I was (and still am) so happy that this essay was published in the Harvard Gay and Lesbian Review that I immediately wanted to bring it to you. The world is changing and I’m so glad to be changing with it!
Janet Mason (right) and her partner Barbara (left) in 2014.
In the old days, I thought of the marriages of people of the same sex (usually older lesbians) in our circle as “quaint.” My partner Barbara and I were new lovers. This was in the early 1980s, long before marriage equality was legally recognized. As one older former acquaintance wrote to me in 2015, “we never thought we’d see the day when it would be legal.”
We knew them as Pat and Carol and met them through the women’s liberation movement circles that made up our community at the time. We called it “The Women’s Community.” I don’t remember Carol’s last name, but I remember them getting married in the early 1980s at a mutual friend’s home. They both wore tuxes. Pat’s was black and Carol’s was white. I found their choice of wardrobe to be memorable, even if my partner and I did think they were imitating an outmoded patriarchal institution. They were probably about 25 years older than us.
Carol wrote to me in 2015. Her partner Pat had died about a decade before that. Same-sex marriage may not have been legal when they got married in the 1980s, but in their eyes, they were married. Even if not legally, they were at least committed to each other, and even had the ceremony with friends witnessing their union. However, Pat never got to see the day when same-sex marriage became legal.
Maybe it was a case of not wanting what we thought we’d never have, but both my partner and I didn’t think that marriage was for us. Like two of the characters in my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, we thought marriage had too much baggage and history as a patriarchal institution.
Every now and then, friends would have commitment ceremonies, and we even went to a few, but stubbornly maintained that there was no point to it unless same-sex marriage were legal. It still wasn’t something that we ever thought we’d see, so mostly we didn’t think about it. My relationship with marriage was complicated to say the least. I grew up in a time and place where it was expected that all females should find a man, settle down, and have children. Once I came out in the early 1980s, I was extremely happy to have escaped the heterosexual yoke of marriage and children. My partner had been married to a man before we got together. That was common in those days, since it was expected of us. The lesbian poet Adrienne Rich called it “compulsory heterosexuality.”
Then, when I was around forty, a lesbian baby boom started happening all around us. It probably felt like more lesbians were having babies than actually were, but it seemed like having children was another expectation from which I managed to escape. My partner and I certainly supported the right of lesbian women and gay men to have children, but we always said that “having children was the best thing we never did.”
So, when President Biden signed the Respect for Marriage Act last year, and Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer talked about protecting children, it made perfect sense. Children are the most vulnerable victims of hard divorces, and it is far worse when each parent does not have the legal rights that marriage provides.
Anyway, the years went on, and we were getting older. We were afraid that the surviving one would have legal problems and might even lose the house if she couldn’t pay the taxes on it. But when we did finally get married, it meant more than being protected legally. Like many other same-sex couples, we felt like legal marriage had deepened the bond between us.
By the time 2015 came along, and the U.S. Supreme Court made marriage equality the law of the land, Barbara and I were already married. Another lesbian couple—who had been together for more years than we had—suggested that we have a double wedding at a local county that was performing same-sex marriages before it was legal nationwide. Gleefully, we went off to our “protest wedding,” which was later made legal. Leaving the courthouse after we had done the deed and signed the papers, we all agreed that it felt too easy.
This was on the heels of Edie Windsor’s landmark victory, whose case in 2013, United States v. Windsor, overturned Section 3 of the Defense of Marriage Act. Two years later, in 2015, history was made when the Supreme Court in Obergefell v. Hodges made full marriage equality the law of the land.
My partner and I were both amazed on that day, and we were astounded again when the Respect for Marriage Act was signed into law. When this Act was signed into law, my partner and I were both very happy. I didn’t make the connection earlier, but even as I was joking around and calling Barbara “my bride,” I must have been channeling the happiness of Pat and Carol and all of the older LGBT+ couples that I once regarded as “quaint.”
Janet Mason is the author of the novels Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage (Thorned Heart Press); The Unicorn, The Mystery, and THEY, a biblical tale of secret genders (both from Adelaide Books). She is also the author of Tea Leaves, a memoir of mothers and daughters (Bella Books) for which she received a Goldie award. She has been with her partner, Barbara, for thirty-nine years. They have been legally married for nine years.
