I am a butch lesbian. I live with gender dysphoria. This is the condition which, according to mental health professionals, means I am transgender. However, I do not define as transgender. I do not want to take hormones or have surgeries. I do not accept that it is possible to live “as a man”, without believing in old fashioned gender stereotypes. I do not believe my deep discomfort with my female body means that I should take steps to change it. This is my story. …
I still have difficulties with my sexed body. Periods are particularly difficult for me. But instead of seeking a hysterectomy, I tell myself, “Lauren, you’re a butch lesbian, are you really so afraid of a little blood?”, and then I get on with my day. My wife loves me, just how I am, with all my oddities. I’m very glad that I’m in a lesbian relationship. I would not want to be in a heterosexual relationship with a woman. That would wreck something important for me about who I am, and what I stand for and I could never have discovered that on my own if I had been transitioned young.
I stand for trashing the old fashioned, regressive stereotypes that say “if you can drive a forklift and operate a lathe, you must be a man.” No. I stand for a celebration of the amazing diversity that women are.
Claudia had to leave El Salvador because her life was at risk. There she was in danger as a woman and as a lesbian – dual reasons to die she says. For this reason, she is now taking refuge in a country that constantly feels alien to her, although it protects her human rights. She is free, but she feels lonely. Given that, she hopes that in El Salvador LGBT people will not always have to give up something, everything, just to live without fear.
Claudia, who for security reasons prefers to remain anonymous, is an activist and human rights defender. In this interview, she talks about the implications of being an LGBT person in a country like El Salvador, where, among other things, hatred, violence and impunity reign. In addition, she explains how the actions of governments which, far from progressing, insist on going backwards, affect the LGBT community. And she explains what it means to live in a place where human rights aren’t an aspiration but a fact. That place, of course, is far, far from being El Salvador. …
What does it mean to belong to the LGBT + community in a country like El Salvador?
Death. That is what it means to be part of the LGTB community in El Salvador. …
Did your departure from the country have to do with your being a rights defender or your sexual orientation?
It was both. I can’t reveal many details, but it was the violence in El Salvador that forced me to leave. I’d continue the fight, but what would that cost? Perhaps my life? Saying: “No, enough is enough” was a super difficult decision, but it was because of crime, the lack of rights and, above all, because of the violence experienced by the LGBT community. There is a horrible widespread violence, in all aspects and in all sectors of the population.
Would you return to El Salvador?
Because in El Salvador we are light years away from changing our mentality. We have nothing there. I don’t have a future in El Salvador. And I would not return to lose the freedom that I now have. I am a refugee woman. Two months after I arrived here, my brother was murdered in El Salvador. El Salvador hurt me a lot. I am proud to be a Salvadoran lesbian woman, very proud to tell everyone that I am from El Salvador. However, the living conditions that I have in this country I would not have there as an LGBT woman. I cannot do anything. And it is a very difficult situation because I love my country. I would like to be in my country and not here where I am, but there I have no guarantees of anything. (Translated)
Claudia tuvo que salir de El Salvador porque su vida estaba en riesgo. Aquí, corría peligro por ser mujer y por ser lesbiana. Eso le valdría, dice, estar muerta dos veces. Por eso, ahora se refugia en un país que, aunque le garantiza derechos humanos, no deja de parecerle ajeno. Es libre, pero se siente sola. Y, ante eso, anhela que en El Salvador las personas de la población LGBT+ no tengan que renunciar a algo, a todo, para poder vivir sin miedo.
Claudia, quien por seguridad prefiere mantener el anonimato, es activista y defensora de derechos humanos. En esta entrevista, habla de las implicaciones de ser población LGBT+ en un país como El Salvador, en el que, entre otras cosas, reinan el odio, la violencia y la impunidad. Además, explica cómo afectan a la comunidad LGBT+ las acciones de los gobiernos que, lejos de avanzar, se empeñan en retroceder. Y cuenta cómo se vive en un lugar en el que los derechos humanos dejan de ser una aspiración y se convierten en un hecho. Ese lugar, claro, está lejos, muy lejos de El Salvador….
¿Qué significa pertenecer a la comunidad LGBT+ en un país como El Salvador?
Muerte. Eso significa ser parte de la comunidad LGTB+ en El Salvador. …
¿Su salida del país tuvo que ver con que usted es defensora de derechos o con su orientación sexual?
Fueron las dos cosas. No puedo revelar muchos detalles, pero fue la violencia en El Salvador la que me sacó de ahí. Yo estaría en pie de lucha, ¿pero cuál sería el costo de eso? A lo mejor sería mi vida. Decir: “No, basta ya”, fue una decisión súper difícil, pero fue por la delincuencia, la falta de derechos y, sobre todo, por la violencia que se vive para la comunidad LGBT+. Hay una violencia generalizada horrible, en todos los aspectos y en todos los sectores de la población.
