One time, when I was in 8th grade, I had a shop teacher.  His name was Mr. Stawovy and he was missing three fingers.  

I used to be a part of my school’s TV news program called Cougar News.  Mr. Stawovy, when he wasn’t helping us use the lathe to make candlestick holders or showing us how to make C02 cars, was in charge of Cougar News.

One morning before our broadcast, Mr. Stawovy was in rare form.  He is a very short, but hairy man, except for he is stark bald on top of his head, and in retrospect I believe that he was probably suffering through a divorce or midlife crisis when he said this to us (maybe he was even drunk, who knows?), but one morning he looked at our young, naïve faces and said: “Love and hate are only inches apart.”

With his troll-like demeanor, sawdust-covered jeans and plaid shirt, Mr. Stawovy didn’t seem very worldly to us pimple-faced, over made-up, pubescent teenagers, but deep down I knew the man was saying something important, and that stuck with me for the rest of my life.

In the here and now, as a soon-to-be graduate from a communication program (it turns out Cougar News changed my life and completely began my love for my career today as an independent filmmaker; The Cougar Review, the school news letter in high school, got me started on journalism later), I reflect on those words.  Love and hate are only inches apart.    

I think what Mr. Stawovy was trying to say was that the things in life that you love are the very things that you also hate.  Think about the deepest love that you’ve felt, and you’ve probably felt the deepest hate at some point in time for that same person or thing.  

When I first moved to Philly for school, it was a shock to the system for sure, but I felt that most of my major life changes happened when I was in 8^th grade.  In that year, I dumped my last-ever boyfriend, got my first-ever girlfriend, found out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, came out to my friends and family, AND puberty dealt me the biggest boobs in the school (I was later surpassed in high school).  

As my college years now come to a close and I get ready to graduate this month, I think about that time and I kind of feel myself swinging back to some of the rapid changes I was facing during the Cougar News era of my life.  Oddly enough, even my last-ever boyfriend and my first-ever girlfriend from that time even contacted me simultaneously, when I hadn’t heard from either of them in two and seven years.  

One thing I can say that I’ve discovered is that we really are growing.  Sometimes people that were a part of your past don’t fit with who you are now, but they will always be there because they are a part of you.  There are people in your past that you have loved deeply, and now you either hate the situation that you’re friendship is in now; you hate the person they’ve become, that you’ve become; or, likewise, someone you hated in your past you have found that you love now.  I think that you’ll find that as life goes on, the things that you like disappear, but things that you love turn to hate – which means they are always only inches away.  

That being said, I present to you, The Love/Hate Issue.

P.S. Speaking of hate, I hate that LYKE mag is late.  Sorry!  The good news is we got lots of great submissions this month.  I definitely recommend checking out all our essays (in the personal essays category) about what you LYKE DYKES love and hate, as well as Izzy’s film column, LYKEable Celluloid (check all the submissions out in the different categories listed on the home page).  The bad news is, though, our editing WOman-power is limited.  Your dear editor is battling senior thesis and also had a nasty run-in with the flu, while Izzy is battling his master’s courses in journalism.

I know, excuses, excuses.  All I’m saying is, unless you want to get in here and edit some stuff yourself (which would be really, really helpful if you have the skill set – see submissions page), then Lyke is going to have to be like a covert, secret lover that you have brief, steamy encounters with in inconspicuous, spontaneous places, and which are fleeting but fill you with enough passion to keep pursuing daily life – until our next rendezvous.

P.S. Also check out our partner, Philly Gay Calendar as well as Fuse and the Dyke March.  Fuse has a party coming, Emerge, that you should DEFINITELY check out.  You can find the info on Phillygaycalendar.com or Myspace.com/phillyfuse

February was the month that month that Lyke Mag was supposed to come out (whoops).  February is also Black History Month.  This article is going to be about history – some of it black, some of it Philly, and some of it lesbian.

“Sometimes we’ve got to create our own history.”  That is a quote from the movie The Watermelon Woman (1996), by Cheryl Dunye.  Let me tell you a little about Cheryl.