To read the article on the Harvard Gay and Lesbian Review, click here.
For more information on my most recent novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here:
I was delighted to learn that my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love and marriage (published by Thorned Heart Press) recently made Q Spirit’s list of the top LGBTQ books of 2022. Q Spirit is the LGBTQ inclusive Christian newsletter published by Kittredge Cherry.
Being on this list inspired me to share Chapter 15 of Loving Artemis for which I did a fair amount of research on the Saints on Catholic.com which I combined with research on dropping acid. It is fiction, but sometimes I imagine that I was actually there.
“Come on in,” Beth said to Grace. She stood inside the open door. “I was hoping you’d come early. There’s something I want to ask you. Take off your coat and get comfortable.” “Sorry about being so early,” Grace replied as she passed through the doorway. “I had an argument with my mom and had to get out of the house.” Beth shrugged. “I guess that’s the drawback of having a mother around to fight with.” Grace took off her coat and looked down at the brown shag carpeting. Maybe Beth would feel better knowing that she wasn’t the only one with a crazy mother, thought Grace. She looked up. Grace usually saw Beth at school under the florescent lights, but here in the house light pooled from two living room lamps with thick ceramic bases and ivory shades. A lava lamp — a chrome base and top with glass in between where a red orb languidly moved through midnight blue liquid — anchored the far end table. In the soft light cast from the incandescent bulbs, Beth’s long, pale face looked even fairer. Grace could just see the large, pallid freckles splotched across the tops of her cheeks. “My mom told me that she wants me to be a nun,” Grace blurted. “Wow. That’s far out. I thought my mom was crazy,” laughed Beth. She pointed the way down the hallway to her father’s bedroom. “You can put your coat on the bed.” Grace headed down the hall. She knew where she was going because the layout of the house was identical to hers, like most houses in this town.. After she put her coat on the bed, she turned around to leave and saw a mirror on the wall over a dresser next to the closed closet door. The beige closet door was pulled across in folds like an accordion. Light spilled from the fixture in the middle of the dingy room. The beige carpeting was stained, and Grace was tempted to go over and run her finger through the layer of dust on the dresser. Grace saw a mirror on the wall and walked over to it. She fluffed her bangs and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length sandy hair. It hung in loose curls that framed her face on the sides. She straightened her aviator glasses and grinned at her reflection. She didn’t look anything like a nun. She looked like a high school girl who was ready to party. She went out into the living room and sat down on the overstuffed tan couch. Beth was on the other side of the room with her back to her. Her heart-shaped ass was poured into her jeans. It looked like she was stacking albums on the stereo. The record dropped. The needle scratched vinyl. Grace heard the opening strains and low voices of Pink Floyd in The Dark Side of the Moon. “How’s the volume?” Beth asked as she turned her head toward Grace. “It’s a little low,” Grace responded loudly. She raised her voice to be heard over the music. “I’ll turn it up in a minute,” Beth replied. “First, there’s something I want to ask you.” She came over and sat next to Grace on the sofa. Grace looked at Beth expectantly. “Look what I have,” Beth announced. She leaned back and pulled a plastic baggie out of the pocket of her faded jeans. Inside the clear baggie, a piece of paper was folded over. “George is coming later, and he gave me something to get started with. I have two tabs. Do you want to take a trip with me?” Beth reached into the baggie and pulled out the paper. Grace paused and looked at the piece of blue-tinted blotter paper Beth held in her hand. Small perforations separated the two squares and tiny drops glistened on each square. The drops were hardened, like candy dots on paper, but not as big and round. Grace knew what it was; she’d seen it before, but Grace had never dropped acid. She remembered a junior high school program when a cop came to give an assembly about drugs and showed the students a film on the dangers of taking acid. She remembered a young woman standing on a high rooftop. A male voice said that she thought she could fly because she had taken acid. The movie had seemed a little farfetched. Grace didn’t know if she had believed it. But she hesitated a little because she was a little afraid of taking acid. But she did want to be cool like Beth. Even though she could