I have to admit that I have not been paying much attention to the upcoming election. The whole thing sickens me a bit, and I am turned off by the political melodrama, especially now that the economy appears to be tanking. Blech.
While I don't yet know if I will throw in my vote for presidential candidate A or B -- I am hard pressed to think it will matter very much either way -- I was recently reminded that my vote has the power to impact state politics more significantly.
In 2000, Proposition 22 was passed by 61% of voters. While California's constitution had been changed in 1977 to define marriage in California as a union between a man and a woman, Prop 22 went further and denied that same-sex marriages, performed legally in other jurisdictions, be held valid in California. Man. Woman. Period.
Maybe my view of the state is clouded by too many years living in San Francisco, but it is hard for me to believe that 61% of California's residents would agree that same-sex partners should be denied the rights of their legal commitment to one another. It seems clear that this proposition's passage was based largely on a certain demographic mobilizing and voting.
Over the last eight years, gay marriage has been embroiled in much political controversy. There have been lawsuits and appeals and legal and illegal marriages in San Francisco and elsewhere. Currently, because of an appeal to the State Supreme Court this year, gay marriage is legal in California. Proposition 8 aims to change the constitution to make it illegal again.
Proposition 8 will get me to the voting booth on November 4th. Here's my attempt at mobilizing a different group of voters than the ones that had their way in 2000. The economy may be scary. Gas prices may be too high, and home prices too low, but I am doubtful that any candidate chosen this November will change that. There is, however, a chance for us to make a difference locally. There's chance for us to minimize manipulation of our state's constitution. There's a chance for us to earn our reputation as "free-thinking," "liberty-minded" Californians. Why the hell should someone's sex organs determine whether he or she should be allowed to enter into a legal contract with another person? Why are some people so concerned with what other people do in their bedrooms and with whom they choose to build a family? Isn't it those same people who are running around crying about sex out of wedlock and unwed mothers? Wouldn't they rather children be raised inside a loving, two parent home? What's the big deal about "slot A or tab B"? I believe in equal rights, and I will vote accordingly.
Alaska. I think bears, snowy mountain peaks, glaciers, whale-watching. I don’t think prostitution (let alone legalized prostitution). When my mother invited me to go on a week long cruise to Alaska to celebrate her sixtieth birthday with the rest of my family, I didn’t imagine that learning about a notorious prostitute would be on the itinerary. What’s more, I didn’t think I’d come away from the experience with such a profound sense admiration and appreciation for the prostitute in question or “sporting woman” as she preferred to be called.
Dolly Arthur, born Thelma Dolly Copeland in Idaho in 1888, was the most popular sporting woman in the small town of Ketchikan, Alaska. Leaving her troubled home at the age of thirteen, she migrated north. It didn’t take long for Dolly to realize that prostitution was the most lucrative and fulfilling career option available to her. In 1919, at the age of 31, Dolly purchased a home on Creek Street in Ketchikan, where she worked until prostitution was outlawed in the early 1950’s (and even after that, by some accounts). She lived in the house until shortly before her death in 1975. Dolly Arthur remains the most famous person to have lived in Ketchikan, and she seems to be respected and appreciated by locals and tourists alike.
Alaska is a cold harsh place. Ketchikan in particular gets an average of 152 inches of rain per year and 37 inches of snow. In fact, the average high temperature in July is just 57 degrees Fahrenheit. When I was there in August, wearing my scarf and a disposable poncho, it was easy to see that such a place could make one feel not only cold but desolate. I can almost imagine that Ketchikan is an underwater village; it is located on an island and rain blankets the town in a sea of wetness most days of the year.
On the cold rainy day of my visit, it was very easy to see how Dolly’s house might have served as a respite for the loggers and fishermen of yesteryear. Her home is a beckon right in the middle of town. It is a quaint little mint green house with red and white trim. It looks much like the houses that I drew in my childhood – two windows with window boxes evenly spaced below an A-frame roof with a chimney on one side. I half expected to see a bright yellow quarter of a sun wearing sunglasses drawn hastily in the corner of the page. Maybe if the rain had let up.
