Farewell, MichFest

Next week, thousands of women (womyn) from all over the US, Canada, and from many other countries will gather on 650 acres of land in Michigan to celebrate the 40th anniversary and last Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, or MichFest. 

I won't be there, but I'm feeling nostalgic and a bit sad.

I didn't come out until my mid-30s, so I never went to MichFest until the late 90s. Between 1998 and 2010 I went five times, each fest unique, magical, transformative. I've danced topless with hundreds of other women who were clothed or not in all kinds of ways, to amazing musicians under bright summer skies - losing my shyness for my post-mastectomy body and feeling sexy and alive. I'll never forget a young friend I'd just made that first year who ended up supporting me as I got a henna tattoo across my chest to celebrate my survivor's body and embolden me to be free with it. 

I've wandered the trails at night feeling completely safe, and watched - mouth gaping - the open, pure sexual wildness of the Twilight Zone. I've attended with friends, and with my spouse. I've picked up women during single years. I took salsa lessons in the morning dew. I even spent a week with Ubaka Hill's Drumsong Orchestra and performed on stage, sweating out the drumbeats, trying to keep up, so happy. One year, at the request of her surviving partner, I sprinkled the ashes of a dear friend lost to breast cancer in special places on the land. Holy places. I wonder how many women are scattered there over these 40 years.

I think Nedra Johnson's beautiful ballad Hail Mary captures the feeling of my MichFest experiences best of all. Listen. Holy love, sacred place... 

The whole debate about the exclusion of transwomen (there are so many articles - do a Google search) came into full force after my first couple of experiences with MichFest, though I have no doubt I wasn't paying attention. (I was more tuned into the racial politics - white women who didn't understand the need for women-of-color-only community space.) I personally don't get the exclusion of transwomen. Transmen are welcome, as are every stripe of gender nonconforming women. It's some theoretical divide about what constitutes a "woman-born-woman." I believe the folks opposing the inclusion of transwomen have never reached a place where they can see our trans* sisters as fully women. And this lack of acceptance is most likely what slowly killed MichFest. I feel full of sorrow for that. A holy place, a sacred land that couldn't invite all women in, and in the end, lost it all.

But in this last year, I've developed greater empathy for those who couldn't embrace that change. MichFest started posting photos from the early days on their Facebook page, which brought me viscerally to a place and time I missed - the 70s and early 80s era of radical feminist lesbianism, from which MichFest was born. Those women, many who still attend, are in their late fifties, sixties, and beyond now. They had a specific experience that indelibly marked their souls. A revolution I benefitted from but didn't participate in. MichFest manifests the heart of those days gone by. It's a way to return to what was. I can see their point of view with more understanding now, even if I don't agree. 

Photos from the early years of Michfest courtesy of their Facebook page

This post is not about the debate, the fierce feelings of anger and hurt that have been stirred on all sides. It's just my closing thoughts on a place I'm grateful to have experienced.

I'm missing this last hurrah not as a boycott, but because I really just didn't want to go. I've got more places to see and things to experience with my limited vacation and travel dollars.

But I can imagine attending, the last of everything. The line to get in. The crazy old buses driven by sturdy dykes (of both the butch and femme variety), setting up camp, the porta-janes, the outdoor showers, the food served under big tents in the dusty heat/melting humidity/pouring rain. The woods, feeling so safe walking anywhere at anytime of day or night. The women, clothed and naked, old and young, radical and everyday. The village. And of course the music - acoustic and night stages - funk and folk and everything in between. The closing ceremony. The lovemaking. 

The love. 

Let me leave you with photos from my own personal MichFest collection, various years, no particular order:

       

 

Goodbye, MichFest. See you in my dreams.

My life in cars

Riding along as free as can be
Just me and my dog in my 240Z

I penned that terrible poem in high school in the early 70s. That I remember it now is astonishing given how bad it is - but maybe the length, and "snappy" meter and rhyme make it memorable after all these years. Or more likely, that two line poem summarized my dreams for my adult life when I was a teen trapped in Midwestern suburbia. When I grew up I wanted a dog, a sports car, and to be a ski bum in the mountains. No spouse, no kids, no white picket fence. My life didn't unfold that way at all - to date I've had two spouses, two kids, two homes owned, and the grandkids are flowing.

But as I stand today with 60 in my sights, I'm struck that the core theme then is exactly what my core theme is now - to be free. Hmm.

But this post is not specifically about freedom. It's about cars, which in their own way offer some measure of freedom. I've been fortunate enough to own a car almost continuously from late college on, which is a helluva long time.

Recently that old poem, an ode to the sports car I never owned, popped into my brain. It got me thinking about how cars recount my life from a particular lens - the rear view mirror. (See how I did that?!) Maybe yours do, too. So here goes a rather self indulgent recounting of my life in cars. I can't remember years and the order could be a bit off, but it all begins in the late 70s.

Jeep Scout - I loved this car because it was my first and was so damn cool. I lived in Colorado at the time and it fit my self-created image of mountain girl. Though the first time I put it in four wheel drive and drove it off-road I was terrified and never did it again. And it was very old and broke down, impossibly expensive to fix and a gas guzzler. So I soon traded it in for the worst car choice of my life.

AMC Gremlin - This car is consistently ranked as one of the worst cars of all time because it is. Not only was it ugly, its design was terribly flawed and it was dangerous in snow and ice (and by then I was back living in MN). I kept 100 pounds of sand in the back end to keep it from constantly fishtailing but it didn't help much. I remember doing a 360 one winter night on Highway 280 and ending up in the wrong lane with a semi bearing down on me. Obviously I lived to tell the tale. The only good thing about that car is I learned to drive a stick in it.

Ford Escort - Safer but exceedingly boring and economical. It had no power anything. A classic "heater and keys" car. My first "sensible" car.