barely admit it to herself, she knew she wanted to be with Beth even if all they were doing was sitting on the couch and dropping acid. “I don’t know,” said Grace. “I tripped once before, and it was beautiful. I’ll stay with you. And I’ll make sure you get home okay.” Beth reached over and touched Grace’s forearm. Grace was amazed Beth could sense how she was feeling. Beth’s fingertips were warm on her arm. Grace hadn’t smoked or drunk anything since she arrived, but the music put her in a different dimension. She thought about the conversation she had earlier with her mother. A nun? Her? How ridiculous is that? She turned, looked at Beth, and said, “Sure.” Beth smiled beatifically. “Just lick the paper. You take one square. I’ll take the other. It only takes a little.” Beth laid the squares on the end table and picked up a pen knife. As she leaned over, her shirt pulled up on the side and exposed a triangle of pale skin. Grace tried not to stare, but her eyes kept returning to that small naked place. Beth sat back and handed Grace a square. “Here,” she said. “Let’s do it together. Just let it dissolve in your mouth like a piece of candy.” Beth used her teeth to pull the tab off the paper. The tab was on the tip of her tongue. It disappeared into her mouth. Grace did the same thing. They were silent for a moment. Grace listened to the lyrics of “Breathe” While the acid melted on her tongue. It tasted mildly bitter, like the cooked turnip that Grace had bit into once and then vowed never to eat it again. “It’ll take about a half hour or so to kick in,” said Beth. “We could smoke a joint while we wait, but it’ll be wasted. Let’s just sit back and wait.” Beth took a breath, sat back, closed her eyes. Grace did the same. In about fifteen minutes, the doorbell rang. Beth got up. Then the doorbell rang again. Grace heard voices. The living room sounded like it was filling up. She opened her eyes for a few seconds and then closed them again. She felt the sofa seat cushions go down, and then she heard Beth saying, “I’m back. It’s almost time for us to leave the station.” The doorbell rang again. “Someone else can answer it,” Beth muttered. “It’s George,” commented a deep voice. “Tell him to come in and make himself at home,” Beth said. Grace heard a voice next to them and she opened her eyes. George was standing in front of Beth. Strands of his shoulder-length brown hair fell forward as he bent over and put large hands on her skinny knees. “Hey, baby,” he said in a voice that was so deep it was cavernous, “Did you take what I gave you?” “I split it with Grace,” said Beth. “Hello, Grace,” George greeted her. Grace had heard about George. He was in his twenties, and everyone knew he was a drug dealer, so it didn’t surprise Grace he could get Beth anything she wanted. He gave Beth the tabs of acid that she was sharing with Grace after all. Still, Grace didn’t know why he was here. Grace though it was unnatural for Beth to be with an older man; she should be with a girl her own age, right? Grace stared at George, willing him to go away. “I’m sure Grace won’t mind if you leave for a little while. I have somewhere for us to go,” George announced. “We’re going to take a little trip together.” “But I told Grace that I would take a trip with her. Maybe she can come with us,” Beth protested, a touch of a whine in her voice. George was firm. “No, baby, this trip is just for us.” “I don’t mind,” said Grace, but she did mind. Then she drifted into another dimension where everything was okay. George and Beth were where they were supposed to be. She was where she was supposed to be. She closed her eyes. She felt the empty seat cushion next to her. Beth was gone, and Grace felt anxious. Most of the kids at the party and the older guys, like George, were cooler than her. She heard some of them were drug dealers. They probably had tripped before. But then she remembered it was okay. They were who they were, and she was who she was. She put her hand out in front of her and left a purple trail in the air. She listened to the lyrics of “Breathe.” The record played to the end, and she heard another album drop. She thought she heard the song again. Beth loved Pink Floyd, and she had put a stack of albums on the stereo. Did she have two of The Dark Side of the Moon albums stacked on top of each other? It was then that Grace comprehended that everything was in an endless loop and that she would be hearing the Pink Floyd song “Breathe” forever. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Become a nun. A nun. A nun. The words were purple and green. They trailed through her mind like streamers unfurling from small planes that flew over the ocean — except that there was no airplane and the words trailed around her in a circle. She felt trapped. Grace stood in the middle of a vortex. She remembered the domes of the Orthodox Church that she saw earlier in the evening. In her memory, they looked like gleaming mushroom caps. Maybe her mother was right. If she were a nun, she could make a difference. She could heal the sick. She could perform miracles. She could live in a convent with other women who did not want to marry men. When she was a child, her favorite television program was The Flying Nun. The program opened with Sally Fields, as the young novice Sister Bertille, flying over the mountainside and tumbling through the blue sky. Grace remembered feeling as if she could fly. She could fly. Then she remembered that Beth’s house, like hers, was only two stories high. Still, she could fly if she felt like getting up from the couch. She could be a nun if she wanted to. She remembered reading about the saints when she was getting ready for her confirmation and learning that so many of the female saints had been nuns. They swirled around in her memory: Joan of Arc, dressing in men’s clothing, mounting her horse, leading the troops; Saint Hildegard of Bingen, seeing visions and writing music. Saint Faith, a young woman remembered for being a virgin and martyr, was tortured to death on a red-hot brazier. The saints receded. Grace became anxious again. That would be just her luck to become a nun and be tortured to death on a red-hot brazier. What was a red-hot brazier? It reminded her of a bra. Was it a brazier or a brassiere? What was the difference? Grace was enjoying her trip half the time. She waved her hand in front of her face again. It left a neon blue trail. The other half of the time, she was apprehensive. She looked at her hand again. It looked like it belonged to someone else and it was coming toward her. The hand moved back again. She could tell that it was hers because she could wave it in the air. A spring green trail turned bright yellow. The colors pulsed. Then they faded. The hand looked normal. But it still looked as if it belonged to a stranger. Grace was in her own universe. Would this ever end? Would she ever not be anxious? Would fear eat away at her until she was dead? The sweet smell of cannabis smoke filled the air. Man, Beth knew how to throw a party, and Grace loved Beth. But it was Beth’s fault that Grace was on this trip. Beth might never come back, and then Grace might be on this trip forever. Time was a circle. She found herself in a hot pink tunnel with a white flower at the end. She felt like a saint. She was a saint and so was Beth. Beth was a saint from a pagan family, and she ran a brothel in the Temple of Venus. Grace worked for Beth in the brothel, but somehow — it was a miracle really — Grace managed to stay a virgin. Venus was a planet and a goddess. Grace had a recent memory of Venus shining down on her. Someone came and knelt in front of her. Deep-set, caring brown eyes looked at Grace. Under windswept short brown hair, her face was handsome: masculine, but feminine, too, with fine features. Grace decided that the person must be Saint Anne. She took Grace’s hand. It seemed like a miracle, but Grace took it in stride. Miracles were becoming common place. Grace knew about Saint Anne. She was from a good family and forced to marry. After she was widowed, she disguised herself as a man and went to live in a monastery. This Saint Anne was wearing a black leather jacket. Her windswept hair was short. Her nose, upturned. She looked at Grace intently with sad brown eyes. When she opened her mouth to speak, a Gregorian chant escaped. Grace leaned back. She felt the cool stone arches of the cathedral. She heard voices rising. She could smell the sweet scent of colors cast by the stained-glass windows. Sky blue blazed from the image of the Virgin Mary. Her halo radiated sparks of golden light. Gradually, the colors faded. The Gregorian chants receded. Grace recognized Saint Anne wasn’t a figment of her imagination. She actually knelt in front of her. She held on to Grace’s hand. “Hey. My name is Art. I’m in your English lit class.” “I recognize you,” Grace drawled. “You’re Saint Anne.” Saint Anne laughed, turned serious, and said, “We’ve seen each other around school.” “Oh? I think you’re wrong. You’re Saint Anne.” “I was raised in the Orthodox Church, and we tend to have angels rather than saints. But trust me, I’m no angel.” “I’m taking a trip,” said Grace. She held onto Saint Anne’s hand. “A trip?” Saint Anne’s sad eyes widened. She looked like a boy, but prettier, thought Grace. She had an idea. That fast, she forgot what it was. “Are you okay?” Saint Anne asked. “I’m doing great — me and The Flying Nun.” Saint Anne laughed. “I liked that show, too. But seriously, are you okay? I hear tripping can be kind of … intense.” Grace gazed languidly at her in amazement. “Haven’t you ever tripped?” She still couldn’t believe that she was