“’I remembered that in Russian, you can’t simply say ‘I’m married.’ It’s a gendered construction, meaning you either say ‘I am wifed,’ or ‘I am husbanded’ (technically, ‘I am behind husband,’ which deserves a dissertation of its own). So I looked Sofia in the eye and said, in Russian, ‘I am wifed.’
She smiled indulgently. ‘No, you are husbanded.’ She figured I’d misspoken.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I am wifed.'”
Lisa Dickey’s Bears in the Streets is a memoir of three journeys across Russia in 1995, 2005 and 2015. Dickey visits the same locations and in most cases stays with the same hosts each time, tracking changes for individual Russians along with the country’s politics and fortunes. That human interest alone makes it a fascinating read; with the current, constant news about how deeply the Trump campaign seems to have been entwined with Vladimir Putin’s political machine, the book could not be more timely.
There is an extra level of interest added by the fact that Russian culture (as clumsy a generalization for me to make as to suggest that there is a monolithic American culture) is generally less tolerant of the LGBT community and Dickey is out, gay and married. By her 2015 trip, the Russian Duma had passed a law against spreading gay propaganda. The roughly translated term “propaganda” is deliberately kept vague: one could theoretically be prosecuted for wearing a rainbow bracelet outside, or for being seen by a child while walking down the street holding hands with a same-sex partner.
If you’ve traveled across rural or red-state U.S. — or even if you’ve suddenly found yourself deeper in chitchat with your big-liberal-city supermarket cashier or Lyft driver than you meant to go — you have probably had to make a rapid calculation: Can I stay as out as I usually am? Or should I put one foot into a travel closet?
Dickey makes that calculation over and over again in Bears in the Streets. She visits ordinary Russian citizens who share their lives and homes and, in one memorable case, their sheep with her. By her third journey, Dickey has known her hosts for twenty years and feels deceptive for hiding something as significant as her marriage. Even something as simple and normal as connecting on Facebook becomes tricky — accepting the friend request means opening up Dickey’s album of big gay wedding photos. Dickey’s case-by-case decisions to risk these friendships in the name of deepening them will be familiar to American LGBT folks who don’t live in islands of tolerance: Carefully tell the contemporaries who love you, but maybe don’t trouble grandma.
Interestingly, the most frequent answer Dickey gets when she mentions her marriage is some variation on “I’m OK with it, but you should be careful about telling anyone else,” another moment which will resonate with LGBT travelers across certain parts of the U.S.
These moments of larger policy and culture made intensely personal make Bears in the Streets a compelling read. When Dickey makes her first trip in 1995, Russia is still reeling from the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Her hosts are chafing at the idea that their country is no longer a feared and respected superpower and making the adjustment from at least knowing they would always have basic staples under Communism to a wildly unpredictable economy. In 2005, the country is flush with oil money and enjoying a capitalist boom. But in 2015, the ruble has collapsed and United State sanctions have been causing an economic sting. Russia is flexing its political muscle again and Dickey’s Russian hosts sometimes show a distinctly nationalistic hostility to the U.S.
Dickey gives the book a location-by-location structure rather trip-by-trip to give the reader a focused, sometimes heart-wrenching look at how each family’s lives are affected by these larger turns of fate. Scientists studying Russia’s enormous Lake Baikal see their research funds grow, shift, and pinch — as the lake itself sees an influx of tourists and money that in turn ushers in a worrying sponge die-off and possible ecological catastrophe. A Buryat “gentleman farmer” in a remote village starts out working government grants to his advantage but ends up scraping through the grinding hardship of the country’s agricultural decline. A shy 11-year-old grows into a stunning young woman with an easy embrace of designer fashions. Along the way, Dickey shares the magic of poker, enjoys a private living room drag show in Novosibirsk, attends a Hare Krishna ceremony with a Muscovite rap star, and is offered quantities of alcohol that would stagger a grizzly bear.
About those bears. The book’s title comes from the now-prevalent Russian assumption that Americans think Russians are such backwards rubes that there are bears roaming the streets. That assumption that they don’t get enough respect from the U.S. is just one of the reasons that Putin turns out to be astonishingly popular. Honestly, the sections in which Dickey’s hosts explain why they like — even literally worship — Putin helped me understand why so many Americans love Donald Trump. The Russians Dickey talks to, no matter how seemingly Westernized, tend to feel resentful because they feel they’ve pushed aside from a prominent place in world affairs to which their country is naturally entitled. They’re fed a steady diet of media that is mostly controlled by Putin and loathe Barack Obama for all the damage they believe he has done to their country and, by extension, to them personally. Putin’s strongman moves on the world stage have made them feel feared and thus respected again — and, worryingly, it makes them willing to brush off little things like a few murdered journalists.
Dickey’s hosts are always careful to emphasize that their dislike of America’s politics don’t translate to a dislike of her personally. Even after openly hostile exchanges about international relations, including an infuriating accusation that the U.S. itself engineered the 9/11 attacks, Dickey’s hosts easily separate policies from people. They don’t like the U.S., but they like Americans just fine. As Putin’s meddling in our 2016 election becomes more apparent, that’s a worthwhile attitude to adopt ourselves.
Bears in the Streets would be a fascinating and pleasurable read in any era. Today, as Putin makes moves to support fascists across Europe and we find out how deep the Trump administration’s ties to his government go, the layered understanding the book offers of Russia and its people is vital.
