I want to tell you about Dorothy. She had a small tent right next to the path I
had to go down to get anywhere. She had
a table outside her tent, a good chair. Lots
of food and cold drinks. A nice
set-up. Clearly she was a veteran of
Michigan. She knew what she needed to be comfortable, and brought it.
I think she was probably over 70. Longish straight white hair. Tanned face.
Sturdy. Every time I went down
the path, she was there, drinking a beer or sipping a cup of coffee, often
reading a book. We would make eye
contact, give a little smile. I didn’t
feel drawn to her or motivated to make more contact than that. I never saw anyone else talk to her either.
Then at some point I realized that every time I walked that
path, she was ALWAYS there, in her chair, sipping and reading or just
looking. She wasn’t going to any of the
concerts or the workshops or visiting friends in other tents. She was just SITTING OUTSIDE HER TENT ON THE
SIDE OF THE PATH BY HERSELF! What was
THAT about??!?
So I stopped to talk to her.
She was very pleasant and open to chatting. Dorothy was from Chicago. She was a dyke. For whatever reasons, her life had led her to
isolation from her fellow humans. She
was a hermit. She lived in her apartment
in Chicago without contact with other people.
She said what saved her sanity was her week at Michigan
sitting in front of her tent next to the path.
Surrounded by thousands of women, feeling their energy. She didn’t need concerts or
conversation. The only place she felt
safe around others of her species was in those scrubby woods, alternately dusty
and muddy, with the endless sounds of music playing, and women laughing and singing
far into the night.
“It recharges my batteries,” she said about her one week a
year at the Michigan Women’s Music Festival.
She said that one week made it possible to survive the 51 weeks of
solitude that followed. And then, by
golly, she’d be there next to the path again, with her sweet little set-up.
Dorothy was an extreme example, but there are thousands of
lesbians at Michigan who go back to lives where they can never be themselves in
public, where they feel they must stay in the closet. For these women, Michigan has been a very
special place, a lifesaver, a battery recharger, a sanctuary, a week of pure,
joyous freedom.
And now, after 40 years, it’s ending. Yes, all cultural institutions wither and die
eventually. But this is not a natural death. Sophisticated people organized to kill
Michigan before its time, because it outraged them that women had created a
safe space for themselves.
Dear self-righteous people:
What do you suggest Dorothy do next year?
