2243
(4 votes, average 5.00 out of 5)
Written by Jamakaya
Jan 27, 2011
A recent New York Times headline, citing new Census statistics, declared: “Parenting by Gays More Common in the South.”
The article said that child rearing among same-sex couples is more common in the South than other regions. In addition, black and Latino same-sex couples are twice as likely as whites to be raising children.
“We’re starting to see that the gay community is very diverse,” said a gay marketing guru. “We’re not all rich white guys.”
Well, duh. I probably know thousands of LGBT people and few of them are as rich, white or buff as the decades-old media stereotype led us to believe. In Milwaukee, I suspect most of us lean to the pudgy side, and however much we’d like to think of ourselves as professionals, the majority of us – of all races – are working class or poor.
Although I do prefer sensible shoes, flannel shirts and boyish haircuts, I can’t play softball worth a damn and I have never attended the fabled lesbian rite of passage known as the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. Tents? Mosquitoes? Intestinal parasites? No, thank you.
I do have a big collection of women’s music, with lesbian classics by Meg Christian and Cris Williamson, along with better-known artists like Emmylou Harris, Joan Armatrading, Alicia Keys and Anita Baker. But I like Bruce Springsteen too, and every summer at least once I feel compelled to share my Doors collection at full blast until some annoyed neighbor tells me to turn it down.
Lesbians are supposed to be handy with tools and tech savvy, right? Well, I guess I flunked that course at Lesbian U. Whether the job calls for hanging a picture, unclogging a sink, jumping an engine or even pulling a weed, I need a consultant. One friend has never forgiven me for yanking out two raspberry bushes before she ran out of the house to tell me, “Those are NOT weeds!” Who knew?
Lesbians are assumed to be active, outdoorsy gals – nature lovers. Not me. I don’t go any place where insect repellent is required in summer or long johns are required in winter. A few years back, there was a group called Wisconsin Outdoor Women that sponsored hikes, ski trips and the like. Not to be outdone, I immediately formed Wisconsin Indoor Women, dedicated to exploring the adventures of controlled environments. We watched videos, played card and board games and ordered tons of food for delivery. None of us ever got sunburned or stung by an insect. None of us ever broke a sweat. We’re all a little pale and chubby, but we remember those days fondly.
I also bucked expectations by disliking the lesbian soap, “The L-Word.” I could never relate to the obnoxious characters, though that didn’t stop me from tuning in to gaze at Pam Grier and Cybill Shepherd. Lately, I’ve been watching Mexican telenovelas, which are hopelessly heterosexual but have the redeeming value of featuring some of the most beautiful actresses in the world (the ones without the really scary plastic surgery).
Many lesbians, like their gay brothers, are excellent cooks. I am so incompetent at cooking, it is the one thing that can actually reduce me to tears. I’m generally a great person to have around in a crisis. Suicide? Car accident? Health emergency? No one is more stoic. Let me forget an ingredient or burn the white sauce and I’m ready for Bellevue.
I don’t cook anymore. I support delis and restaurants instead. A lesbian’s got to know her limitations.
