No evocative details of what went wrong. No apologies. Not even the bitter facts.

© Hedy Zimra, 2008

The Summer my Mother made me Pretend I was a Lesbian was read by Patsy Prince at the Liars’ League “Fight & Flight” event on Tuesday 8th April.

Hedy Zimra lives in Suzhou, China with her lovely children, ruggedly handsome husband and intersex dog.  In the mid-1990s, she once made up a story to appear on a second-rate daytime talkshow. She has also published some fiction.