Thank You for Calling the Lesbian Line by Elizabeth Lovatt – a heartfelt history of the gay community
Elizabeth Lovatt, 28, is writing “a list of all the signs I might be gay”. She lists, among other characteristics many queer women will recognise (including this reviewer): “Tomboy growing up … Likes plaid … Beer/shandy? . … Penises look weird (do all women think this?).” Thus opens Thank You for Calling the Lesbian Line, Lovatt’s debut: part memoir, part historical document and part creative nonfiction.
Her journey into the world of lesbian telephone helplines begins in London at Finsbury library during her time as writer in residency for Islington’s Pride. In the archive, among much other ephemera, she finds a shiny black A4 journal entitled Women’s Line Logbook.
This book, filled with handwritten logs from the diverse range of callers to the lesbian telephone helpline, old and young, single and married, terrified and joyful about their sexuality, between July 1993 and July 1998, sets her on a path of discovery, not just about the lesbian experience (more of the complexity of this definition later) but also her own experiences within the community.
It’s an ambitious undertaking and a largely successful one. A compelling, funny, intelligent read that any queer woman (or reader) will be lucky to come across, it recounts the stories of lesbians and the queer community from the late 70s all the way through to the 00s with warmth, rigorous research and a touching earnestness in striving to be inclusive – which feels very fitting for this project.
Lovatt is often witty, writing about the often transitory “pop-up” nature of lesbian clubs; of her personal favourite she says: “Passionate Necking (RIP), hosted on the last Friday of every month at the Montague Arms (RIP) in Peckham (still going).”
Anyone who identifies across the LGBTIQA+ or activism spectrum will find much that resonates. I often found myself retreading my own footsteps: the First Out cafe off Tottenham Court Road, the Housmans bookshop, Diva magazine, the Candy Bar and, inevitably, The L Word. I also discovered new gems that had passed me by such as the film The Watermelon Woman, written, directed and starring black lesbian Cheryl Dunye, and the kd lang and Cindy Crawford Vanity Fair cover (as Lovatt suggests, I will also wait while you Google it – you won’t be disappointed).
Throughout, Lovatt seeks to explore her own identity and the broader lesbian one through the prism of the history of London lesbian helplines and the archived entries in the found logbook. While initial chapters are pragmatically titled A Brief History of Lesbian Lines and Gay, Lesbian, Woman?, the second half of the book tackles thornier issues in the chapters White Fragility and Our Failure to Listen, I Don’t Want to Talk About Wanking in That Way, and Trans Lesbians Exist: Get Over It.
The book is a gift for those of us who have lived in our queer skins for many decades and for young lesbians looking for a primer in lesbian history
It is, as I mentioned, an earnest book, but also a deeply thoughtful one. It is clear that Lovatt has carefully considered, agonised even, over representation within this book, plus the ethics of sharing the archives of what was always meant to be an anonymous helpline. To circumvent this difficulty, she admits to intervention in telling these stories: all names have been changed, and often what was left in the logbook, it seems, was no more than the seed of a story or person. Here, Lovatt creates character sketches of the lives of the callers and the women taking the calls that punctuate the main text.
The definition of what lesbian is comes up often. The book spends much of its pages exploring the plurality, messiness and amorphousness of the lesbian experience, and Lovatt does not shy away from the difficult subjects. In the last third of the book, she examines the lesbian community’s response to transgender lesbians, race and inclusivity. Of a brief, less than ideally managed, call a transgender lesbian makes to the helpline where the phone worker really has no idea how to support a trans lesbian, she observes that while some workers were happy to take calls from trans people it would seem others were not, and this lack of unity created a structure that kept trans people away. Transphobia by omission. She writes, too, that it would have been easier to pass over that log entry, and the lesbian line’s issues around trans lesbian inclusion, but “I felt like staying silent on the matter would also be to condone it. I set out to find my lesbian inheritance, a lesbian history, and this is part of it too.”
Thank You for Calling the Lesbian Line is a remarkable piece of work, no less a debut. A gift for those of us who have lived in our queer skins for many decades, and for young lesbians who are looking for a primer in lesbian history, an understanding of what it means to look for identity and place in our community.
Lovatt has not only created her own sort of inheritance here but one that will resonate with so many readers across the spectrum of sexuality. She refers to lesbian helplines at the time as: “A lifeline of solidarity, a lifeline, a phone line, a lesbian line” for other women. Lovatt writes: “I want us to take the thousand splinters of life we are given, because nothing is given to us as whole and without work, and make a place for dwelling. A space to be.” In this thoughtful, moving book, the author too has created such a dwelling place.
Kerry Hudson’s most recent book is Newborn: Running Away, Breaking with the Past, Building a New Family (Vintage, £10.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
Thank You for Calling the Lesbian Line: A Hidden History of Queer Women by Elizabeth Lovatt is published by Dialogue (£25). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