¿Regresaría a El Salvador?
¿Por qué no?
Porque en El Salvador estamos a años luz de cambiar de mentalidad. No tenemos nada en ese país. Yo no tengo un futuro en El Salvador. Y no regresaría a perder la libertad que ahora tengo. Soy una mujer refugiada, y a los dos meses de haber llegado acá, en El Salvador asesinaron a mi hermano. El Salvador me duele mucho. Yo estoy orgullosa de ser una mujer lesbiana salvadoreña, pero orgullosísima de decirle a todo el mundo que soy de El Salvador. Sin embargo, las condiciones de vida que tengo en este país no las podría tener allá siendo una mujer LGBT+. No puedo hacer nada. Y es una situación bien difícil porque yo amo mi país. Quisiera estar en mi país y no aquí donde estoy, pero allá no tengo garantías de nada.
On a morning about 10 years ago, the Rev. Amy DeLong woke up in disbelief that she was still a reverend.
The day before — June 23, 2011 — she had stood trial at Peace United Methodist Church in Kaukauna on two charges. She had officiated a wedding between two women and she herself was in a lesbian relationship — or in the church’s language, was a “self-avowed, practicing homosexual.”
LGBTQ clergy and same-sex weddings were, and continue to be, forbidden by the United Methodist Church, a body of over 12 million members globally that has in recent years threatened to split over its refusal to fully include LGBTQ people into the faith.
Since DeLong’s church trial sat squarely on that debate, her case drew national scrutiny, including a story in Time Magazine. But she could barely pay attention to the uproar she had triggered, because she was certain she’d lose her pastoral rights and responsibilities as punishment.
Instead, the jury of ministers gave her just a 20-day suspension and tasked her with writing a document about how clergy could resolve issues that harm the church or could lead to future trials. An event that could have been devastating ended up leaving her hopeful that the United Methodist Church was changing.
Today, though, she’s lost that hope.
After a decade of fighting for the inclusion of the LGBTQ community in the denomination she had chosen for herself and loved, DeLong said she watched things get only worse.
Although she said it breaks her heart that her work came to an end without producing meaningful change, DeLong said she never questioned whether she was right to do it.
“There’s nothing … that tells me that the love that I share — the adult, consensual, loving relationship I share with my partner — is anything but holy,” DeLong said. “I have always been hurt by the accusations, and I’ve certainly been hurt by the hatred that has been directed at me. But I never once thought I was wrong.”
Even if the United Methodist Church had a rapid change of heart and opened its arms to the LGBTQ community, DeLong said, the institution is flawed. The way church leaders have conducted themselves is no longer resonating with people, she said.
The decision to depart was an immensely tough one, she said, but necessary. She could no longer be an ambassador for the church, after all, if she no longer believed in the product.
A new ruling in Tasmania decrees that lesbians will be breaking the law if they host single-sex spaces. Anti-Discrimination Commissioner Sarah Bolt banned LGB Alliance Australia from hosting lesbian events that exclude transwomen, on the grounds that such gatherings carry a “significant risk” of breaching existing equalities legislation.
This ruling has far-reaching implications that extend beyond Tasmania, as it sets a legal precedent with the power to shape the outcomes of future cases. As Anti-Discrimination Commissioner, Bolt advises the Minister of Justice on matters relating to discrimination and prohibited conduct. She also promotes the recognition and approval of acceptable attitudes, acts and practices. As her ruling indicates, Bolt does not believe that lesbians creating spaces by and for ourselves is an acceptable act or practice.
What Bolt fails to recognize is that lesbians are oppressed at least twice over, on the basis of our sex and sexuality. We are females who love desire and build our lives around other females – which has been treated as suspicious for the duration of patriarchy. Around the world, lesbians continue to be at risk of discrimination and violence – from losing custody of our children to suffering ‘corrective’ rape.
Sally Miller Gearhart, the first out lesbian to receive a tenure-track position at San Francisco State University and a beloved LGBTQ rights advocate, died July 14, according to Jean Crosby, who sent out an email to friends. She was 90.
Ms. Gearhart had been in poor health for several years. She had lived for many years in Willits, California but had moved recently to a care home in Ukiah.
The GLBT Historical Society posted on Facebook about Ms. Gearhart’s passing, of which they were informed by her good friend, Ruth Mahaney.
“Losing Sally is like a huge tree falling. She was very tall, and she was so important in the world,” stated Mahaney. “She had been saying she wanted out of here, to be ‘up in the sky.’ She was ready to go.”
