Herstory |
part 1 of 3 stories from the book Nature and Politics by Hinda-jonathan
|
Rachel, the memoir
Amazon Daughters
circa 1969
DC Memories - part 1
Honeysuckle
Amazon Daughters
circa 1969
DC Memories - part 1
Honeysuckle
Rachel slowly rolled stockings down long shapely legs and removed the black fishnets fastened onto a tight black garter belt she wore as part of her costume. In the mirror of the dancer’s dressing room, she saw how her nipples were becoming irritated from the glue that secured the red and gold sequined butterfly pasties.
When will the idiots that make these laws decide we can expose the female nipple? She thought.
“Honeysuckle, where are you headed tonight?” asked Cinnamon, who was getting out of her feathers and heels. “There’s a party over at the after-hours bar in Georgetown. Wanna come?”
Rachel slid out of her Marabou slippers and turned to Cinnamon, “I’m meeting two of my friends from Georgetown University. I’ll probably be up most of the night. We’re going to the Vietnam War protest tomorrow.” Rachel’s passionate feelings against what she considered to be an unjust and unnecessary war led her to many protest rallies.
She turned back to the mirror, adjusting her makeup for the street. Rachel thought about how she got into this business in the first place. It was rare for a middle-class Jewish woman, raised for college with conservative values, to be exposing herself this way.
She believed that the taxes taken from most jobs to support the war were unacceptable. Vietnam was remarkably different from what she knew about World War II. When she had heard from a friend that strip clubs didn’t take taxes out of dancers’ salaries, she had decided to try out at a local club. Remembering her first try-out, Rachel recalled how scary it was. In time, she learned to tolerate – and even control to an extent – an environment that was initially disgusting to her upbringing.
She had entered his line of work believing that nudity was pure, though the club atmosphere was anything but. Still, Rachel loved to dance, thankful for the early years of ballet that added to her choreography and flexibility. She was proud to be among the best dancers. Her years of studying and performing ballet and tap, however, did not prepare her for the shock of the raunchy atmosphere. Rachel was never fond of alcohol or disrespectful men.
Ultimately, the necessity of work, while not supporting the Vietnam War, developed into a decade of dancing and life experiences that took her off a more common track.
It was a warm spring evening. The energy of hippies doing their thing, college preppies, and the capitalists on Wisconsin Avenue, mixed into a once-in-a-century political brew. Tomorrow was May Day, 1969. Rachel was excited to hang out with her fellow anti-war protestors. Among her circle of friends, she talked into the night, riding on LSD.
Early in the morning, they hit the mace-filled streets of expensive shops, and classic brownstone houses of Georgetown—turning over cars, trashing the streets, and singing, “One-Two-Three-Four, We Don’t Want Your Dirty War!”
Even in the midst of this chaos, Rachel thought, “Got to be careful of the pigs. Can’t risk being arrested and having my family disown me. It was bad enough that I am not their Jewish Princess. I am a rebel, an exotic dancer.”
Two men in blue raised their weapons and told a dozen protestors, Rachel included, to line up against the wall along one of the side streets of Georgetown. Still coming down from acid, she worried, “How can I run for political office when I’m older if I have a record? My mother will kill me! Oh G-d, please don’t let me go to jail.”
Rachel saw a paddy wagon headed their way. A brave young man in the lineup jumped on the back of one of the policemen. The other cop tried to pull him off. The rest of them saw their split-second chance to run for their lives. Rachel ran as fast as she could, never looking back.
She ducked into her Uncle Albert’s restaurant, which was a popular pizza joint next to the movie theater on Wisconsin Avenue. She walked into the kitchen in the back, adjusted her hair and make-up, put on a large white apron and stood behind the cash register.
With relief and pride in her escape, Rachel noticed two policemen in the restaurant. They approached just as any other customer, paid for their food and left. She had slid into home, safely undercover!
Her persona of stripper, hippie, anti-war protestor became Rachel, the middle-class daughter of fifth-generation, hard-working Jewish immigrants.
When will the idiots that make these laws decide we can expose the female nipple? She thought.
“Honeysuckle, where are you headed tonight?” asked Cinnamon, who was getting out of her feathers and heels. “There’s a party over at the after-hours bar in Georgetown. Wanna come?”
Rachel slid out of her Marabou slippers and turned to Cinnamon, “I’m meeting two of my friends from Georgetown University. I’ll probably be up most of the night. We’re going to the Vietnam War protest tomorrow.” Rachel’s passionate feelings against what she considered to be an unjust and unnecessary war led her to many protest rallies.
She turned back to the mirror, adjusting her makeup for the street. Rachel thought about how she got into this business in the first place. It was rare for a middle-class Jewish woman, raised for college with conservative values, to be exposing herself this way.
She believed that the taxes taken from most jobs to support the war were unacceptable. Vietnam was remarkably different from what she knew about World War II. When she had heard from a friend that strip clubs didn’t take taxes out of dancers’ salaries, she had decided to try out at a local club. Remembering her first try-out, Rachel recalled how scary it was. In time, she learned to tolerate – and even control to an extent – an environment that was initially disgusting to her upbringing.
She had entered his line of work believing that nudity was pure, though the club atmosphere was anything but. Still, Rachel loved to dance, thankful for the early years of ballet that added to her choreography and flexibility. She was proud to be among the best dancers. Her years of studying and performing ballet and tap, however, did not prepare her for the shock of the raunchy atmosphere. Rachel was never fond of alcohol or disrespectful men.
Ultimately, the necessity of work, while not supporting the Vietnam War, developed into a decade of dancing and life experiences that took her off a more common track.
It was a warm spring evening. The energy of hippies doing their thing, college preppies, and the capitalists on Wisconsin Avenue, mixed into a once-in-a-century political brew. Tomorrow was May Day, 1969. Rachel was excited to hang out with her fellow anti-war protestors. Among her circle of friends, she talked into the night, riding on LSD.
Early in the morning, they hit the mace-filled streets of expensive shops, and classic brownstone houses of Georgetown—turning over cars, trashing the streets, and singing, “One-Two-Three-Four, We Don’t Want Your Dirty War!”
Even in the midst of this chaos, Rachel thought, “Got to be careful of the pigs. Can’t risk being arrested and having my family disown me. It was bad enough that I am not their Jewish Princess. I am a rebel, an exotic dancer.”
Two men in blue raised their weapons and told a dozen protestors, Rachel included, to line up against the wall along one of the side streets of Georgetown. Still coming down from acid, she worried, “How can I run for political office when I’m older if I have a record? My mother will kill me! Oh G-d, please don’t let me go to jail.”
Rachel saw a paddy wagon headed their way. A brave young man in the lineup jumped on the back of one of the policemen. The other cop tried to pull him off. The rest of them saw their split-second chance to run for their lives. Rachel ran as fast as she could, never looking back.
She ducked into her Uncle Albert’s restaurant, which was a popular pizza joint next to the movie theater on Wisconsin Avenue. She walked into the kitchen in the back, adjusted her hair and make-up, put on a large white apron and stood behind the cash register.
With relief and pride in her escape, Rachel noticed two policemen in the restaurant. They approached just as any other customer, paid for their food and left. She had slid into home, safely undercover!
Her persona of stripper, hippie, anti-war protestor became Rachel, the middle-class daughter of fifth-generation, hard-working Jewish immigrants.
Great Grandmother Rose 1929