Volkswagen Van - The classic hippy van, which marks the arrival of my now ex-husband in my life - the van came with him. I loved everything about that van, including road trips and "camping" in it. My husband was constantly under the engine (located dangerously in the front) because it broke down all the time. A highlight of our time with the van was when its optional gas-fueled space heater in the back caught on fire right next to our dog, and we had to evacuate. My ever practical husband had a fire extinguisher in the van and put the fire out himself. We all three lived to tell that tale (tail?).

Volkswagen Rabbit (yes this is the Volkswagen phase) - We bought it brand new for some crazy amount like 5K (early 80s car prices) because we were new parents and needed a safer car, and my husband was sick of fixing the van (I cried when we sold it, though).

Volkswagen Beetle - Even though we were more focused on safety, we bought this ancient Beetle from friends for $150 bucks. We thought we needed a second car and that's all we could afford. It had numerous holes in the floorboards (including under where we lovingly, "safely" strapped our young son into his car seat) and absolutely no heat. Shortly after buying it, we decided whoever didn't have the kid got the Beetle. It died for good after about six months.

Jeep Cherokee - My dad offered to sell us his Cherokee for the price of the trade-in value when he was getting a new car. It was still expensive - more than we could afford - but we thought it was cool and safe. We didn't know then that Cherokees were also impossibly expensive to repair (note the Jeep = expensive repair theme). It also marked the soon-to-be end of our marriage and me coming out as a lesbian.

Chevy Caprice Station Wagon - Not exactly the right car for picking up chicks in my new lesbo life (though I was the girl who wanted to be picked up and indeed was swayed by butch women in sports cars and on motorcycles), but it was cheap and all I could afford. I was also in mid-parenting years and the phase when I carted around my two kids and at least four of their friends on a regular basis. The selling point was the flip up third row bench seat in the back that faced backwards. The boys would give the finger to drivers behind us. The girls would wave. (Gender stereotypes, I know, but in this case they were true.) It was as close as I ever came to being a mini-van mom.

Toyota Corolla Wagon - The Chevy had some critical problem in its engine that would cost more to fix than the car was worth, so a friend who knew cars turned off the check engine light for me, made a temporary fix, and I went straight to the Toyota dealership to trade it in. I held my breath while I rode in it with the salesman who was checking it out, praying it wouldn't lurch and the engine wouldn't rev before he finished. It didn't and I got the Corolla wagon. I had actually done my research and knew this would be a good steady car for some time to come. It was less than ten years old, but still another "heater and keys." It was a great car, and served me well for a long time.

Nissan Maxima - The real story of this car is how I acquired it. I was working for the then-Mayor of Minneapolis, Sharon Sayles Belton, and she lost her bid for a third term. As political appointees we all had two months to find new jobs. Ron, a smart, handsome, tall brother who was a policy aide to the mayor, much younger than me, and my best work buddy, quickly secured an awesome job in DC and didn't want to bring his car with him - a newer killer Maxima with all the luxury trimmings. Out of friendship and kindness to me (I was a struggling single parent with two teens at the time) and probably a need to unload the car quickly, he sold it to me for what was left on his note, less than half of what the car was worth. And just like that I had, for the first time, automatic everything, leather heated seats, my first sunroof, a car in impeccable condition, and a sound system to die for. I felt cool as slick. I'm still grateful to Ron to this day.

Pontiac Vibe - As "Maxi" got old and started needing lots of repairs, I decided I was finally in a place to buy a new car. Not as in new-used, but brand spanking new. I lusted for a Nissan Rogue but when I did the math I ended up with the much cheaper Vibe, which had a Toyota Matrix engine but the price of a Pontiac. It was a good car, but not great in the snow and ice (not as bad as the Gremlin but not good). When my spouse Susan and I were driving home from Iowa last winter in snowy conditions, it fishtailed for no reason and we flew into the ditch. Luckily, we were unharmed but I vowed that would be the last winter in the Vibe. Plus, I had begun thinking about retirement and that it would likely happen in the next 5-6 years. So two weeks ago came my new...

Subaru Forester - This is the most thoughtful and planful I've ever been about a car purchase. I researched and considered for over a year. I see this car as my "retirement" vehicle. If all goes well, I'll pay this car off while I'm still working full time, and then as I move into part-time work, retirement, and way way less money, I'll have a decent car I can drive into the ground.  I picked this car because of the history of Subarus - you can easily drive them for 250,000 miles and they have fantastic repair and safety records. It will perhaps be the last car I'll ever own. Unless I lose my mind, splurge and buy an antique Datsun 240Z.  

Sandra Bland could have been my daughter

So much has been written about the terrible death of Sandra Bland that I'm not sure what I can add to the conversation.

Other than it has shaken me to my bones and I can't shake loose the horror.

She reminds me of my daughter. She could have been my daughter.

Sandra Bland.                      My daughter.

Same age, almost.

Both sassy, some might say affectionately, smart-mouthed.

My daughter would have been irritated too, and told the cop she had rights and she wasn't putting out her cigarette or getting out of the car.

She would have fought it every step of the way.

I'm sure Sandy Bland had been given "the talk," and knew the dangers but maybe couldn't imagine what happened to her could actually happen. To her. Or couldn't stop from demanding respect and lawful behavior from the cop. That's got my kid all over it.

The only difference that matters?

Sandra Bland is dead.

It could have been my daughter.

Or yours.

Or you.

But so likely never me, even if I was that age. 

Because I'm white. 

Makes me wanna holler.

#BlackLivesMatter

July 25 update: Read this, by the brilliant Roxane Gay: On the Death of Sandra Bland and our Vulnerable Bodies.

And this: Why are we still talking about racism?