In 1973, Ms. Gearhart received the tenure-track position at SF State. She established one of the first women’s and gender studies programs in the country while at the university, and was a leading LGBTQ activist throughout the 1970s and 1980s.
Yulia Tsvetkova is a young Russian artist and activist from Komsomolsk on the Amur (a city in the extreme east of Russia), who has suffered a homophobic and sexist campaign since March 2019, for defending the rights of women and LGBTI people.
She is accused of committing a crime of “production and dissemination of pornographic material” as a result of drawings of real women which she posted on social media as part of her activism. The criminal trial began on April 12 and she faces up to six years in prison. Given the desperate situation in which she finds herself, Yulia announced that she was on hunger strike on May 1, demanding that the process be sped up, the appointment of a public defender and the opening up of the trial, the hearings of which are held behind closed doors with all media excluded.
Unfortunately, since the process began, Yulia has been the target of homophobic attacks from various people, and of harassment and threats over the phone, on social media and by mail. In addition, she suffered harassment by the Russian police for more than a year, including arbitrary detention, searches at her home and workplace, an enforced psychiatric examination, and almost 4 months of house arrest during which time she could not get necessary medical care.
Previously, in December 2019, she was found guilty of committing an administrative offense, for “propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations between minors”, and was fined 50,000 rubles (780 US dollars) for being the administrator of two LGBTI communities online in the Russian social network VKontakte.
In January 2020 a new administrative action was initiated against her for publishing his drawing on social networks “Family is where love is. Support LGBTI Families”, which represents two same-sex couples with sons and daughters. For this, Yulia was found guilty in July 2020, and was fined again. In parallel, that same month, administrative proceedings for the same type of offense were initiated for the third time. (Translated)
Yulia Tsvetkova es una joven artista y activista rusa de Komsomolsk del Amur (ciudad del extremo oriental de Rusia), que desde marzo de 2019 sufre una campaña homófoba y machista por defender los derechos de las mujeres y las personas LGBTI. Está acusada de cometer un delito de “producción y difusión de material pornográfico” a raíz de unos dibujos de mujeres reales que publicó en las redes sociales como parte de su activismo. El juicio penal comenzó el pasado 12 de abril y se enfrenta a hasta seis años de cárcel. Ante la desesperada situación en la que se encuentra, Yulia anunció el 1 de mayo una huelga de hambre, exigiendo celeridad en su proceso, la personación de un defensor público y la apertura del juicio, ya que actualmente las vistas se celebran a puerta cerrada (tampoco hay prensa).
Lamentablemente, desde que se inició el proceso Yulia ha sido objeto de ataques homófobos de distintas personas, y de acoso y amenazas por teléfono, en redes sociales y por correo. Además, sufrió acoso por parte de la policía rusa durante más de un año, incluyendo una detención arbitraria, registros en su domicilio y su lugar de trabajo, sometimiento a un examen psiquiátrico, y un arresto domiciliario de casi cuatro meses durante el que no pudo recibir la atención médica que necesitaba.
Con anterioridad, en diciembre de 2019 fue declarada culpable de cometer una infracción administrativa, por “propaganda de relaciones sexuales no tradicionales entre menores”, y fue multada con 50.000 rublos (780 dólares estadounidenses) por ser administradora de dos comunidades LGBTI en línea en la red social rusa VKontakte.
Y en enero de 2020 se inició una nueva actuación administrativa en su contra por publicar en las redes sociales su dibujo “La familia es donde está el amor. Apoye a las familias LGBTI”, que representa a dos parejas del mismo sexo con hijos e hijas. Por este hecho, Yulia fue declarada culpable en julio de 2020, siendo de nuevo multada. En paralelo, ese mismo mes, se iniciaron por tercera vez actuaciones administrativas por el mismo tipo de infracción. (Original)
Lesbian activist and music legend Alix Dobkin died at her home in Woodstock, New York, after suffering a brain aneurism and stroke. She was 80 years old.
Dobkin, with fellow lesbian activist and musician Kay Gardner (1940–2002), recorded in 1973 what was arguably the first full-length album by, for, and about lesbians: Lavender Jane Loves Women. The songs, with titles such as “Talking Lesbian” and “Fantasy Girl,” were as bold and direct as the album’s title. As reviewer Liza Cowan wrote in DYKE A Quarterly, No. 2, in 1976: ” … I think Lavender Jane Loves Women is a far out, brilliant album. It is so blatant and specific, you never have to guess what Alix is singing about in a song … It’s our history and I want to know all about it.”
Cowan continued, “One thing that I feel is so fantastic about Alix’s music is that she sings so explicitly about Dyke experiences. I love and dearly appreciate that everything she writes about comes directly from her own experiences, and is written about as such.”
