Mary
Courtland (February 18, 1907 - September 2, 1996) is profiled in ''Family: a
portrait of gay and lesbian America'', by Nancy Andrews (1994):
Although Mary Courtland likes to tell people she is just shy of eighty, she is actually closer to ninety. She lives alone in a wooden farmhouse with an attached barn—a home filled with precious objects that visitors are instructed to note: family photos, certificates, hand-painted birds. At the age of three, Mary and her family emigrated from Czechoslovakia to the United States. Mary lived more than half her life in the Midwest, working in blue-collar jobs—as a domestic, a "beauty operator ," and a factory worker making Sears catalogs. She even spent time in a convent. It has been only in the past twenty years that she has found a lesbian community. Her gay friends in Waldo County, Maine, watch out for her, taking her to the doctor, dentist, or grocery store. She was photographed in her kitchen. I tried to be nice to men. I even went out with one or two, because that was what you were supposed to do. I went out two or three times, but when they tried to smooch with me. I'd be thinking of someone else, some woman I liked. The word "gay" wasn't used then. I don't like it now. They use a lot of gay words when I read. Now they have "gay men" and "gay women." I think the best thing is "friend," "good friend," "very good friend"—you know what kind of friend. My gosh. I've never lived with anybody, but I was hoping to. My first girlfriend was when I was about fourteen, fifteen years old. I had been put on the job taking care of kids. She lived in the house, upstairs with her mother. I've got pictures of her. She had long curls. I was too bashful. I never talked to her. I just walked around her. And that was my first girl, but she didn't know it. I didn't even know what was the matter with me. Then I really fell for a girl who wasn't to be loved. She was working in the church. She was a sister—a sister in the church. I went to the convent and I sort of fell for her. I thought, "Shoo, she's so nice." I lost my appetite at the table. Oh, I didn't know I was in love. We sat at the same table, but we barely looked at each other. We weren't supposed to look at anybody too much that you liked, especially loved. I didn't call it love. I just called it a very nice person, and I liked her and I know she liked me, but she didn't dare look up and look at me. Finally, I was very sick and the head nurse, she said I might be better if I talked to that particular sister, Elizabeth. We never, we never sneaked. That was the only time I ever talked to her. I said, "I've not come here to be banned. I just came here to find God and somebody to love because I was lonesome and alone." So then she put her arms around me and hugged me a couple of times. I found out that she liked me just as much I did her. She said, "We can't be that way here," and then she kissed me and hugged me. After that, a priest came up the stairs and said, "We have decided that you will have to leave the convent." I said, "Oh no, she did that. She kissed me. I didn't want to do that." The superior said that I had proved that I was not fit to be a nun. They put me in a room and locked the door. That night they took me out in the dark and put me on a train. I don't know if she is there now. Maybe she died, but anyway, boy, I sure didn't die.
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