ID follow up–the next generation

In the previous post, I discussed the Butch dodo bird: the possibility that self ID’d butches are disappearing.  I wondered if that term was being replaced by something else, or if there’s something I’m not seeing. Or that maybe it’s a cultural thing.

Based on the wonderful responses I got, as well as a conversation I had with a twenty-something Uni student, here is what seems to be the case:

The butch ID among the next generation is alive and well. However, there does seem to be a regional element. Big cities make a difference, as do bohemian cities. Working class cities have fewer butch young people (perhaps for safety reasons?) Butch is also more inclusive than it has been in the past: the young woman I spoke to said she’s considered butch among her Uni community. She was wearing make-up and had on lace leggings under her torn jeans.

The butch experience is still considered the more ‘valid’ experience: the femme label remains ostracised (from the young Uni student– “People think if you’re femme that you’re just straight and playing around, or pretending, or something. That you’re not a real lesbian.”) I admit I find this stunning. That’s exactly what happened to me when I came out twenty years ago. I thought we’d certainly moved on…evidently not.

So. There are still butches out there, and femmes, and every ID under the sun in between and outside. And through this blog and my conversation with the Uni student, I began to wonder: is anyone mentoring the next generation? Do they have role models to talk to, people that look/act the way they want to? Do you, reader, reach out to the younger lgbt folks?

I’ve made a decision: I’m going to reach out. They may not need me. But how good is it to be there when another young femme feels less than because other folks are telling her what a ‘real’ lesbian looks like?

Book: Stigmata by Helene Cixous

Song: Alejandro by Lady Gaga

 

 

The Butch Dodo Bird?

As many of you readers know, I’m interested in the gender spectrum. 

Gender: performing our notion of masculine/feminine roles (how we dress, how we move through society, how we take up space, how we cross our legs, etc, etc, etc).

Sex: the chromosomes we’re born with.

Those are my ultra-simplistic definitions. Which leads me to why I’m talking about them.

I self identify as femme, and S self identifies as butch (to some extent. More metrosexual masculine than butch, per se. S’s feeling is that butch as it was used when I was growing up in the lesbian community is reserved for the ‘serious’ butches I grew up with-the motorcycle riding, intensely masculine, ‘old school’ butches. She’s trendy, hates motorcycles, and is more likely to break something than fix it, thanks to her patience levels.)

We were discussing the nature of age gap and butch representation yesterday.

We’ve lived in the UK for nearly six years now, and I feel like I can safely say that in this culture, we see very little ‘traditional’ butch representation among young people. I see a fair amount within my own age group and older (35 and up), but when I look around in various settings, whether that be club, bar, pub, or book event, I see lots and lots of fantastically gendered spectrum, but no one I would look at and think, “I bet they ID butch.” (Yes, I’m basing this almost entirely on stereotype: short hair, men’s clothes, swagger. This comes from my own experience of the butch ID, and is in no way all there is to being butch, or even a way that butch ‘has to be’. Allow me my generalizations for a moment, if you will.)

S and I came to the conclusion that perhaps the definition/performance of butch is less stringent than it was when we were coming out.  Maybe butch no longer means wearing men’s clothes, but rather simply wearing whatever suits you at the moment and the way you feel inside. Maybe butch itself is an outdated classification? Is the butch ID going the way of the Dodo bird?

Or, is it cultural? While we may not be seeing young butches in England, perhaps you’re seeing them in your culture? Or perhaps we, as butch-femme folks, are, as we’ve often been, at the ends of the spectrum and therefore are simply less visible, because not a lot of us ID that way?

So, readers, here is my question:

What are you seeing in your culture and area? Are there, in fact, fewer young butches about? If so, why do you think that is? Do you think butch is still, for the under 30 crowd, a desired and/or personal label? Young readers–how do you, and your friends, self ID?

*I’m aware many of my readers don’t like labels, etc. This is directed more at those of us who do ID within that particular niche, or those who may not label that way, but ‘get’ the desire to do so.*

 

Six Degrees of Outsider

My mother is a lesbian. She had me at 16 and was out of the closet and with a woman by 17.

This means that, unlike many lgbt folks, I grew up in the community. I went to enormous lesbian parties, I went to Pride, I went to women’s music festivals. I camped, I was watched by other lesbian couples when mom needed a babysitter, I went to rugby games and gay bars (when I was older, obviously). I grew up around strong, independent women. The majority were of the butch/femme variety. I don’t know if that was because of the times we lived in, or if it was because that’s what my mom and her partner(s) were, and therefore they hung out with the same dynamic of friends. I had a lesbian dad I’m still very attached to.