Ruth Ellis was born in 1899 in Springfield, Illinois. Her father, Charles Ellis, was the first Black mail carrier in the entire state of Illinois. Her mother died when she was a tween, leaving her with her father and brothers. At the age of 16, after realizing that she had feelings for her white gym teacher, Ellis read Radclyffe Hall’s book The Well of Loneliness. After reading the book, she looked up the term “homosexual” in an psychology book. And that’s how she realized she was a lesbian. Being out isn’t easy at any point in history, but in 1915? It’s not like she had much for frame of reference. Despite that, however, Ellis always lived her life as an out lesbian.
While still living in Springfield, Ruth Ellis met Ceciline “Babe” Franklin, who was 10 years younger than her. There wasn’t much opportunity for a Black lesbian woman in Springfield back in the 1930s, so Ellis’s brother told her about Detroit. She went first, finding a job caring for a young boy for $7 a week. Franklin joined her in Detroit about a year later. Ellis, who had previously worked for a Black-owned print shop back in Springfield, decided to open her own print shop in Detroit.
“I was working for a printer, and I said to myself if I can do this for him, how come I can’t do it for myself?” she said.
With the formation of Ellis & Franklin Printing Co, which they ran out of their home, Ruth Ellis became the first woman in Michigan to own her own printing company. And that’s not the only thing that ran out of the Ellis/Franklin home.
Back in the 1940s, there weren’t many places for LGBTQ people to gather. In a pre-Stonewall world, being queer was life-threatening, so many people had to meet in private. And there was even less space in the community for Black queer people, so Ellis and Franklin opened up their home as a spot for them as a safe space. Their home was known as “The Giving Spot,” and was open for any members of the LGBTQ community, especially youth and Black folks.
“In those days everything was hush hush,” she explained. “If you just knew somebody that had a home would accept you that is where you went. So after we bought our home, we opened it up to the gay people. That is where everyone wanted to come on the weekend.”
Throughout the ’70s and ’80s, Ellis made a steady stream of appearances and did lots of interviews. Everyone knows that lesbians have always existed, but to see a woman who had been living as an out lesbian since before World War 1? That’s unbelievable. Especially because that woman was Black. And not only was she an out lesbian, she was a business owner and mentor to the community. She became a permanent fixture at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival as a result.
Ellis’s status as the oldest living out Black lesbian was immortalized in a documentary about her life, Living With Pride: Ruth Ellis @ 100. Of course, this only brought her more attention and notoriety. On her 100th birthday in 1999, Ruth Ellis was the leader of San Francisco’s Dyke March, with the entire crowd singing “Happy Birthday” to her. The same year, she lent her name and her legacy to the Ruth Ellis Center in Detroit.
Few historians have been interested in the existence of lesbians under the Third Reich. Raids, rapes, prostitution therapy, being forced into hiding – these are some of the atrocities they suffered under the Nazi regime. … That we know hardly anything about them is surprising, especially when we know that the National Socialist ideology considered homosexuality to be a vice and that any woman who did not respect her role as wife and mother in perpetuating racial purity was repressed. Today, we offer you a dossier and collective portrait of the lives of these lesbians, all too often overlooked.
MALE HOMOSEXUALITY VERSUS FEMALE HOMOSEXUALITY What do we really know about lesbian life under the Nazi regime? Virtually nothing. Their existence has rarely interested researchers which is astonishing, especially when we know that the Nazi ideology condemned homosexuality and decreed that women should respect their role as married women but also as mothers. Moreover, while homosexual relations between men have always been subject to criminal prosecution in much of Germany, female homosexuality has not been condemned. But for what reasons exactly? This phenomenon can be explained by the fact that women had to occupy a very special place at the time in German society. Furthermore, unlike male homosexuals, lesbians were not a political or social threat, even after 1933 and under the Nazi regime.
Lesbians, much more than homosexual men, also strongly participated in the homosexual emancipation movement that began in the 1890s in Germany. Nevertheless, women were not allowed to join political organizations until 1908 and frequented bars more discreetly. After World War I, sexual morality opened up more. Subsequently, the Weimar Republic offered other social and political freedoms for the majority of homosexuals, women and men alike. Big cities like Berlin then became real centers of German homosexual life: clubs such as the Tanzpalaste Zauberflöte or the Dorian Gray , for example, allowed urban lesbians to live as freely as rural lesbians. In addition, magazines such as Frauenliebe (Love for women) or Die Freundin (L’Amie in French) were also created thanks to a softening of censorship. (Translated)
Peu sont les historiens à s’être intéressés à l’existence des lesbiennes sous le Troisième Reich. Rafles, viols, thérapies par la prostitution, forcées de se cacher… voici certaines des atrocités qu’elles ont subies sous le régime nazi. Néanmoins, nous ne savons quasiment rien à leur sujet. Constat surprenant, notamment lorsque l’on sait que l’idéologie nationale-socialiste considérait l’homosexualité comme un vice et que toute femme ne respectant pas son rôle d’épouse et de mère afin de perpétuer la race pure était réprimée. Aujourd’hui, nous vous proposons un dossier et portrait collectif de la vie de ces lesbiennes bien trop souvent passée sous silence.