speaking to Saint Anne. She was so handsome. “I don’t see any reason to mess with my molecular structure,” said Saint Anne. “I’d offer to smoke a joint with you, but you probably don’t need it.” “No, I’m fine — even though taking the trip wasn’t my idea. I came early and Beth asked me if I wanted to take a trip with her. Where is she?” “Beth?” Saint Anne’s eyes narrowed. “It figures that she got you into this. She’s in her bedroom with George. I saw them going down the hallway when I first came in. They’ll probably be in there all night.” “That’s nice,” said Grace. “The only thing is that she promised to stay with me. And now I’m alone. How am I going to stand up? How am I going to walk? How am I going to get home? I think I could fly, but first I have to get there.” “How much did you take and when did you take it?” Grace told her. “It’s your first time?” Grace nodded. “You should have only taken half a hit.” Saint Anne stood up. Then she sat down on the couch next to Grace. “But don’t worry, I’m staying with you. And I’m right here. You should be coming down in another hour or so.” Grace felt her knee leaning against something solid. She looked down and saw that it was Saint Anne’s knee. A halo of golden light emanated around the circles where their knees touched. Grace looked at it with amazement. She leaned into her new friend. Saint Anne felt solid and soft. “I’ll make sure that you get home all right. I’ll take you home on my motorcycle.” “Motorcycle?” Art nodded. “Then you really are Saint Anne,” said Grace. She knew she had a future. She knew somehow that there were motorcycles in it — ridden by women like Saint Anne. She smiled. It felt like eternity passed, and the party started to wind down. It must have been a few hours and Grace was starting to come down also. She could tell by the solid way she walked behind Art. For a moment, it felt like she hadn’t dropped acid at all. But even though her feet were moving like it was business as usual, her mind was turning the drab house into a wonderland. Grace looked at the lava lamp with blobs of color melting through light in a glass cylinder. She looked away as she followed her new friend, but the image of the lava lamp stayed with her. The front hallway she walked through turned into a lava lamp. With each step she took, she was becoming the orbs of color melting into light. Grace followed Saint Anne outside and got onto the back of her motorcycle. Grace wrapped her arms around her. They started to move. The night air felt good against Grace’s face. She could feel purple streamers of light trailing behind them. She hadn’t jumped out of a window, but she was flying. “What is your house number?” Saint Anne asked when they were stopped at a red light. “Seven,” replied Grace over the purr of the engine. Seven was her house number, and it was also the number of glowing angels that descended from the stars and spoke her name. When they pulled up at the curb outside her house, Grace got off the bike. She knew she lived there, but at the same time she wasn’t sure if she was really the girl who lived there. She sat down in the street. “Whoa,” said Saint Anne. “Are you okay?” She got off her bike and helped Grace to her feet. Grace wondered if she really had met Saint Anne. Could it be true? She reached out and took Saint Anne in her arms. Saint Anne hugged her back. Then they were still hugging, but they were looking at each other. Their faces moved toward each other. They kissed with their mouths open. Their tongues touched. Grace felt an outline of yellow light fusing them together. The future flew by and brushed the side of her head. It felt like an angel’s wing. But Saint Anne pulled back. She put her hand on Grace’s arms, steadying her. “This isn’t right,” she said. “You’re still tripping. Be careful when you go in the house. Don’t make any noise and whatever you do, don’t talk to anyone. Just go to bed.” Grace did as she was told. She tiptoed into the house, went to her room, and lay on the bed fully clothed. She had touched Saint Anne and wanted to keep the touch with her. She stared at the ceiling until the entire evening — gazing at the star of Venus, dropping acid with Beth, and kissing Saint Anne — became a dream.
For more information on my most recent novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here:
It is my pleasure to bring you this opening of my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love and marriage (published by Thorned Heart Press) that I read recently at an online reading. The excerpt is on YouTube and below that is the text. The novel starts out when one of the narrators is in midlife and attends the New York Pride march in 2012. This narrator sees a woman who reminds her of an old flame in her youth in the late 1970s and she wonders what made Art (short for Artemis) Art.
Enjoy!
