Dear baby butch,
There I was, giving pieces of myself out all over the place, fake smile plastered on with a paycheck, placating, giving, laughing in all the appropriate places.
And then there you were, the last in your group. And my heart did that little stutter thing: not the kind of stutter that says strap it on and bring it over here, but the kind of stutter that says:
I see you.
Standing there with your perfect buzz cut, with your men’s t-shirt just tight enough, your jeans loose over your big black boots.
I see you.
But let me tell you what else I saw:
Your shoulders hunched, your eyes on the backs of other people’s heels. Taking up the space in that big ‘ol noisy foyer like a feather in a yard of chickens.
You disappeared into the box with your group, and it was only later, running down the hall to stop someone from pouring beer on someone else, I saw you again.
This time you were walking into the bathroom just as we ran past, and the guy in front of me, he didn’t see you. Not you, really. Just the back of your shaved head and men’s clothes staggering into the ladies loo during a drinking night out.
And he said, “hey, mate, that’s the ladies loo.”
And you turned, and I knew shame. And I grabbed his shirt and shoved him forward at the same time you said, in the softest feather voice I’ve heard from a woman with a leather studded belt, “I am a lady.”
I see you.
Your eyes didn’t meet his. Or mine, when I said, “I’m so sorry. Our apologies.” Your eyes stayed on my knees, or the carpet. Somewhere where you didn’t see people looking at you as less, as different, as something to be feared or hurt.
But you know what, baby butch? You also didn’t see me, seeing you. You didn’t see the proud femme wanting you to look up, to stare at him defiantly and make him look again. You didn’t see, because you’re afraid. And I get that.
But what are you missing by not seeing, baby butch? It’s not all about fear. There’s some goddamned beauty out there too. Claim it. Make it yours. Take up the space you want, need, deserve. Be proud of who you are and the way your represent it. You’re not just a feather. You’ve got a whole damn flock right there with you.
Look up. I see you.
I’ve been called sir at least 3 times whilst traveling across Texas.
And how do you feel about that, Lee?
I’m quite late with this, I know, but after reading this twice (and all the comments) I just had to say something. This is so important, and not just for the young ones. There are plenty of us who absolutely MUST be the masculine/butch/tomboys we are, despite what slings and arrows fly at us, but who are nevertheless fearful and wary. All. The. Time. That seeming contradiction is a part of why we’re often misunderstood. But you are right; if we don’t look up, we can’t see what’s right in front of us. Why that’s so difficult at times, remains a mystery, to me, at least. But it’s the brave allies and fellow different folk, like you, who make it worth the risk of looking up more often. Thank you, so much. I’m going to make an effort in this coming year to do just that, next time I’m ‘sirred’ (which is almost daily).
S4S,
I’m so glad you came by and read. I can’t tell you how true it is–if you look up, you’ll see those of us who so appreciate you, just as you are. Not for something you should be, or ought to be, or that society deems you lacking. We see YOU. And you’re amazing for all your bravery.
Take the sir as an indication you’re doing it right–being you, in all the gender forms that takes.
May the new year bring you the beautiful confidence that means you look up.
Pingback: Blog stats: 2012 in review | The Musings of a Lesbian Writer
Just beautiful.
Thank you Diana.
Thank you for this, for your appreciation of butch women, for the encouragement to walk tall and look others in the eye and not to be afraid or ashamed of who and what we are. Ive done the bathroom routine so many times Ive lost count, but like others that have read this post I may just react slightly differently the next time a lady looks at me with a question in her eyes in the ladies toilets.
A truly lovely piece.
Thanks Anne–I hope you always remember–we see you.
It’s a lovely thought – the idea that we are seen in a positive way. I dont think Im ever going to be able to look at femmes (or maybe even othre bitches) in the same way again – I will probably always be smiling now with the thought that they see me. Thank you
that should have said other Butches…. so much for speed typing duh!
But it’s true–sometimes we’re so stuck on what we Think people see, we forget to look up and see them too.
That is so true – ive git stuck in a loop that everyone looking at me is thinking a certain way and maybe – just maybe- they arent thinking ‘that’ at all. Thank you
Saturday afternoon I had to go to Walmart (ugh) to get a few things. When I turned the corner to go down the coffee aisle, I saw a woman that had been a friend of mine in what I call my previous life, when I was married. I’ve known her for close to 20 years – we went to church together, our kids played together when they were little…. But while the lives of most of my friends from that time have not changed too much, mine has changed dramatically in the past 5 years. I’m no longer going to church, and no longer married, and I have a girlfriend instead of a husband. And there’s a part of me that still feels a bit shameful when I do run into someone from my past life. In fact, on Saturday at the store, I nearly turned around so I could avoid seeing that friend.
But I had read this post earlier in the day and your words came back to mind: “Take up the space you want, need, deserve. Be proud of who you are…” I’m not butch by any means, so I’ve never had to face the things that the young woman you wrote about has had to. But your words still meant a lot to me in that moment… helping me to remember that there are many people who have seen me and still think I’m ok. I think I might be finally learning to think that about myself too.
