Marlo Thomas hosted a stupendous party at her Beverly Hills home to support the Equal Rights Amendment. The amendment, passed by Congress, was now in the process of being ratified by the states. If fewer than three fourths of the states ratified it, then the amendment would not stand.
The feminist euphoria intoxicated liberals and middle-of-the-roaders. As I said before, I didn’t believe that the amendment would pass in the South. However, a show of support was important.
Marlo Thomas rounded up women and men in the industry willing to attach their names to the controversial amendment. Since most people are chicken, and actors especially, how she managed this beats me.
Let me digress for a moment about why I think actors are chicken. For any role in any movie, play or television show there are hundreds of people who could perform the part. Disposability makes people fearful. For an actor, rejection is personal. It’s your face, your body, your voice that’s rejected. This does little for your sense of security.
On the way up, if you’re fortunate enough to move up, a prudent person keeps politics out of the picture. Since you can so easily be replaced, why run the risk?
There are those who groan when an actor espouses a cause or political opinion, yet say nothing when the head of United States Steel does the same. Why is it okay for the industrialist to be an active citizen but not okay for the actor?
Naturally, this attitude grates on my nerves, but there is a cracked logic to it. Illusions again. If an actor speaks as a citizen, s/he moves forward as a real person. And we don’t want them to be real. We want them as fantasies, as their last role, as our dream lover or whatever. An actor walks a fine edge. If the public turns from them as a person, it’s a sure bet producers won’t hire them. Great talent is no defense, Vanessa Redgrave being an obvious example.
However she did it, Marlo brought together hundreds of people, most of them young, at a time when few would admit to feminism; they risked being branded as lesbians. If Betty Friedan and Co. hadn’t wimped out of the lesbian issue and turned on us, the media wouldn’t have been so successful in exploiting the label.
Benjamin Franklin said, concerning the Revolution, “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.” Our political enemies as well as reporters out for a good story knew how to rattle people. Betty, by going public about “the lavender menace,” handed them the issue on a silver platter. It’s one thing to fight amongst ourselves, it’s another to do it in public. Her mother never told her not to hang her dirty laundry in public.
Hundreds of people crowded onto the deck built over Marlo’s pool. Robert Altman and Chevy Chase cut a swath through the ladies. Their support was genuine and much needed.
Shirley MacLaine held court, ignoring anyone she didn’t think important enough for her attention. That meant she spoke mostly to Gloria Steinem and Bella Abzug. When Gloria introduced me to her, Shirley pointedly turned away. At that point in her life, Shirley apparently didn’t shake hands with lesbians, especially if there were photographers in evidence. Gloria, looking embarrassed, then introduced me to Marlo Thomas, who, having a set of brass ovaries, couldn’t have cared less. She was gracious.
Another gutsy lady was Joan Hackett. She sat at a table, smoking her pipe, laughing uproariously. She had read Rubyfruit Jungle and was happy to talk about that and anything and everything. Her early death to cancer was a loss to those who appreciate good acting as well as to the feminist movement.
But Shirley MacLaine shocked me because she’s from Virginia. Did she leave voluntarily or did the matrons drive her out due to bad manners?
Kate Jackson, from Birmingham, did shake my hand when we were introduced but quickly moved on. It could have been that she knew who I was and also didn’t want anyone to take a photograph of us together, or it could have been that she was so hot at the time, thanks to Charlie’s Angels, that everyone wanted her attention. At least she didn’t pretend I wasn’t there. I gave her a lot of credit for being there in the first place.
Other women apart from Gloria and Marlo noticed I was being frozen out. Lily Tomlin pushed her way through the crowds, kissed me, put her arm around me and said, “How good to see you.” She shamed the others. Lily, an original on every level, has a fighting heart. She guided me to a table of older women, one of whom headed a talent agency.
They invited me to sit down. I was certainly glad to do it. I’d sucked up my fill of cowardice and rudeness.
A reporter from the Los Angeles Times sashayed over to our table and said, “This must be the lesbian table.”
I replied, “No, the other lesbians brought their husbands.”
He got the hell out of there. Good thing. I’d have decked him. The ladies at the table laughed. Married or divorced and none of them actors, they didn’t give a damn.
Marlo Thomas gives everything she’s got when she believes in a cause. Most fund-raisers are deadly dull. This was a terrific party. The hostess spared no expense.
I watched the throng. Getting knocked around in movement fights toughened me, but then, those were intellectual battles. You could stand on your hind legs and slug it out. Betty Friedan never pulled her punches. She was up-front. By contrast, many of these people were engaged in cover-your-ass behavior. It had to do with their concept of their careers and not with personal or political beliefs. I preferred Betty. A fight can enable you. This felt cheesy, the fear. I was hardly the only lesbian or bisexual in the crowd. I was the only one honest about it.
After thanking my host two hours later, I walked down the long drive to the valet parking area. Standing there, waiting for her car to be driven up, was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever beheld. Average height, curvaceous figure, china blue eyes, alabaster skin with peachy highlights and flaming red hair, she could have been Deborah Kerr’s double at the height of her beauty.
I recognized her as she recognized me.
“Rita Mae, what do you think of these transplanted Yankees?”
“That my great-granddaddy was right to take potshots at them.”
She hollered, “You know, I wish a big Rolls-Royce would come on up here and take me home.”
At that precise moment, the valet purred up in my Silver Shadow.
“Could I carry you home?”
Her jaw was on her ample bosom. She sputtered a minute, then laughed that southern war whoop laugh we learn at our momma’s knee. “Girl, you got an angel on your shoulder or mojo.” She accented the -jo. She scribbled her number. I scribbled mine. Her all-black 350SL varoomed right up behind my stately mechanical carriage. “Girl, you call me. I wanna ride in your Rolls-Royce and I wanna write a book.”
I fell in love with Fannie Flagg at first sight.