Regardless, I grew up there. In a way, I think that’s why it took me so long to figure out I was a lesbian. I was surrounded by people who felt the way I did, so that wasn’t strange or noticeable. It was only when my first girl-crush asked me out that it hit me in the forehead.

Fast forward a decade (or two), and I’m in a country other than the one I grew up in. I’ve developed an amazing network of friends and writers, both gay and straight. I’m in a profession I love. I have a great partner and wonderful family.

But. (You knew there would be one, didn’t you?)

Well, not really but. More like, and.

And I’ve attended various lesbian events here. Various parties, camping, dances, socials, nights at the pub.

After being in a community all my life, where I knew a vast amount of the players and they were all connected by six degrees of strap-on, I find myself on the outside looking in. There’s a community, yes. And they all know one another, and many have slept together (of course), and there are cheek kisses and laughs and sniggers behind hands.

Only now, I’m watching from a distance. I know only a handful of these people. People from another culture, few who are butch/femme (not terminology used in this country, really), where I’m still learning how to act and what to say and who’s who.

It’s not a bad place to be, not in any way. It’s just…different. Here, I’m a pushy, brash American who talks and laughs too loud and is far too blunt. I’m learning to temper it, as one must adapt to one’s culture. And slowly, as I get to know people, I’m making tiny steps into this community for which I’m sure I’m still missing some of the behavioral norms. I think, with age, it bothers me less and less to be on the outside looking in. Rather, I analyse it in relation to the ‘outsider’ experience as a whole and it makes it’s way into my writing. I’m finding, as I get older (and wiser?) that community, as such, is less important than friends in general, with a place to be safely ourselves. In this country, that’s damn near anywhere. We may even be able to be married soon…

So, my question for you: 

How important is a community to you? Do you have one? Do you need one? How important is it to you to be surrounded by like-minded people?

Book: The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood

Song: Not in Love by Enrique 

Respect for the Sporty Butch

I’m not a sporty girl.

I know it’s hard to believe.

But it’s true. I don’t like to sweat (it makes me itch. Does that mean I’m allergic to sweating? I think it does). I don’t like to be out of breath or have my hair all messed up. I don’t like to run into other people’s sweaty bodies, especially if it’s not sexual.

I mean, what’s the point?

But S, on the other hand, is very sporty. Football is her passion (soccer, for the US folks), and she’s really good at it. (Yes, I may be slightly biased. And I don’t know much about the sport. But I do think she’s good).

Yesterday, S played football with her colleagues from work. There were four teams, playing seven aside. So, twenty-eight folks, not including the ones they put in when the others get tired. (I can’t think what they’re called–replacements? Extras? New sweat? Ah–substitutes. I think.)

Some of these players were particularly large men.

S was the only woman on the pitch.

The only one.

And she took some good hits. The largest guy on the pitch tackled her, and she tumbled acrobat style head over ass, laughing with a British ‘fucking hell’ when she got back to her feet.

Can I tell you how much I respected her out there? How it made my heart swell with pride when she nabbed the ball from some guy, got around him and passed to a teammate? Can I tell you that although I winced, I was also damn proud that she got right back up and kept playing, even after getting trounced by someone who throws people out of bars for a living?

I stood there on the side lines, cheering her on like a good femme, taking a zillion pictures, and thinking…

How frigging awesome is it that my butch is out there, playing a game she loves, running circles around guys half her age, taking hits, and just being herself, amid all that testosterone?

And how much cooler is it that they played the way they played with everyone else–no one stopped to make sure she was okay, no one worried about shoving her out of the way, no one treated her any differently than any other player.

Now that’s respect.

To me, that’s the essence of both butch and gender respect–S kicked ass out there in all her sweaty footballishness, and the guys didn’t give a rats ass she was female, as long as she played well.

Nice.

Song: Sexy and I know it by LMFAO

Book: Women in the Ancient World (The British Museum)

Blog: Silly Wrong but Vivid Right

A Letter to the Rainbow

You are not inadequate. 

You are not too fat.

Or too thin.

You are not stupid.

Or worthless.

You should not be hurt.

Or shoved aside.

You are amazing.

You are not worthless.

You are exceptional in your bravery.

You are beautiful from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to bed.

You know things others don’t, and are willing to learn more.

You are loved.

You have so much to give, and yes, it is appreciated. Even if you don’t know it.