You wrote in one of the comments that you have lots to say, but worry that people will be bored by it. Nothing could be further from the truth.
xo
wow. Thank you for telling me, Laurie. It means so much…
Wow! Absolutely beautiful. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve gotten “This is the ladies room/woman’s change room”. My response is usually “I know” while looking them in the eye, but it definitely wears on a person. I think the hardest to deal with is actually when women will walk in and see me, walk out… look at the sign on the door, and either walk away or come back in but act all uncomfortable. At least when they confront me about it I have the ability to stand up for my right to be in there.
All that just to say, thank you so much for sharing this. The next time I face the ‘bathroom/change room issue’ I’ll definitely remember this and it really will make it a little easier to endure.
Thank you Aideen. Just think how silly they look checking to make sure they’re in the right loo.
We see you too.
Vic, this was achingly lovely.
Thanks Pol.
I’m with Lee – definitely reads like poetry. Beautiful. Thanks for this.
Thanks for reading Carsen.
Vic,
Beautifully written, and painfully true. I remember when I was that babydyke. So hard to muster up the courage to claim your rightful space. Even now, as a gray haired senior citizen dyke, I face the “bathroom issue” nearly everyday, and it still pierces my heart each time I hear, “Excuse me, sir” or “This is the women’s bathroom.” But, at least now I usually have the courage to look them in the eye and say, “I know.” Keep looking us in the eye, sometimes that is the only thing that lets us know we are real.
Hey Kes,
I think it’s easier in other countries, where the gender dichotomy isn’t so set in stone.
We see you too.
wow, vic. to be seen. that is all that we all really want, isn’t it? what an amazing post. thank you for sharing it.
Hi Liz, thanks for reading. Amazing what being seen can give you.
Loved this, thanks!
Thanks Linds!
Wonderfully put, and I think equally applicable to basically everyone when they’re within perhaps the first year or two of coming out. I know the first year I did what I think of as “making myself small”. Those “oh fuck don’t look at me, please don’t notice me” moments, mixed with those “Why doesn’t she/don’t they notice me at all?”.
I’ve seen what you’ve described at one stage or another with virtually every baby butch, dyke, femme, futa (this one only in the mirror admittedly), trans, bi-girl/guy that I’ve known. But one really sticks out.
About four years after I came out I was on a night out with some friends in my hometown. We went to what used be my local watering hole (now it’s a kip overrun with the very worst kind of screaming Irish queens, and therefore being there and Trans are very much contraindicated. *shudders*). I what turned out to be this really adorable bigirl. If you pulled an anime character out of the screen, and gave her flesh, that was this girl. Of course I was instantly besotted. The problem was that this girl had obviously spent HOURS on her hair, make-up, clothes, hell she’d even shined her shoes! I mean who the hell shines their shoes these days? But she was sitting in the furthest, darkest corner well away from everyone else.
In the end when I finally got to talk to her it turned out that she couldn’t understand why no-one paid any attention to her. But she was also scared by the other people there, especially the Irish version of diesel dykes who she’d heard saying a lot of nasty comments about girls like her.
I think most of the “eyes down” thing with the newly outted does come down to fear of those already established in the community. They’re fixtures on the scene, and often enough they have the ability to alienate large parts of that scene against others.
Well that’s my two cents.
I agree, the established crowd isn’t always that welcoming. Which is such a shame. We all now what it’s like to feel different and uneasy during those early years of self discovery. I’m not even sure it actually ever gets easier. The least we could do is make those like ourselves feel safe when attempting to fit in with us.
I always love your stories. Thank you for sharing this one.
It’s true, so much of it is fear based. I so wish she had looked up so I could have smiled at her and let her know she wasn’t sitting in that dark corner by herself.
Beautiful. <3
thanks Joey.
Beautiful. thanks.
thanks for reading.
Pingback: Letters to friends « Andi Marquette
Nice. Love this. Sharing…
thanks Andi. love being shared…
Wow. This reads like poetry – really, I found myself reading as if it was verse. Powerfully femme, Respectful, tender, important. Captures the shame, the pride, the fear, the courage. Thank you.
thanks Lee. Coming from you that’s high praise indeed.
Am so proud you read me.
per yr response to Andi, can i tweet, G+, FB a link to this? it’s important work.
You’re frigging Lee Lynch. You can do anything you want!
(of course, by all means Lee. Thank you for that).
Beautiful.
thanks Pete
Really nice..”Like a feather in a yard of chickens.”…and you keep going with the metaphor.
Is your published writing this good?
thank you!
I find it hard to judge my own work. you can find my publication list at the top of the page and let me know.
Beautifully written Vic. It made me cry…
Thanks Y. I didn’t mean to make you cry. That’s for editing.
You should mean to make us cry. That’s when you’ve most exposed your writer’s soul.
I think I’m a bit stunned, Lee. It was a piece I thought of in the tub while thinking about the day. I didn’t know it would so effect people. But I’m glad it has.
Are you kidding? The shower is my muse. Such safe places, our thoughts can tumble out of our hearts any way they want. You have lots to say.
true–safe, quiet places where you’re not distracted are perfect. I have stuff to say, but worry I’ll bore people when I say it.
A constant fear of mine too. I reassure myself by thinking of the one person I reach. And chide myself asking how dare I not share what’s given me to share!
Love this.
Thank you.
Thanks Wendi. I’m looking forward to reading your story in the anthology!
Excellent! I’d love to hear what you think about it!