By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
At a dark point in my life about five years agoon the heels of a breakupI went to San Francisco to do a reading. I was feeling bad and had convinced myself that no one would show. But I do believe in lifting a finger, and with it I picked up the ringing phone.
"Is this Eileen Myles?" The excited female voice on the other side asked. "I don't really expect you to know who I am. I sent you a postcard last summer."
I remembered the postcard with a picture of a big-faced, redheaded girl waving a ham sandwich. She had been traveling cross-country and she was telling me about her adventures like I was an old friend, and she signed it Michelle. Weird, I thought, and put the postcard down.
"Well, let me tell you why I'm calling," Michelle said. "We have this excellent girls' open mike at the Coco Club on Sunday nights. We can't offer you money or anything, but a lot of us are huge fans of your work, and I would be so pleased if you would come. You would? Omygod!"
That was my initial encounter with Sister Spit's Rambling Road Show, a lesbian spoken-word tour. I toast that drizzly December night as one of the defining events in my life.
I came out in New York in the late '70s. But lesbian feminism left me feeling like I didn't cut the mustard, like I'd gone to the wrong non-Ivy League school and liked punk rock and amphetamines too much and Aphra Behn too little. Generally I hung out with the boys and often I was alone. With poetry.
When I did connect with a girl (I could drink with), we were at war with the lesbian culture around us. I remember throwing beer cans off the balcony at an Alive concert. They were these dykes in leisure suits playing fusion jazz to a roomful of women with dangly earrings. "Ugh," we yelled up the street.
Now, I was a guest at the phantasmagoric Coco Club. Sini Anderson, then 25, dressed kind of preppy with a TV-younger-brother's scratchy voice. She was a Midwestern girl from an unreadable class playing easygoing straight man to Michelle's wiry ecstatic hostess girl, squealing and cheering the readers off and onto the stage. Michelle's hair was blueor red. Sini's was bright yellow. This was normal in San Francisco, a cornucopia of weird and adorable young dykes, clearly one moment out of college (or not), migrating West in buses and planes and vans in the mid '90s. Now they wanted to speak.
At the Coco Club, poetry was the rule. Or literature was. One girl from L.A., long hair, kind of bourgie, read a slick and nasty piece of fiction about plopping a red-ant hill on the crotch of an evil ex-girlfriend. The audience howled wickedly. A Jersey-looking girl with big hair and scrub denim jean jacket and heavy metal shirt did a chugging rant. A tall, cute-cute-cute Elvis lookalike in a baseball hat read a lyric lament about homeand abuse. A pale girl stood up in academic attire, sincere, and read translations of a young Russian poet who had killed herself last year.
The room was resonant and warm. During most of the readings you could hear the audience breathing. In a fucked-up, messy way we were one. I looked around, feeling my cheeks blazing in the crowded club. I was sipping a Diet Coke and thinking: I can't believe I've found my generation at last.
For dykes, generations are less about age than attitude. Try standing with a clump of your lesbian contemporaries. The dividing lines of race and class, shoes and musical taste, will predictably send us flying to our corners quicker than you can say butch/femme.
I know I'm not alone in my ancient alienation and new affinity. There's a teeming society of women who identify the postpunk third wave of feminism as the beat we're listening to, because unlike the taboo-laden feminism of my youth, the new lesbian mise-en-scène is a fierce, wildly infectious, and inclusive cultural force. It's a dyke world where straight girls can come too, and maybe even men. Who needs separatism if you're the boss?
Meanwhile at the Coco Club, it was my turn to perform. Have you ever gone to heaven? I mean, maybe it's like getting a Guggenheim. I think every time a poet or a writer finishes something, even stands at a mike reading, it goes off into some secret place in the future. And now I was standing there with this tribe of loud and articulate girls who looked like me. I have a micro-tattoo and my hair is white and brown, but inside I look like themand they knew it.
A few years later, Sini and Michelle invited me to go to the Womyn's Music Festival in Michigan with them. I hated that festivalwith its millions of bare breasts and fanny packs and "Womyn-Born Only" signsand they did too. Horrible! That's why it would be fun. And when we were rejected by the festival's committee, the perfection continued. They explained that we were sort of like musicand they already had Phrancand also sort of like literatureand they had Dorothy Allison.