Highly Entertaining Money-Grubbing, & How I Killed To Live in Paradise
I moved to Santa Cruz twice — and the second time I cheated death.
Or, at least I made a bargain with him.
The first time was 1979: I was a junior in college, a former high school drop-out who’d sworn on a stack of Communist Manifestos I’d never seek higher education.
Well, we are all brought low.
I got my bachelor’s degree in Community Studies, which UC Santa Cruz has since eliminated as a department, but it was once the activist politics major, Saul Alinsky-style.
16 years later, I was living in San Francisco, had a 4-year-old, and a publishing legacy: On Our Backs, Salon, Forum, a pile of books and movies.
Who should call me one afternoon, but my old UCSC advisor, Carter Wilson, saying that the department needed a summer replacement for a professor on leave.
He said, “We’re so proud of you, Susie.”
My heart beamed. He and my mentor Nancy Stoller thought it would be great if I offered a class.
“Well, what would I teach?”
“You can teach anything you like! Make up your own class!” Carter was elated.
I said, “Okay, I want to teach ‘The Politics of Sexual Representation.’”1
“Splendid idea;” Carter said, “I’ll send you the paperwork.” I was going to teach the first scholarly class on porn.
I found an overpriced sublet in Santa Cruz, (oxymoron), rented out my own SF apartment, and packed. Three months with my little daughter; we could go to the beach every day!
Then the other red shoe dropped.
It was Friday; classes started the following week. I got a call from Carter, hyperventilating.
“Bill Domhoff just discovered your class in the printed schedule, the first time he noticed, and the bastard’s canceling it! This is insane!”
Carter seemed to be reaching for his inhaler or another life support system. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, this is monstrous…”
He was referring to William Domhoff, then Dean of Social Sciences, a former CP fellow-traveler, sociologist, and author of a bestseller, Who Rules America.
The dude had great credentials opposing the war in Vietnam and civil rights— but, you guessed it, not good on the sex question.
“What did Bill say, exactly?” I was gripping the kitchen counter, kid on my hip, stiff as a statue.
“He said: “Susie Bright will teach at the University of California . . . over my dead body!” Carter did a good impression of him.
“Gee, that is strong.”
I told Carter I had to finish grocery shopping, and we would reconvene after I slept on it.
I made one last remark: “I paid upfront, this sublease, for three months. Fucker.”
I cursed the man.
Aretha and I went grocery shopping. That takes a while in Santa Cruz; you have to go at least three stores to get basics.
Two hours later, I pulled back into the driveway of our ugly sublet, which looked even sadder now. I spied something white, a note, a piece of paper stuck in the front screen door.
Remember, this was before cell phones. . . Someone had driven to our house to leave a message.
The note was from Donna, the Community Studies department admin. She ran everything.
In her blue ballpoint, she wrote, “Domhoff had a massive heart attack. Come in Monday, class starts at 9.”
Dammmmn.
I am the Wicked Witch of the West and you never know when the house is going to fall.
My “Politics of Sexual Representation” class became the basis for my next book, Full Exposure. I communed with the late Linda Williams and Constance Penley, who were also teaching “porn” at UC Irvine, UCSB, and Cal, to great acclaim. The notion of examining sexual representation as theory, with intellectual gravitas, became a “thing.” Yay, us.
Domhoff never recovered well enough to return to his office, although I did run into his ex-wife a few years later who said my memory was exactly right. I’ve learned a lot about heart disease since then; it must have been tough.
And, I took my book advance and settled here, in Santa Cruz, one of the first after the big earthquake. I became a “townie.”
I’ll be glad to take my last breath here.
I am certain UCSC would not allow me to teach my class today, in the Trump era. Perhaps Bill Domhoff did prevail in the end . . . or maybe, I just need to cast another spell.
Bring me the voodoo pins!
HEY, DOLLFACE!
It’s that time of year again, back to school, back to getting schooled, and baby needs new shoes.
I’m serious.
I need to keep this newsletter going. A couple times a year, I get down on my knees and try to make fundraising fun.
Not everyone likes to “subscribe” to newsletters; I get it. It’s like a freaking wedding ring. Is this forever?
But no biggie! You can buy me a cup of coffee, a piece of cake, a chainsaw; any amount you want! It will make all the difference to me, and continuing this newsletter.
Or . . . Here’s a thought: subscribe for a little while.
Subscribe to me for a couple months. It’s less than the price of a book.
Then dump me and subscribe to someone else! I bless it.
I can’t afford to do paid subscriptions to everyone I love on the Stack, either. Rotate, just like streaming services. You’ll figure out what you can’t live without.
Let’s say, like me, you are on a fixed income. You scrutinize your budget. I get it! Lots of famous artists are in the same straits.
Email me and ask me for a complimentary subscription.
And . . . you know what you could do? SHARE every single essay and post you love.
Finally, there are those of you, who are stoked to have the means to support artists and reporters.
I was like that once too. I had no time when I worked for FAANG,2 but I had money. You know the drill.
You, dear friend, are already my subscriber— you’re fundamental. I not only appreciate your support; I thank the goodness that you get it.
If you’re in a position to be even more generous, offer a gift. Buy a sub for friend.
(Fuck it; buy it for Ted Cruz).
Just imagine how beloved you will be!
THANK YOU, ANGEL.
More soon, I’ll let you know how my back-to-getting-school fundraising goes!
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If you really know how to cast a death spell, I’ve got a list, a very little list. Carter Wilson was a gent.
By the way, I didn’t know how to include this in my story without spoiling the mood, so I’ll do it here, hopefully with a light touch.
If you subscribe to my newsletter . . . I don’t automatically go to bed with you. I mean, I’m not that cheap. Also, I’m very old fashioned and prefer lengthy, moonlit courtships. Preferably not predicated by a coin dropping.
This is not covered in the Substack manual. @Sarah Fay, got a tip?