L’HOMOSEXUALITÉ MASCULINE FACE À L’HOMOSEXUALITÉ FÉMININE Que savons-nous réellement de la vie des lesbiennes sous le régime nazi ? Pratiquement rien. Leur existence n’a que rarement intéressé les chercheurs. Étonnant, notamment lorsque nous savons que l’idéologie nazie condamnait l’homosexualité et que les femmes se devaient de respecter leur rôle de femme mariée mais aussi de mère. Par ailleurs, alors que les relations homosexuelles entre hommes ont toujours été passibles de poursuites pénales dans une grande partie de l’Allemagne, l’homosexualité féminine n’était quant à elle pas condamnée. Mais pour quelles raisons exactement ? Ce phénomène peut s’expliquer par le fait que les femmes se devaient d’occuper une place bien particulière à l’époque au sein de la société allemande. De plus, contrairement aux homosexuels masculins, les lesbiennes n’étaient pas une menace politique ou bien sociale, et ce, y compris après 1933 et sous le régime nazi.
Les lesbiennes, bien plus que les hommes homosexuels, ont également fortement participé au mouvement d’émancipation homosexuelle qui a vu le jour à partir des années 1890 en Allemagne. Néanmoins, les femmes n’avaient pas le droit d’intégrer d’organisations politiques jusqu’en 1908 et elles se retrouvaient de manière plus discrète dans des bars. Après la Première Guerre mondiale, la morale sexuelle s’est également ouverte davantage. Par la suite, la république de Weimar offrit d’autres libertés aussi sociales que politiques ainsi que pour la majeure partie des homosexuels, femmes et hommes confondus. De grandes villes comme Berlin sont alors devenues de véritables centres de la vie homosexuelle allemande : des clubs tels que le Tanzpalaste Zauberflöte ou encore le Dorian Gray ont par exemple permis aux lesbiennes urbaines de vivre aussi librement que les lesbiennes rurales. De plus, des revues comme Frauenliebe (Amour féminine en français) ou encore Die Freundin (L’Amie en français) ont également pu voir le jour grâce à un adoucissement de la censure.
Armed with garbage bags, brooms and big mouths, we resisted the goons’ oppressive authority — our incredible moxie mirroring the rebellion at Stonewall. We had been beaten, risked serious injury and death for the privilege and joy of an all-women’s dance.
No mainstream media outlet reported on this assault, not even the Village Voice, which had covered the Stonewall Rebellion. The only story about our defiance that night was written by me in Rat Subterranean News.
The courage of the discarded, disrespected, and sometimes homeless street people who fought back at the Stonewall Inn must be honored. But a half century later, some acknowledgment and appreciation must be given to the GLF women who risked our lives to create an alternative to the Stonewalls and Kooky’s that had dominated our social lives.
It seems so matter of fact today to want to dance with whoever you want to — and surely, we will party again when we defeat this pandemic. But we GLF lesbians risked prison and payback to dance together 50 years ago, proving that sisterhood is powerful.
Higui has faced ongoing violent lesbophobia in her community.
Listening2Lesbians is raising money to support her and demonstrate the worldwide solidarity we feel for her as lesbians and lesbian allies.
En 2016 en Argentina, Higui (Eva Analía de Jesús) fue atacada por un grupo de hombres cuando visitaba a una amiga en su casa y se defendió de una violación correctiva.
Después de años de hostigamiento continuo por ser lesbiana, incluyendo ser atacada y lapidada, quemar su casa y matar a su mascota, fue atacada por los tres hombres, uno de los cuales intentó violarla por ser lesbiana. Higui se defendió y su atacante resultó muerto ahora ahora está en juicio por ello.
Inicialmente, Higui fue encarcelada mientras esperaba el juicio, pero fue liberado 8 meses después, después de la presión pública.
Higui se ha enfrentado a una lesbofobia violenta en su comunidad.
Listening2Lesbians está recaudando dinero para apoyarla y demostrar la solidaridad mundial que sentimos por ella como lesbianas y aliadas lesbianas.
While competing in Qatar at the IAAF World Athletics Championships, U.S. competitor Erica Bougard made an impression and a subtle statement by wearing Nike shoes with rainbow flaps over their laces.
