Since we’ve been on the subject of my mother recently, I’d like to take this opportunity to set the record straight about how she came to own and run a gay bar in South Central Los Angeles. However, before we get to that, you need to know about my mother’s glare. By glare, I mean the kind of stare that pioneer women undoubtedly used just before they picked up their shotguns and shot bad guys between the eyes without the least regret. Mother, the youngest of six children, was born in Poland and transported to America when she was two years old. After one winter in New York, doctors told my grandparents that frail little Mary (or Miriam as she was called before everyone had to adopt English names) would never live through another frigid winter. If they wanted her to survive, they would have to move to a warmer climate. Grandpa had a cousin living in Los Angeles, hence the migration to Echo Park around 1907. Little Mary had a heart condition. She had it until at age 89 when she died from eating too many stolen cookies. Again, I repeat, I’m telling the truth; you can’t make this stuff up. I learned about Ma’s heart condition the first time I took her to a doctor. He put his stethoscope to her chest, turned white, and yelled for an EKG, stat! This scenario was repeated every time she saw a new medical person. After each EKG, they would ask her how long she’d had this condition. She would reply “What condition?” They would scratch their heads in puzzlement and move on to the next problem. Maybe she had a hole in her heart. We’ll never know. Apparently, when she was a young woman she was told she could never marry because she would not be able to survive the rigors of married life and childhood. At that time, she was maybe 5-feet tall and weighed about 98 pounds. Nonetheless, frail and fragile, she did marry - twice - and she did live longer than any or most of her immediate family, probably because of her second secret. Her first secret was the heart problem that was supposed to have caused her to kick the bucket at a young age. Her second secret was the power behind her glare, a stare could make strong men quake in fear. Ma put up with all sorts of abuse throughout her life, and was really good at being a martyr in the worst sense of the syndrome. However, she periodically exhibited a cast iron belief that she should be able to do as she wished, regardless of the odds. If she met with opposition, she vanquished it with a look. I have seen her jaywalk across the busiest street in Los Angeles and not get killed. She would step into oncoming traffic, thrust out her palm in halt position, and glare at the first driver until the car screeched to a halt. Then she would proceed across the street, repeating this act of supreme self determination to each car while I stood watching in horror, frozen to my spot on the sidewalk. The drivers never had a chance. No one could proceed once Ma did the hand-out-to-halt-and-glare maneuver. Her conviction that she had certain unalienable rights enabled her to do this, as well as outlive everybody, despite heart condition and frail constitution. The glare was not her only trick. She could be sweetly polite and simultaneously totally obstinate. I’ll give you an example. I was present so I can attest to its accuracy. A plumber came to the house to fix something. When he was done, he asked for his payment. The conversation went like this: Plumber: “That will be $45.” Mother: “Good. Send me a bill and I will pay it right away.” Plumber: “I don’t send bills. I get paid on the job.” Mother: “Good. I want to pay you. Send me a bill so I can pay you.” Plumber: “Lady, you don’t understand. I don’t send out bills.” Mother: “How can I pay you if you don’t send me a bill?” Plumber: “But… Mother: “I really, really want to pay you, so please send me a bill.” Plumber: “OK, lady. I’ll send you a bill.” Ma’s system worked beautifully. The older she got, the more she employed it. The only time it didn’t work was when the vice squad captain got her arrested, but I’ll get to that later. It so happened that my father went into business with one of his nephews and bought a bar, a pub, a neighborhood watering hole. How that came about is a journal entry unto itself. Here’s how it applies to my mother’s glare and the gay bar. When they tried luring neighbors into the bar, they discovered the neighbors were either black or white but not both. That is, neither would step into a bar occupied by the other. First they tried making it a black bar, then they tried making it a white bar, but the neighbors remained unconvinced. Mixed into this miasma of failure was the fact that the nephew bailed and my father’s dislike of drinkers drove off anyone unlucky enough to enter. Before more damage could be done, my mother stepped and took charge. She sent my father home to study law. Somehow, using lord knows what laws of attraction, she managed to turn the place into a safe haven for men and women to play pool, dance with same sex partners, and get drunk. It was a roaring success. So there she was, shrunk to under 5 feet tall, having to take huge, drunk men to task if they got out of line. She would march up to them, glare up into their eyes and say, “Shame on you. You know better than that. If you can’t behave you’re going to have leave.” They would look guilty, hang their heads in shame and reply, “Yes, Mary. Sorry, Mary,” and they would shape up or ship out. The bar regulars were very fond and protective of my mother. Many a time when a fight would break out, the regulars would step in to take a cue stick blow to their heads rather than have Mary get hurt. Meanwhile, Mary would be oblivious to these acts of self sacrifice because she was focused on not dropping trays filled with drinks. Her downfall was due to the vice squad. You see, in those Los Angeles days it was both illegal for a woman to pour drinks and for same sex couples to dance together in public. The way around this was to pay off the vice squad officer who stopped by for his weekly bribe. Before Ma kicked my father out, she was just a waitress, which was legal. They still had had to pay a weekly bribe to stay open, but once she stood behind the bar and poured drinks, once it became a gay bar, the weekly payments skyrocketed. Every week when the vice squad officer came in for his cut my mother got more and more angry. She worked horribly long hours, sacrificing all hope of any private life in order to keep the bar going, keep me fed, and keep her husband supplied with typing paper and school tuition. It went against her principals to pander to crooked cops. So she tried the glare on the officer and refused to pay him. The glare didn’t work. He arrested her. She didn’t actually have to go to jail. My father’s future attorney boss got her out on bail. Then the future attorney boss bribed the vice squad to drop the charges. However, the experience frightened her badly, and for a brief time her glare lost its self confidence. Soon after this devastating event, they sold the bar. Mother could stay home, get some well deserved rest, and go on a diet. I needed to write about The Bar Saga because my daughter was under the impression her grandmother had opened the very first gay bar in Los Angeles and told that story to an L.A. film documentary producer. This was not true. She didn’t open the first one. She simply knew how to create one, make it popular, and then find the fastest way to the exit.