After a few years of remarkable progress for LGBT rights, the United States has elected an apprentice fascist and a national legislature with the most hostile anti-LGBTQ agenda in recent history. Now it’s clear that the Trump team is hell-bent on elevating actual white supremacists to the highest levels of power and a big chunk of the GOP legislature has been sharpening knives for our freedoms for a while. They have the chance to run the table, so we need to move and move fast. This is the updated Gay Agenda.1 Please destroy all previous versions and keep this one under lock and key. They would be so mad if they knew.
This one was a punch to the solar plexus, no question. Like worse than when you started paying attention to the dialogue on certain episodes of The L Word. So we’re all taking at least one full month to grieve. Do so however you need to, and ignore anyone who tells you that you should be feeling or responding any differently. If you need to throw a toaster oven at the wall, throw a toaster oven at the wall. That is your process. Hit a resale shop and pick up all the small appliances for destruction if you feel like it. They recycle just the same when they’re in pieces. Plus, the smashing noises will give those neighbors who always side-eye your Pride gear something to think about. You’re also allowed to have great, heaving crying jags over seeing your pantsuit rainbow t-shirt, eat enough carbs to stagger a war horse, nap, stay up watching Wentworth, rend your garments, whatever you need. You are grieving. And if that means listening to the workout mix of “Hands to Myself” on repeat while power-keening and re-collaging every last one of your vision boards to include images of yourself as an avenging Fury with a belt of human skulls, so be it.
When you’re ready, hang a toaster oven knob from your belt, go back to work, and tell goddamned Tucker with the “jokes” that he is exactly six more words from you hitting your limit. Then stare into his eyes while baring all the rage in your soul until he silently backs away. Odds are Tucker will bring by a hot beverage in about an hour in an attempt to make peace. Snatch it out of his hands and hiss at him. Do you feel that power? Use it. Anger does not have to lead to hatred; properly channeled, it can make you productive beyond your wildest dreams. Let your ferocious soul fire your forward motion and your rage fuel your industry.
You’re a revolutionary firebrand now, which means you’re automatically at least 30 points sexier. The combination of passion, direction, and purpose is so irresistible that it’s practically weaponized. But don’t rest on your laurels!2 We need you to be achingly, devastatingly, pants-meltingly sexy. Do whatever you can to enhance your unique personal appeal, whether that’s emphasizing your voluptuous curves or doing squats while straight-arming cement-filled paint cans. Anoint yourself with scented oils. Make use of the LGBT Free Amazing Haircut Service.3 Be sure to take the collagen supplements in your monthly packet so that your hair, skin, and nails are supple and/or glossy. If random strangers on the street are gibbering and begging for your phone number, you’re halfway there. Develop your talents and feel your swagger. Show no mercy. Because it’s time for your next agenda item:
It’s no-holds-barred on turning people queer for at least the next four years. Yes, we’ve been gradually turning people L, G, B, and T for years via our music, our living our lives happily in the open, and our delicious scalloped potatoes. But now The Escalation has officially begun. No longer are we turning only the most witty, intelligent, and sexy people queer. It’s anyone who needs a good dose of reality, and damn the consequences. For those of you who need a refresher, the proper form to turn someone gay is to make deep eye contact, raise your dominant hand so that it’s level with your temple, and snap. Snap once to turn someone bi, twice to turn them gay, and thrice for grinding in a thong on the Altoids float. To turn someone trans, wiggle your nose like Samantha on Bewitched. (Our secret that trans women make the most powerful witches was always going to have to come out eventually.)
More good news: Next year’s Pride Parades are going to be Off. The. Chain. It’s time to make the firm point that we will not be bullied out of sight and trying to keep us down only makes us more fabulous. If you’re not financially dependent on a bigot and in a safe place to do so, rip that closet door off its hinges. Post glitter rainbows in your office cube. Get everyone at the feed store clear on subtext.
It’s true that when a diverse coalition of lesbian, bi, trans, and queer women have control of the presidency and both houses of Congress, straight white cis men might get a little nervous. JOIN THE CLUB, FELLAS. We were patient and played nice for a long time, but now they’re trying to roll back some very basic civil rights, so we’re going to have to take the joint over. Mandatory Supergirl viewing parties in all the sports bars! Pagan Reading Group Thursdays at the Library of Congress! Tegan and Sara playing the inauguration! Of President Laverne Cox!
Extreme? Perhaps. But the minute half the country sat out the election and another quarter knowingly voted in a viciously anti-LGBT Congress and a spray-tanned cupbearer of the KKK so pathetically desperate for approval that he became Salacious B. Crumb to Putin’s Jabba the Hutt, they asked for it.
You have your super-secret marching orders. Definitely do not share this on social media; we want it to be a surprise. You know how much we love a good entrance. Go get ‘em.
1 Read: LGBTQ Agenda. But we call it the Gay Agenda because that’s what scares them.
2 Unless you are resting on a bed strewn with laurels and are beckoning someone in a sultry manner.
3 As always, if you tell straight people the truth about your stunning ‘do, severe penalties will apply. If they’re nice, tell them your stylist isn’t taking on other clients. If they’re not, send them to the worst-rated Supercuts you can find on Yelp. (No, at present we do not know of any way to give either Trump or Pence a worse haircut. Our scientists are working on it.)