Bougard, who is an out athlete competing in the heptathlon — an event made up of seven track-and-field events — says she wasn’t trying to make a statement even though Qatar punishes homosexuality with seven years imprisonment and even death (though no known executions for being gay have ever officially occurred in the country).
The Argentine artist Romina Bernardo calls herself, when she records and when she goes on stage, Chocolate Remix. She is mainly reggaeton, and is a lesbian, so that in her style she has been awarded an obvious label, that of ‘lesbian reggaeton’.
Her musical proposal combines fun, subversion and activism with great originality. Chocolate Remix is a proud fighter who not only seeks to make you dance and pound. “History has always been commanded by heterosexual men, and those of us who have been segregated have to formulate our strategies to empower ourselves and create a more just society ,” she says.
La artista argentina Romina Bernardo se hace llamar, cuando graba y cuando se sube al escenario, Chocolate Remix. Hace principalmente reguetón, y es lesbiana, de manera que a su estilo se le ha adjudicado una etiqueta obvia, la de ‘reguetón lésbico’.
Su propuesta musical une diversión, subversión y activismo con gran originalidad. Chocolate Remix es una luchadora orgullosa que no solo busca hacerte bailar y perrear. “La historia siempre ha estado comandada por varones heterosexuales, y quienes hemos quedado segregados tenemos que formular nuestras estrategias para empoderarnos y crear una sociedad más justa”, afirma.
* Art activist and curator Yan María Castro shares her experience as leader of the Oikabeth group
In order to demand respect and recognition from society and the authorities, at the end of the 70s, Oikabeth, an autonomous political group of lesbians, was created.
It was the first feminist lesbian movement in Mexico, commanded by painter, manager and art curator Yan María Yaoyólotl Castro, who tired of abuse, decided to raise her voice, defend her sexual preferences and fight for her rights.
Her story and that of other women was embodied through the documentary short film A love in rebellion, which under the direction of Tania Claudia Castillo, is part of the Continuous Program of the Cuórum Morelia festival. In addition, he won the Silver Camelina in the third Sexual Diversity Program + Morelia.
For 14 minutes, Yan María remembers the beginning of the group, how she organized with other women to demonstrate in the streets of the Mexican capital. It also reveals her transformation from girl to teenager and adult. When she had to recognize herself as a lesbian with her relatives and in return she got a deep rejection.
*La activista y curadora de arte Yan María Castro comparte su experiencia como líder del grupo Oikabeth
Con el propósito de exigir respeto y reconocimiento por parte de la sociedad y las autoridades, a finales de la década de los 70 se creó Oikabeth, un grupo político autónomo de lesbianas.
Fue el primer movimiento lésbico feminista en México, comandado por la pintora, gestora y curadora de arte Yan María Yaoyólotl Castro, quien cansada del maltrato, decidió levantar la voz, defender sus preferencias sexuales y luchar por sus derechos.
Su historia y la de otras mujeres quedó plasmada a través del cortometraje documental Un amor en rebeldía, que bajo la dirección de Tania Claudia Castillo, forma parte del Programa Continuo del festival Cuórum Morelia. Además, ganó la Camelina de plata en el tercer Programa de Diversidad Sexual + Morelia.
Durante 14 minutos, Yan María recuerda el inicio del grupo, de cómo se organizó con otras mujeres para manifestarse en las calles de la capital mexicana. También revela su transformación de niña a adolescente y adulta. De cuando tuvo que reconocerse lesbiana con sus familiares y a cambio obtuvo un rechazo profundo.
Next year will be the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Uprising. In the early morning hours, gay men and lesbians fought back against the police raid of the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village. After that event, which began in the early morning of June 28,1969, Gay Liberation had joined the lexicon of Women’s Liberation, Black Liberation, and Chicano Liberation.
There are phenomenal lives and stories connected to that night that should not be forgotten or erased. One is that of Stormé DeLarverie—who had been fighting back all her life and fought back that night.
Stormé was involved in forming the Stonewall Veterans Association and was later elected vice president. They often had panels of speakers, and over the decades she was always quick to remind later generations what it was like before Stonewall: Lesbians and gay men could receive a $70 fine for “looking at someone with desire.”
You could be arrested for not wearing a certain number of “gender appropriate articles of clothing.” This meant that lesbians who might be wearing a three-piece suit had to be able to show they were also wearing a bra and stockings. If not, they could be thrown in jail.
Stormé recalled her part in the uprising at a public, videotaped event sponsored by the Stonewall Veterans Association. She started at the beginning: “The cops were parading patrons out of the front door of the Stonewall at about 2 a.m. in the morning. I saw this one boy being taken out by three cops, only one in uniform. Three to one. I told my pals, ‘I know him! That is Williamson, my friend Sonia Jane’s friend.