She is a lesbian, and she is black, and she knows Philly.  She is originally from Liberia and later spent a good deal of time in the Philadelphia area while getting her BA from Temple, her MFA from Rutgers and at some point back to Temple to teach.  Currently, according to her MySpace page, she is living in Pasadena, Ca.  Ok, some other important things.  She is successful.  The film in question, The Watermelon Woman, won the Teddy Bear Award at the Berlin Film Festival when it came out in ’96.  She also made a film that was distributed by Miramax, has received funding from the National Endowment for the Arts, garnered a Lifetime Achievement Award from Girlfriend’s Magazine, and lots more (her full resume and list of achievements is on her website, CherylDunye.com).

A black, powerful, eminent lesbian who is connected to the 215; yep, that’s LYKEable.  Did I mention that she is really hott, too? 

Back to The Watermelon Woman, though.  The “Dunyementary” as Cheryl refers to it, is essentially a Spike Lee-ish mockumentary.  Cheryl, played by herself, Cheryl, is working in a video store.  Cheryl is a wedding videographer with her friend, Tamara (Valerie Walker).  Cheryl is not really a videographer, though; she is a powerful, driven underground filmmaker, desperate to make the voice of African American women heard.  So, she turns to a place where African American women have been somewhat publicly humiliated: playing “mammies” in old southern plantation films.  She finds a movie with a beautiful starlet mammy, who’s name in the credits is only listed as The Watermelon Woman.  Cheryl spends the entire rest of the movie trying to uncover the secret of this mysterious Watermelon Woman.  

Now, this isn’t just some movie that had people laughing and crying for an hour and half then faded somewhere into an obscure video rental rack.  Shauna Swarts says it very eloquently in an article published on the website AfterEllen.com: “It’s also notable that a film that addresses racism and homophobia was denounced by one Senator Jesse Helms—preoccupied with the film’s single, graphic but tasteful and brief sex scene—as “flotsam floating down a sewer.” If that isn’t the mark of quality queer cinema, what is?”

The film really feels like Cheryl took racism, lesbians, Philadelphia, and the 90’s and shook them all up in an un-politically correct margarita.  The film got a write-up in the New York Times, where Times writer Stephen Holden trivially says, “The Watermelon Woman is a loose-jointed movie that goes on playful little tangents whenever it feels like it.”  That is a gross understatement.  

As Cheryl researches the Water Melon Woman, she learns that her name is Faye Richards, a local Philadelphia jazz singer and actress.  Cheryl learns that Faye was sleeping with a white woman director, Martha Page (who was either transgendered as a male or wore drag, it is unclear), to advance her career. 

As the movie progresses, Cheryl finds herself similarly in an evolving relationship with a white woman (played by Guinevere Turner).  She receives constant criticism from Tamara, who insinuates that she is a traitor to her own race.  Eventually, Cheryl does break up with Diana.  She doesn’t do it because she doesn’t want to date a white woman; she does it because she learns that Diana has already dated a large number of other black women (and men).  What is so significant about this movie is that Cheryl is questioning who she is.  She fears that Diana views her as a fetish object* and feels threatened by that, and I think that is a pretty important, rational fear among many African Americans that Cheryl Dunye has fearlessly brought to the screen, a glowing source of mass communication.

Needless to say, the film is controversial.  Some could argue that Cheryl should have continued to be with Diana if she loved her, and that the film could potentially be a model of reverse-racism.  Cheryl slyly hints that she doesn’t break up with Diana because she is racist by using another semi-significant white character, a pasty, gothic college student who works at the video store.  Tamara not only denounces Diana but also constantly harasses the goth chick at work, who Cheryl tries to defend and save from Tamara’s wrath.  Cheryl and Tamara’s relationship even becomes strained, and Tamara is portrayed as sort of mean and self-loathing, again, a hint that this movie isn’t just about hating white people, rather what it means to be a black lesbian woman.  

But, all that being said, anyone who watches The Watermelon Woman is going to have his or her own opinion on it.  LYKE it or not, Cheryl Dunye serves you that aforementioned margarita on a silver platter when you are done watching this one.  All I have to say is check it out yourself and see how you relate. – Raeann Drew 

P.S. Keep your eyes out for Philly visuals, one of the steamiest lesbian sex scenes ever filmed, and an AWESOME cameo by local writer Camille Paglia, in which she parodies herself.  

Question for reader:

What is your opinion on interracial relationships?  Have you ever been in one?  I personally think that being in an interracial relationship would be really hard, but it would be worth the struggle and only make you stronger if you deeply loved the person.  