In this cold dreary place Dolly sold sex, but more significantly, she sold comfort. In fact, if her customers paid for their liquor, she would just sit and visit with them, if that is what they wanted. (Interestingly, for much of her career, it was the liquor, not the sex, that was illegal.) As is the case with many sex workers, even today, companionship is a prized commodity. Dolly made a pretty penny supplying it. It is said that she would not close her doors until she’d made at least one hundred dollars in a day. That’s all the more impressive when you realize that her clients paid as little as two bucks a pop, so to speak.
While prostitutes are often portrayed as lifeless leeches, Dolly appears to have been quite the opposite. Evidence of Dolly as a symbol of nurturing comfort is all over her house-turned-museum. In her well-stocked kitchen I could almost imagine her 5’10” frame stooped over the recipes she’d carefully collected in a large scrapbook. Dolly was also a seamstress (coincidently, “seamstress” was a common front used by prostitutes of the time). Her upstairs bathroom shower curtain is adorned with delicate flowers that she fashioned from French silk condoms (I would like to talk to the fellow who invented those; Dolly clearly put them to better use). Downstairs, she made a urinal for her guests by cutting a hole in an old water tank. Dolly even had a secret back door entrance for those who wished to do their business more discreetly.
Looking at the many photographs of Dolly that adorn the walls of her former home, it is easy to feel her presence there still. The staff of the museum have brought it all to life with their animated storytelling and flamboyant costumes. The personal touches of the museum seem to be just as Dolly herself would have wanted them: post-it notes indicating what ought not be touched; grainy sound recordings placed throughout the building explaining various displays; gold foil star stickers lovingly adhered to picture frames to indicate all the actual photos of Dolly. Even as a museum Dolly’s house feels like a home.
Dolly’s creativity and ingenuity are inspiring. In a time when many women did not dare hope for more than marriage and motherhood, Dolly thrived doing what she loved. She was an entrepreneur – she took stock of her skills, saw where there was a market and went there. She is a fantastic counterexample to the crack-addicted dependent whores we see in the media. Dolly made her life what she wanted it to be, despite the circumstances.
While I certainly can appreciate whales and glaciers, the most inspiring part of my trip to Alaska was learning about a self-made woman whose pioneering spirit allowed her to live, and thrive, by her own standards. I came away with a newfound appreciation for the freedom the West of yesteryear had to offer and the culture it spawned.
(Dolly's House at 24 Creek Street, Ketchikan, Alaska)
(Shower curtain flower made of silk condoms)
References: 1. http://www.sitnews.org/JuneAllen/050702_dolly_arthur.html 2. http://www.margaretdeefholts.com/dollyarthur.html 3. The fabulous tour guide at Dolly's who wore her flapper dress even in the cold
Sex is sometimes a dirty business, and while you can protect yourself from germs of the genital variety with condoms and dental damns, no one has made latex that appropriately protects one from the germs spread via US currency involved in monetary transactions, sexual and otherwise. Think about it, even nose-pickers pass the bucks. In fact, it is arguable that many people fondle dollars more often than they fondle their privates, or even whist fondling their privates. Just imagine all of that dirty money.
Prostitute, Angela Eversole, of Kentucky has the solution. Instead of accepting filthy cash from her johns, she, allegedly, accepted a $100 gas card in exchange for sex. Right on, sister! In addition to being far less absorbent than paper, plastic gift cards are also handled by fewer specimens of questionable cleanliness.
Unfortunately, Ms. Eversole and her gas daddy were picked up after a police stakeout at a local Day’s Inn where they were accused of having their gaseous tryst. Angela Eversole’s story and her mug shot have been gleefully spattered all over the headlines by media equally eager to condemn consensual sexual relationships and whine about rising gas prices. What a rare opportunity! I only hope Ms. Eversole will serve as an inspiration to others; safe sex is important. Choose plastic over paper when you have the option.
(Dolly's House at 24 Creek Street, Ketchikan, Alaska)
(Shower curtain flower made of silk condoms)