Grace stood on the crowded sidewalk and watched the Dykes on Bikes contingent kick off the parade. The skyscrapers on both sides of Fifth Avenue echoed the roar: rage turned celebratory. Today was their day. Pride. Motorcycles, full of motion, crawled at parade speed. Hands gripped controls at the ends of shiny handlebars. Engines revved. Rainbow flags rippled red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet. Horizontal stripes danced. The colors represented the many nationalities and ethnic groups — all of them — in the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender) community. Like a telephoto lens, Grace focused in on a woman in the center of the crowd, and mirrored sunglasses stared back. The woman’s short, mahogany hair looked like it had been carved by the air, like wings. A thrill shimmied up Grace’s spine. The woman was riding slowly. but in Grace’s imagination, she zoomed. She reminded Grace of a girl from her adolescence, her lover (even though they didn’t call it that then), a girl named Art. Maybe Art had blazed through time — from high school to the present nearly three decades and a world of difference later. Art had been short for something, but Grace couldn’t remember what. Grace had known Art so long ago that it felt like a previous life; one that Grace never talked about. No one knew about her past except Thalia, Grace’s partner of twenty-four years. Thalia was a compassionate person. She almost always saw the best in everyone. Her voice lilted. Her hair fell to her shoulders in a cascade of loose curls of silver and shades of blond and brown. Beyond salt and pepper, her hair resembled shades of light. When Thalia looked up at Grace, her hair framed her face. Her crown caught the light and a halo appeared. When Thalia listened intensely, her deep-set blue eyes enveloped Grace. One time, when Grace mentioned that “No one believes me when I talk about my past.” Thalia responded by saying somberly, “I believe you.” In that moment, Grace relaxed into herself. Thalia made her feel understood. She was safe with Thalia. Grace never mentioned her past, even to her friends. She made sure never to tell her students. What kind of example would that set? Grace hadn’t used drugs for years and dealing them was in her past. She had come to understand that life was too precious to risk. She had seen firsthand that actions had consequences. Even Thalia had her limits. Before becoming involved with Grace, she had been involved with a woman who had a drinking problem and who got involved in messy situations. Thalia made it clear that the relationship hadn’t lasted long. Grace knew she was lucky
To order my most recently published novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here:
(I presented this novel excerpt at the Unitarian Universalist Church of the Restoration in Philadelphia where I am a lay minister. The segment is also on You Tube. Click hereto see the video or you can view the segment below and below that on this blog, you can read the excerpt. (At the bottom of this post is another video link to YouTube featuring me reading from a different part of Art — and talking about the Saints.)
Unitarian Universalism is a faith that encompasses all religious/spiritual backgrounds (including atheism, agnosticism and Buddhism) in a “free and responsible search for truth and meaning”.)
This excerpt is from a novel that I wrote recently titled Art: a revolution of love and marriage. The novel is based on the working class landscape in which I grew up and takes place in the seventies. The main character is named Art and is based on a real person (who is not me). So here is a short excerpt from her story. The Supreme Court ruling in favor of marriage equality is a good hint at the happy ending.
Art, a revolution of love and marriage
Art strode from the counter, past the grill and the fryers and into the backroom. She tore her yellow headscarf off triumphantly as she clocked out. Then she put on her sweater and her padded royal blue jacket. She slammed the metal back door behind her.
The sun was setting. It was about ten after five. Her brother was scheduled to pick her up at five thirty. Art stood behind the building. She put up her hood and looked up. The sky was streaked with violet. Long white wisps of clouds unfurled like banners. A single bright star came out from behind a cloud. She watched it for a moment. It stayed in one place so she knew it was a star, not an airplane. It was bright enough to be a planet: either Jupiter or Venus.
She thought about the fact that the star was light years away. Maybe her junior year physics teacher was right. Perhaps they were made from the stars they wished on. Most of the atoms spinning around in her body were made from stardust. Art would never admit it — in physics class last year, she had just rolled her eyes along with the others — but the fact was that she did have dreams. She wished that she could be with Linda forever. She wished that Linda’s mother would stop telling her daughter that it was a waste of time to study trigonometry and that she would stop telling Linda that her life was going to turn out just like hers. She stared at the star. It was so bright that it seemed to be burning a hole in the winter sky. She wished she and Linda could make a life together. She wished they could get married. She wished that they could even have a kid or two. But first they had to get through this last year of high school. Getting into the trig class would be easy compared to the rest.
I recently had the honor and privilege of having a Conversation with William E. Berry, Jr., Publisher & CEO, of aaduna literary magazine. The journal published my novel excerpt “The Mother” and nominated it for a Pushcart Prize.