Links:

CherylDunye.com

SistersinCinema.com

Shauna Swarts on the subject: http://www.afterellen.com/archive/ellen/Movies/2006/3/watermelon2.html

NY Times Article:

http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/reviewres=9C04E2DD1430F936A35750C0A961958260

Trying 

I’m trying not to get upset.

   Unreasonable emotion disturbs me, makes me feel like a fifteen year old girl with no options or solutions.

   I’m trying not to get upset because I work on different time zones then everyone else and I believe in candor and communication and frankly you can tell me you only want to be my friend cause 

   I don’t have that much invested yet and 

   unlike most people’s perceptions of me, I don’t baulk at someone telling me the truth or treating me with honesty cause integrity is better than mockery which is for your benefit and not mine.

   And I hate that I’m wining because it’s distracting me from my schedule and routine and this is a perfect reason why I choose ONLY to be friends cause

    everything else turns into a mess full of pain and I’ve plenty of that already. So please speak to me rationally like an adult capable of grown up conversation cause I hate games – 

    but I know how to play them 

    and yet I’m still trying not to get upset and saying stuff that I’ll regret, 

like “this is all cool ‘cause I don’t really like you and I don’t really care” but that’s all filler and it’s not getting to the root of the problem which generally speaking 

involves not making me wonder

    and wait 

    and analyze and examine every moment we’ve shared, every touch of your hand cause I’m trying not to get upset.

but you’re the one getting me there and  

     I’d appreciate you terminating me from this class cause I did not sign up for the lecture. 

Cause bullshit 101 turns into heartache 304 and what I really need is handholding 105, relationship 206 and 

hot sex 409.

       So if you’re not willing to provide me with at least part of that curriculum then sweetie I don’t want to pay for the tuition.  

- Sasha

MEN at the North Star Bar

Philadelphia PA (3/5/07)

“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,” thumps through the P.A. as Philadelphia’s butchiests playfully dry-hump on the dance floor; John Waters can only wish this was of his doing.  But no, it was two-thirds of post-riot grrrl electro-punk band Le Tigre: JD Samson and Johanna Fatemen.  The duo, now known as MEN, hit the North Star Bar on March 5 to play to a crowd of around 25.

With no album, just two songs on their MySpace page and an open letter to fans for requests, no one knew exactly what MEN was.  This question was answered in glaring obviousness when Jo took the stage (consisting of nothing but a row of laptops), donning a t-shirt proclaiming “MEN ARE DJS,” The two then went into “It’s Raining Men,” an obvious, yet shocking opening number.  

The experience turned out to be a sweaty evening of hipster feminism shaking to the beat of music regularly found in clubs where people in Hollister cargo shorts dance around inflatable palm trees.  There was nothing overtly political in the air, just LYKEable Philthadelphians dancing to music that they would most likely mock, if it hadn’t been presented to them by these pop dykons.  With the exception of the Gossip’s “Yr Mangled Heart,” the set avoided anything associated with riot grrrl and stuck to more-than-slightly-less-hip ditty’s like “Hollaback Girl.”  Although this was not nearly as moving as seeing the “Hot Topic” slideshow for the first time or getting to shout “Keep on Livin’” along with a capacity crowd at the Black Cat, it was the best feminist dance party the city of Sisterly Affection has seen since The Slits reunited.  While “Blue Monday” proved to be the musical highlight of the night, the evening’s most enjoyable moment came as JD could be spotted mouthing the lyrics to “Tootsee Roll,” a classic of 90s misogyny.  And yes, seeing punk’s favorite nerdy, white dyke sing “work them hips a lil’ bit, then do that dip a lil’ bit,” is just as amusing as you would imagine. (Izzy Cihak)

Question to Reader:  With Le Tigre’s indefinite hiatus still in full affect, which side has your allegiance, Kathleen or Jo and JD?  Despite Bikini Kill and Julie Ruin, I’m sticking with Jo and JD because, let’s face it, when Kathleen is in rant mode, she can be more than a little irritating.

Links: 

MEN on Myspace

http://profile.myspace.com/mrandmrsmen

http://northstarbar.com

Hello, lesbian friends and friends of lesbians!