“Williamson briefly broke loose but they grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him right down on the cement street. One of them did a drop kick on him. Another cop senselessly hit him from the back. Right after that a cop said to me, ‘move faggot,’ thinking I was a gay guy. I said, ‘I will not and don’t you dare touch me.’ With that the cop shoved me, and I instinctively punched him in the face.”
Four officers then attacked her and handcuffed her in response. When she pointed out that she was cuffed too tightly, one officer hit her head with a billy club. As she was bleeding from the head, she turned to the crowd and shouted, “Why don’t you guys do something?” After a long struggle, she was dragged towards a police van, and that was when everything exploded. Many who were there recall her call to arms.
Stormé was always clear: “It was a rebellion, it was an uprising, it was civil disobedience. It was no damn riot.”
Of course she was correct. Stonewall was not a one-night riot. Thousands of gays and lesbians rose up for six nights. There was organizing during the day and returning to the Stonewall Inn every night for six nights. Out of the uprising grew two activist organizations, the Gay Liberation Front and the Gay Activist Alliance, and three gay and lesbian newspapers.
Heuchan focused in the article on the erasing of Stormé from some of the “official” histories of Stonewall. She was cut from the 1995 and the 2015 “Stonewall” films as well as from many histories of that period—and most recently in a press release by the National Center For Lesbian Rights.
Heuchan pointed out, “Lesbian history is hard to find, Black representation, female representation, and lesbian representation are not always straightforward to find, especially when you are looking for all three at once. Stormé, in all her Black butch magnificence, put herself at extraordinary risk to fight injustice and she deserves to be remembered for it. It was Stormé who led the resistance of homophobic police brutality at the Stonewall Inn.”
What united football that does not separate man. The saying was like that, right? Well, today we are going to talk about 10 incredible lesbian athletes who met in the field and ended up teaming up together. These are five lesbian couples that joined football.
Lo que unió el fútbol que no lo separe el hombre. ¿El dicho era así no? Pues hoy vamos a hablar de 10 increíbles deportistas lesbianas que se conocieron en el campo y terminaron formando equipo juntas. Estas son cinco parejas lésbicas que unió el fútbol.
The brutal murder of the 34-year-old painter and sculptor became a mystery to justice. In parallel, for organizations the figure of the artist has become a source of inspiration to boost the fight for lesbian rights. More than three decades after the crime, activism accuses that the hatred and injustices that haunted the death of women remain as present as before. This July 9, the lesbian feminist groups will make a request to the Monuments Council to install a memorial in the place where she was killed.
Bold, talented and bold, they are the adjectives that are most repeated when asked about Monica Briones Puccio. “A woman ahead of her time,” they will say here and there. Owner of an outstanding talent for painting and sculpture, an innate artist who became one of the most relevant figures for the lesbian movement in Chile.
Monica was a proud lesbian, with a masculine gender expression and decided to face her sexual orientation at a very young age, opening the door – possibly – to the greatest violence and oppressions she would live later, even in the family. But the truth is that in 1984, in full dictatorship, at 34, Monica lived life with passion and was the protagonist of intense love relationships that would mark her.
Two days after her birthday, on July 9, while she was retiring from the last of several celebrations, at the exit of the Jaque Mate bar and while waiting for the bus to return home, the painter was beaten to death. His attacker kicked her on the ground until her skull fractured.
The story of Monica Briones has inspired television reports, a chronicle of Pedro Lemebel, plays and even a movie. Thus, more than three decades after his death, the artist’s memory has remained in force in the memory of those who have empathized with the case.
“A creative and different woman,” titled a magazine of the time with a small profile of the artist. There she confessed, probably to an insistent journalist: “I have not married because it would take time from my art.”
In that same article he sentenced that he was not afraid of death, because he knew he would die young.
El brutal homicidio de la pintora y escultora de 34 años se convirtió en un misterio para la justicia. En paralelo, para las organizaciones la figura de la artista se ha transformado en una fuente de inspiración para impulsar la lucha por los derechos de las lesbianas. A más de tres décadas del crimen, el activismo acusa que el odio y las injusticias que rondaron la muerte de la mujer siguen tan presentes como antes. Este 9 de julio, las agrupaciones lesbofeministas harán ingreso de una solicitud al Consejo de Monumentos para instalar un memorial en el lugar donde fue asesinada. Esta es su historia.
Atrevida, talentosa y audaz, son los adjetivos que más se repiten al preguntar por Mónica Briones Puccio. “Una mujer adelantada a su época”, dirán aquí y allá. Dueña de un talento descollante para la pintura y la escultura, una artista innata que se convirtió en una de las figuras más relevantes para el movimiento lésbico en Chile.