Do not cringe, do not hide, do not fade. Be proud that you have the courage to get up and move through your day to the best of your abilities. Be aware of the good, the beauty, the sublime around you and know you reflect it in every breath you take.

They can only take it away from you if you let them. Don’t let them. Don’t give them any power over you, because it’s your power, your individuality, your naked vulnerability they fear.

Stand tall, stand proud, and show them just how amazing you are, no matter what their silly, small, preconceived notions may be. Let their box, be their box, not yours. You do not need to fit into anyone’s category, anyone’s phylum, anyone’s religious paradigm.

All you have to do is be true to yourself. And that means learning about yourself, figuring out who you are and who you want to be. And that will change, each and every day, with the things you learn and the power you gain through the courage of living as the person you are and not the person they want you to be.

And there are others like you. Never forget that. You are not alone on this little planet. You’re a keystroke away from someone who can say, “you’re wonderful.”

Because you are. Wonderful, amazing, lovely, funny, sweet, witty, charismatic, caring, devout, loyal, smart.

Loved.

Show them. Show them all.

Epilogue: The Good Lesbian

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

(S pointed out to me that though it was really traumatic for me, I didn’t really get my feelings across about being dumped by the girl with the bandanna.)

I am a femme. I identify as a femme, and I was raised by a femme. Never did my mother suggest or mention that other people thought we were less-than because we were femmes.

So in college, I continued to wear dresses and do my make-up and my hair and wear heels. And I thought the girl with the red bandanna liked that. She said she did, anyway.

The small group of lesbians on campus weren’t like me, though. They all had short hair and wore men’s clothes. They were the kind of women I was attracted to. The problem, though, was that they really, really disliked me.

They made fun, both to my face and behind my back, of my heels, and my hair, and my dresses. They called me names, they made me less than. It was worse than being invisible–I was visible and ugly. I was everything they were trying not to be, everything a Good Lesbian shouldn’t be.

The girl with the red bandanna left me for one of those. A ginormous, shaved head butch with a wallet chain and biker boots.

From me, a fire engine lipstick femme, to a butch who hated femmes. Or, at least, this femme.

It crushed me, and it made me ashamed of being a femme. It made me hide. It made me cry. It made me think there was genuinely something wrong with me because I wasn’t a Good Lesbian.  Those women doubting my identity made me doubt my identity.

I stopped wearing dresses, I stopped wearing skirts. I traded thigh highs for men’s jeans.

And I lost me. For a long time.

But I’m older and wiser, and that little group of bitter lesbians is long behind me. I’m a femme. I’m a proud femme. I’m a femme in a butch-femme relationship, with someone who likes my heels and make-up and long hair, who appreciates the femme in me with the butch in her, right down to my stockings and lace.

But damn, it was a rough road to get to this place. I’ve been ridiculed by lesbians old enough to know better. How stupid to make us fight to be Good Lesbians, when you have to fight just as hard to be the person you want to be. Don’t you see the irony?

Related articles

• Megan Evans: Tackling Femme Invisibility (huffingtonpost.com)
• Feminist discussion group: Femme identity & femininity (umsuwomyns.com)

A Letter to the Butch in the Bathroom

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.

A Butch by any other name…

Tons of stuff on my mind right now. It seems nano’ing has jumped my mojo and humped it into procreation…

or something.

1. The spectrum of Butch. I’m a believer in the whole gender-as-spectrum thing, with the end being…well, probably an uknown signifier, because really, it isn’t a straight line, is it? It’s a 4 dimensional spectrum that shoots off in every direction.

S and I were talking about it in the car the other day, and she brought up my childhood. You see, Mom is a femme. And Mom is a femme who liked stone butches for most of my life. The kind of stone butch who hasn’t transitioned only because it simply wasn’t done then and they wouldn’t want to do that to their families, etc etc. Butches most often mistaken for men and usually never bothered by it (if not downright welcoming of it). My missing-but-beloved Other Parent is butch through and through.

My Other Parent

When I came out at 17 as a femme I started dating butch women. And that was that, really. But there’s been a whole range of Butch, from the one who had my emerald-green, lace teddy on when I came home (I put a stop to that damn fast–that shit was expensive), to the one who was about to transition and couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t stay with her (note: she was a misogynistic red neck with violent tendencies. Enough said). And lots in between. But the bottom line was all of them identified as Butch.

I think there’s a thread of thought to be considered here, particularly as a femme (or a Butch into other Butches): what is it you want from your Butch? Because no matter a person’s identity, we all have needs, and we need those needs met, so it’s important to be with someone who can fulfil them.