Below is an excerpt from the Conversation and a link to the full piece in aaduna:
Janet Mason:
First off, thanks bill for your compliments about my work in aaduna. I feel honored that you described it as having an “intriguing intensity,” “subtle edginess,” and a “provocative premise.” The inspiration for my novel She And He, which “The Mother” came from, reflects several sources. I review books for The Huffington Post and the radio syndicate “This Way Out” based in Los Angeles, and three of the books I reviewed that influenced me were on transgender topics. The other major influence was reading the Bible pretty much for the first time which gave me a fresh take on it.
I wanted to write something fun and upbeat based on this landscape — and come to think of it, I did put a fair amount of myself into it. I am tall and because of my height and angularity, I am frequently called “Sir.” And though I identify as female, I have always identified with male and female interests. When I was a child, I had an imaginary friend who was a boy my age who lived in my mind. I actually didn’t think of this until now, but this must have influenced my thinking of having a line of intersex characters that are born in “The Mother” and the intersexed twins Tamar and Yeshua. Tamar, the narrator of the story, indentifies primarily as female but is born intersexed. And her brother, Yeshua (Hebrew for Jesus) identifies as male but was born intersexed.
I think my life is pretty normal — normal for me! I spent a lot of time alone writing and I also garden (this summer I planted and harvested a lot of pumpkins and carnival squash). My partner, who I live in an old farmhouse with, is retired from the postal system, and is a fabulous cook. I take long walks everyday and do yoga and a Buddhist meditation practice almost daily, so my day to day is pretty tame but it suits me.
“The Mother” is an excerpt from my novel in process, She And He. It is loosely based on a character (Tamar) from the Hebrew Bible, and is told from the spin of how independent women and gender-variant characters not only survived but thrived in ancient times.
You can see a skit from She And He on YouTube . The skit was done at the Unitarian Universal Church of the Restoration in Philadelphia.
You can also read another excerpt, written as standalone short fiction, in the online literary journal BlazeVOX15
Another excerpt is forthcoming this year in Sinister Wisdom —coming out in April.
(Below are photos of the recent wedding of Sharon Katz and Maralyn Cohen — it was quite the party!)
(I presented this novel excerpt at the Unitarian Universalist Church of the Restoration in Philadelphia where I am a lay minister. The segment is also on You Tube. Click hereto see the video.
Unitarian Universalism is a faith that encompasses all religious/spiritual backgrounds (including atheism, agnosticism and Buddhism) in a “free and responsible search for truth and meaning”.)
This excerpt is from a novel that I wrote recently titled Art: a revolution of love and marriage. The novel is based on the working class landscape in which I grew up and takes place in the seventies. The main character is named Art and is based on a real person (who is not me). So here is a short excerpt from her story. The Supreme Court ruling in favor of marriage equality is a good hint at the happy ending.
Art, a revolution of love and marriage
Art strode from the counter, past the grill and the fryers and into the backroom. She tore her yellow headscarf off triumphantly as she clocked out. Then she put on her sweater and her padded royal blue jacket. She slammed the metal back door behind her.
The sun was setting. It was about ten after five. Her brother was scheduled to pick her up at five thirty. Art stood behind the building. She put up her hood and looked up. The sky was streaked with violet. Long white wisps of clouds unfurled like banners. A single bright star came out from behind a cloud. She watched it for a moment. It stayed in one place so she knew it was a star, not an airplane. It was bright enough to be a planet: either Jupiter or Venus.
She thought about the fact that the star was light years away. Maybe her junior year physics teacher was right. Perhaps they were made from the stars they wished on. Most of the atoms spinning around in her body were made from stardust. Art would never admit it — in physics class last year, she had just rolled her eyes along with the others — but the fact was that she did have dreams. She wished that she could be with Linda forever. She wished that Linda’s mother would stop telling her daughter that it was a waste of time to study trigonometry and that she would stop telling Linda that her life was going to turn out just like hers. She stared at the star. It was so bright that it seemed to be burning a hole in the winter sky. She wished she and Linda could make a life together. She wished they could get married. She wished that they could even have a kid or two. But first they had to get through this last year of high school. Getting into the trig class would be easy compared to the rest.
Janet Mason, author 