Welcome to Lyke Mag, Philadelphia’s new online lesbian magazine. Lyke is a labor of love, produced by two local journalists: myself, Raeann, and my friend and partner in crime, Izzy. Our staff includes some photographers, monthly contributors, and a web designer, all supportive of and understanding of what it means to be a lesbian in the 215 and beyond. Like Sisters, Fuse, the Dyke March, and the many other local organizations, Lyke wants to be in the vocabulary of every lesbian in the area. We will be discussing hard-hitting issues like gender and feminism, as well as the fun stuff, like embarrassing coming out stories and things to do when you’re bored. Izzy will be keeping you up to date on what’s going on in the land of lesbian entertainment, with reviews, “Dykes We Lyke,” a monthly column that focuses on important dykes throughout history. On the flip side of that, I will be zeroing in on local dykes who are moving and shaking up Philly. Rounding out Lyke will be a bit of fiction and poetry, all collaged with photographs from local dyke and dyke-friendly photographers. Sounds pretty fuckin’ cool, right?

The first issue is loosely based on the idea of feminism. I suppose as your editor this is where I insert my two cents. Ever since Lyke became a reality, my mind has been on feminism. The first submission I received was by a straight woman who wanted to write about feminism. Whoa. As a butch lesbian reaching out to other local beer-drinking, extreme-sporting dykes, that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I envisioned a funky mag that would have the lesbian masses uniting and telling steamy Sisters bathroom hookup stories. Not a straight chick wanting to rant about feminism! By the second email, I got over the fact that she was straight. She was nice, enthusiastic and took the lesbian community very seriously. The feminist thing was still nagging at me though. As the weeks unfolded, I roped another friend into writing something. She turned in a ten page rant about the injustice of women. While both of these women were very passionate, their opinions were completely opposite. The first brought up the idea that straight women were possibly the most feminist women out there, while the second article denounced straight women. The article quotes, “I’m developing a theory that no straight sexually active woman can possibly be a feminist. How can you declare yourself as such while there is a man excreting his semen on your body somewhere?’ As the idea of “feminism” seesawed back and forth in my brain, I began to realize that this is one of the most complex issues going, and more than that, I really have no idea where I stand on it.A writer of one of the articles claims that feminism is dead. Is it?

I guess the answer to that question depends on what defines being a woman at the current point in time. Right now, in the newly-turned year, what does it mean to be a woman? What did it mean to be a woman in the 60s and 70s during the civil rights movement? What did it mean during the 40s while WWII was going on? What about the 50s when men came home? The Roaring 20s? What is a woman at all? I wear men’s clothes, have a men’s hair cut, and encompass just about every stereotypical guy thing from fishing to motor sports. But, underneath that button-down shirt and guy’s size 34 jeans is a vagina and a pretty big set of knockers. If I’m 80% guy, am I still a woman? What about women who starve themselves and bleach their hair and get breast implants, just so they can look like a Barbie? Are they women, or just saline sculptures?

When it all boils down to it, I think, to be a feminist is to do something unexpected. There are certain things in society that make up the traditional idea of what it means to be a woman: stay at home, clean the house, be polite, have a little fun (but not too much fun), and support a man in his career which will support you financially. To be a true feminist is to do or support behavior that takes these concocted expectations and throws them in the fire pit, next to a pile of push-up bras. Pure feminism doesn’t exist anymore. It doesn’t have to, at least not in the United States. Women are (for the most part) able to get jobs, vote, go to college and lead a completely single and wild life, free of child-rearing and marriage. There is still the perpetuation of stereotypes and there are still men (and women) that thrive on these, but only because they are still readily available, just watch a music video or rent almost any mainstream movie. It is up to the LYKEable portion of the population to show that this cramped, subservient box that women live in on TV and in the movies doesn’t exist in real life. Elements of it exist: some women want to be polite, some want to be beauty queens, some are obsessed with cleaning, and some are happy to cook every night, but these women should have some sort of an edge. They should refuse to play softball just because it’s for women, they should go skydiving on the weekends, or get a sleeve of tattoos, or learn how to change a transmission or something (and likewise a man should pursue an interest in knitting or baking). A true feminist is a person who blurs gender lines so there are no expectations beyond that a “woman” has a set of hooters and a vagina and a “man” has a twig and berries. These anatomical parts are undeniable, scientific, factual classifications of what is to be a man or a woman; the rest is just all in our heads.

At any rate, enjoy the first issue and please, please comment your thoughts, join our effort, or profusely stalk us on Myspace.

Sincerely Your Editor,

Raeann