For instance, do you want a stone butch (someone who does not want to be touched in a sexual manner, generally speaking)? Do you want a pebble butch (one who will allow a bit of touchy touchy every once in a while)? Or do you want a woman who is willing to take it not much differently from the way you do? Or, yet again, something somewhere in between all of that?

If your Butch asks for something out of the ordinary for her, does it change your perception of her? Or is it just another facet of the wonderful identity that is Butch-Human? Do you have definitive, must-be ideas of what constitutes Butch? And if you do, does that make you think of a self-identified Butch as something ‘other’ if they are outside your parameters? Or can you accept a Butch in every/any form she comes in?

What is your reaction when someone who self identifies as butch does things you would normally ascribe to femme behaviour? I.E wears dresses, heels, make-up etc, and not just for work/business reasons.

Tell me tell me tell me. I want your creativity splashed and spluttered and scattered all over this one. Bring it on. Share. Give it up.

Etc.

2. Will follow soon.

Nano Word Count: 11,322

Song: You Give me Something by James Morrison

Book: Faust. (This is going to be a long haul)

Related articles

• Oakland Hosts BUTCH Voices and Femmes of Color Symposium National Gatherings This Weekend (pinkbananaworld.com)
• A Butch in the kitchen (amativeconcrete.wordpress.com)

Cyclonic Gender

Right.

So yesterday I blogged about not being part of a matrilineal cyclone of self-destruction, epitomized by public preening.

But a friend commented that as a femme, I have a natural inner diva, one bound to be noticed whether I intend it or not, especially at a venue where sport is the primary interest.

Here’s my question, given that hypothesis:

Does being a femme mean higher desire for visibility in a lesbian venue? More visibility in general, just on the basis of being a femme? Are femmes (both straight and gay) more prone to the need for attention, especially in public places?

In England, more so than in California, femmes are a rare bird. The vast majority of lesbians here run more to the middle of the road androgynous or butchier types.

Which means when I’m in a lesbian venue/gathering, I stick out by virtue of my long hair and well presented cleavage.

I could change that, and blend into the crowd by going back to wearing men’s clothing and diminishing my curves, etc. I could sit quietly in the group, watching football with everyone else (or pretending to). I could avoid eye contact and widen my stance. I could be more reserved and not walk right up and introduce myself to people to tell them about my event and learn more about them.

But.

That’s not who I am.

I’m a femme. I like having curves and showing them to advantage, not to get someone to notice me, but because it makes me feel like I look good, which makes me feel good inside. I like the way my long hair feels against the bottom of my back when I’m dancing. I feel sexy in heels. I genuinely like purses and billions of pairs of shoes.

Even if I’m standing there playing pool, with whoever is bored enough to play with me, my intention is not to get folks to look at me. It’s enough that I feel like I look good, and I think most people, single or not, like to feel like they look good.

It’s Darwinian. We like to look good, like many animals. We dress our skins in colors that suit us, we fluff our feathers and move like we own the world. Not to attract a mate necessarily but because we can. And that, my friendly readers, goes for all of us on the gender stratosphere. Not just us femmes.

So, suddenly I find myself feeling better about my behavior. Because I wasnt standing there hoping for attention, thinking that people would be looking at me. I was standing there feeling like I’d lost enough weight that I felt good in my clothes, in my skin, in myself. Not just as a femme, but as a woman. Not for anyone to notice, but for me to feel deep down in that glittery pink soul of mine.

And how cool is that?

Cyclone averted.

Book: The Cool Side of the Pillow by Gill McKnight.

Song: So Far Gone by James Blunt

Aside: American Femme Pushiness

Aside: on the tram today, I saw two punky-type dykes get on. Full of tats and piercings, one with a mohawk. Being the middle-aged, dumpy, invisible femme I am, they didn’t take a second glance at me. I scrounged in my bag for an event leaflet, but of course didn’t have any. So instead, I wrote the lesbian literature event details on my business card, and plopped myself down next to them. “I’m guessing here, but are you gay?” Affirmative. “Great. We’re having an event the weekend before Pride at Waterstones, and I’m trying to get the word out.” Nods of understanding, accompanied by ironically demure responses.

Bottom line: I’m only invisible if I allow it. Yeah, I may have to be a bit more pushy to get noticed, but so what? Maybe they’ll show up, maybe not. But they’ll remember the femme that accosted them on the tram.

And I’m okay with that.