Was She or Wasn't She?

A little detective work into her presumed bisexuality...

I honestly don't care but I certainly did enjoy the detective work I undertook (or, rather, that overtook me) to determine yay or nay.  And yay is what I say.  Here, then, is some of the evidence, as I found it in her diaries and elsewhere.

First, she never married and her opinions about marriage were entirely negative, as seen throughout the diaries.

Second are various events and (a)musings that are not exactly definitive in terms of bisexuality but, to my mind, are at least suggestive. See below for a few diary entries and the responses of two LGBQT archive organizations to them.

But what sealed it for me was a photograph that fell out a diary and landed face up on my desk.  A young man wearing a nifty striped coat and a tie.  I turned it over and found the name Elwood Tennant penned there.  Hmmm.  I wondered who he was.  And I kept wondering for another two months, until I took a magnifying glass to the name and saw that Elwood could actually be Eleanor.  Onward to Google.  And there she was, older than in Kathi's picture but definitely the same women: Eleanor Tennant, a famous tennis player in the 1920s and onward, the first to ever turn pro, and a well-known lesbian.

From Robert Weintraub's biography of tennis player Alice Marble, “The Divine Miss Marble: A Life of Tennis, Fame and Mystery”:

"Tennant, 36, was once a player but moved on to coaching Hollywood stars. She saw the 18-year-old Marble play at an L.A. event and offered to guide her career. Another player warned Marble that Tennant was a lesbian. Marble nodded, then ran to the dictionary. “From the island of Lesbos,” it said. Well, the teen thought, what difference did that make? Eventually, the two did become lovers, but in the beginning, Tennant was content to be Marble’s idiosyncratic trainer, whom Marble called Teach."

Now why would Kathi have this particular picture tucked away — which is to say, hidden away — in a diary instead of hanging loose in the box with all her other snapshots?

I only wish I'd noticed the page where it was tucked.  Be very interesting if it was in a place where pages had been torn out.

And then there’s this, from her 2017 diary while a student at Smith College, all girls: “Jean and I were sitting in front of fire for an hour. I leaned over and Jean gave my head a push. Then I wrote ‘I love Jean Sinclair, amo amas amat.’ Then we wrote a lot neither could understand in French and made up our practice bags. Jean and I went downtown in PM. Connie and I played around for an hour.”

Jean Sinclair!

I’ll say more about that particular entry in a future post and give a translation for those three Latin words.

But for right now, this is the evidence.  And when I gave a few LGBTQ archives a look at some relevant pages, they had no doubt about her leanings.

From Loni Shibuyama at ONE Archives at the USC Libraries:

"Thank you so much for reaching out about your great aunt's diaries.  The entries you pointed out are wonderful and it sounds truly fascinating to read through.  I'm especially intrigued with the part about changing the gender for first names, etc.  Thank you so much for pointing out who some of the people are.  Your great aunt sounds like a remarkable woman, and her diaries give a great snapshot of life during that time for our researchers.  It sounds like a really great example of same sex relationships that went unnamed.  And we would love to acquire the diaries/photos for our collection if you are interested in donating them at this time."

From Isaac Fellman at the GLBTQ Historical Society in San Francisco:

"Thank you so much for showing this to me! You have something wonderful on your hands, a detailed chronicle of a whole community of bi and lesbian women. These Smithies brought women's college vibes all the way to Paris.

"I'm not sure if you're thinking of donating these materials to an archive (now or later), but I'm confident that you will get a warm reception at any LGBTQ archives. They're really early by LGBTQ archives' standards, plus the stories of bi people are always underrepresented and badly need to be told more. What's great about Kathi's diaries is that they give us the zeitgeist of her time and place, capturing her circle's interests and humor; I think all sorts of researchers would want to see it."

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The diary entries I sent to the archives are below.

Cast of Characters:

   Gladys: sister

   Carl: brother

   Mark: a woman, a fellow Smithie, and one of Kathi's girlfriends.

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Memo 1923

   Carl and a nice young English chap late from Vienna and I browsed around the cobblestone streets lined with offices and shops.  I quite took to the young gentleman, bringing my women's wiles into full play.

   He and Carl went to see about mobilizing a new boat for the African expedition.  His dog and I capered at their heels.  They drank long satisfied droughts of Dewar’s best.  Dog and my round eyes and watched in silent awe their worldly acts.

  The next day, we set sail in the Charles Rorx, the Englishman and his mama and a young lady whom I took to be the maid -- we discovered later that she was a bosom friend of romance and son was trying to affix her to mama in the same capacity.  Mama had her own ideas and son found himself in the difficult position of hurting me by his attentions to the other.  She was a stenographer and looked the world in the face with a defiant unfriendly mien.

   Carl and I were prepared to like them all, but mama liked me and ruined my chances with son and the girl.

   It was a smooth glorious voyage and often I repeated to Carl that I adored small boats.

June 15, 1923

Gladys and I laughed so at dinner last night, reminiscing about Shanghai. I had around me the old gorilla frock. It has monkey fur on it and I always feel like an orangutan when I am so frocked.

The last time I wore it was at the American Club in Shanghai, the night I sat with the painted smile, beautiful but oh so dumb. Then the next night we had another pleasant evening. Gladys and Mark appropriated the two Lotharios and there fell to my lot a little creature undecided as to whether he should develop into a shrimp or a prune. We took an instant dislike to each other and tried to ignore the presence of the other, busily.

When we danced -- for there was no alternative after the others had waltzed off, leaving us glaring at each other like two unfriendly alley cats -- the only thing we had in common was our contempt, one for the other. If we covered the same territory with our peregrinations, it was only because the floor was crowded and we couldn't have everything our own way. When the music stopped, we dove for opposite sides of the table and sipped our orangeades savagely and silently, welcoming the return of the four with overwhelming relief. And so the long night passed.

If I couldn't dance with whom I would, I could at least dance the way I would and I did and he did. At the Astor House steps, we pumped hands solemnly and passed out of each other's lives with great pleasure. Both of us will remember that long night and pray that fate will not play another scurvy trick on us and bring us together ever again.

July 1923

My future now is a blank. Oh dear. Mark and I had a long conversation about the future. If I had an objective in that future, it might be easier. But how soon the flame dies. What do we want! What!

Mark and I have many discussions in our garret room. I am leading a double life. Mark and Ann and Betty have disreputable lodgings in the Latin quarter into which we burrow at unseemly hours. When the Bohemian life loses its sparkle, I get on the train and into the second-class compartment. I scurry along like a mole through the Parisian underground and then I enter the majestic city and the hotel by the servants' entrance and repair to Gladys's bathroom where I step into a daring costume and burst again upon the world as the woman of fashion. When the artificiality of this life pales, I clap my black velvet tam upon my copper curls, tie a bow beneath my chin and return to the half-empty bottle of vodka and the plate of braised snail. I become again the happy carefree coquette of the Boulevard Montparnasse. It is an intriguing life. Mark and I are going onward and downward.

Four years ago we were furrowing our infantile brows under exams at Smith. I was a timid wild little fawn in those days, shrinking at my own shadow especially when it was rounding the ivy grown corner of College Hall, bowed down in fear at thoughts of the impending.   What an untamed lawless life we lead, snapping our nut stained fingers under Mary Eastman's nose.  It is far away, all that drinking deeply, loving promiscuously. The straight-lit road to our hearts was paved with ice cream and fudge cake.  Ah, the joyous dreams of the long ago and the fading rapture.

Mary Eastman, from the 1919 Smith Yearbook!