Mónica era una lesbiana orgullosa, con expresión de género masculina y decidió enfrentar su orientación sexual a muy corta edad, abriendo la puerta -posiblemente- a las mayores violencias y opresiones que viviría después, incluso en el seno familiar. Pero lo cierto es que en 1984, en plena dictadura, a sus 34 años, Mónica vivía la vida con pasión y era protagonista de intensas relaciones amorosas que la marcarían.
A dos días de su cumpleaños, un 9 de julio, mientras se retiraba de la última de varias celebraciones, a la salida del bar Jaque Mate y mientras esperaba la micro para volver a su casa, la pintora fue golpeada hasta la muerte. Su atacante la pateó en el suelo hasta que su cráneo se fracturó.
La historia de Mónica Briones ha inspirado reportajes televisivos, una crónica de Pedro Lemebel, obras de teatro y hasta una película. Así, a más de tres décadas de su muerte, el recuerdo de la artista se ha mantenido vigente en la memoria de quienes han empatizado con el caso.
“Una mujer creativa y distinta”, tituló una revista de la época con una pequeña semblanza de la artista. Allí ella confesó, probablemente a un insistente periodista: “No me he casado porque quitaría tiempo a mi arte”.
En ese mismo artículo sentenció que no le temía a la muerte, porque sabía que moriría joven.
Martha Shelley, was the one who proposed the protest march of Stonewall, although everyone remembers Harvey Milk. Well, this lesbian activist not only promoted the protest that night in the Greenwich Village, but has been and is a very struggling feminist.
Who is Martha Shelley?
If you still don’t know our heroine, you should know that Shelley was born in 1943, in Brooklyn. From a young age she participated in movements protesting human rights, so much so that she was watched by the FBI. In fact, her real name is Martha Altman, but she had to choose Shelley’s alias to go unnoticed.
Her participation as a social activist begins with the first protest against the Vietnam War. Subsequently, she joined the association DOB (Daughters of Bilitis), the Daughters of Bilitis. This association was the first lesbian civil and political rights organization, of which Shelley was president.
The women who belonged to the DOB were constantly monitored by the authorities, hence Martha Altman, to be called Martha Shelley. The continuous raids, harassment, and police harassment was a constant while the organization lasted. Founded in San Francisco in 1955, it lasted 14 more years against wind and tide.
But let’s go back to Martha Shelley and her work as an activist for LGTBI rights. This female fighter also joined the Student Homophile League, the first gay student organization, founded in 1966 at Columbia University.
Subsequently, she was one of the four people who founded the [New York] Gay Liberation Front. The first of the GLF was that of New York, which was founded just after Stonewall in 1969. There are different locations in the US, United Kingdom and Canada, but Shelley participated in the foundation of the first organization.
Martha Shelley, fue quien propuso la marcha protesta de Stonewall, aunque todo el mundo recuerda a Harvey Milk. Pues bien, esta activista lesbiana no solo promovió la protesta aquella noche en el Greenwich Village, sino que ha sido y es una feminista muy luchadora.
¿Quién es Martha Shelley?
Si todavía no conoces a nuestra heroína, debes saber que Shelley nació en 1943, en Brooklyn. Desde muy joven participó en movimientos protesta por los derechos humanos, tanto, que estuvo vigilada por el FBI. De hecho, su nombre real es Martha Altman, pero tuvo que escoger el alias de Shelley para pasar desapercibida.
Su participación como activista social, comienza con la primera protesta contra la guerra de Vietnam. Posteriormente, entró a formar parte de la asociación DOB (Daughters of Bilitis), las Hijas de Bilitis. Esta asociación, fue la primera organización lésbica de derechos civiles y políticos, de la cual Shelley fue presidenta.
Las mujeres que pertenecían a la DOB eran vigiladas constantemente por las autoridades, de ahí que Martha Altman, pasara a llamarse Martha Shelley. Las continuas redadas, el hostigamiento, y el acoso policial fue una constante mientras duró la organización. Fundada en San Francisco en 1955, duró 14 años más contra viento y marea.
Pero volvamos a Martha Shelley y su labor como activista por los derechos LGTBI. Esta mujer luchadora se unió también al Student Homophile League, primera organización de estudiantes gais, fundada en 1966 en la Universidad de Columbia.
Posteriormente, fue una de las cuatro personas que fundaron el Frente de Liberación Gay de [New York]. El primero de los GLF fue el de Nueva York, que se fundó justo después de Stonewall en 1969. Hay distintas sedes en EEUU, Reino Unido y Canadá, pero Shelley participó en la fundación de la primera organización.