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 

Road-Works–Slow

Well, not really slow, per se.

Death in the Pub, 2012

But you know those weeks when everything just gets on top of you (and not in the good way)? And it’s not big stuff. It’s small, niggly, constant stuff. The plumbing going crazy, then the heating going crazy. Meetings involving travel, meetings involving time, meetings involving preparation. Sleepless nights thinking about meetings. Editing, reading, writing, planning.

And yet, nothing seems to get done. Except the meetings themselves. Which lead to further tasks, obviously.

In theory, the coming week has an aspect of calm, in which I can start to get things done. Because there are things hanging over my head that need dealing with before I feel like I can get the other stuff done.

If you have time, check this out: I’d love feedback. Proposals are floating about cyberspace, and I’m hoping more will filter through. So tell your writer-ly friends where to go when they ask for your opinion. (And this is the nice way of doing it, instead of the sod-off, you energy vampire you kind of way).

Anecdote time:

This weekend we drove to Manchester to attend a Halloween party at S’s mum’s house. Full on costume party with almost exclusively family. (Pics and video on FB). And it was fun, and chaos, and loud, and silly, and alcohol and food fuelled  I wore the mask in the pic above, and half way through the night our four-year old niece took the mask, threw it on the floor, and said, “That mask is BAD. You can not have it back.” And then stomped on it. Most other family members would glance at me and look away, made uncomfortable by the lack of features and expression. Perfect for Halloween, and it also make me ponder:

How much do we depend on facial expression to understand someone else’s mood/emotions/state of mind/reactions? And how uncomfortable does it make us when we can’t decipher them? We use the computer to interact with a host of people throughout the day, relying on words rather than expression. So why do we place such a premium on physical expression when we’re with someone?

Thoughts?

Song: All Around Me by Flyleaf

Book: A Word Child by Iris Murdoch

It begins.

Time off in America is looked at very differently than time off in the UK. 

In America you may get a week off every year, and if you actually take it, there’s a strange stigma that comes with it– “You’re actually taking a vacation?”

In the UK, you get an average of 28 days per year. A month, folks. And it’s a given that you’ll take it, generally in little chunks throughout the year. Everyone does, and someone always has some little holiday to look forward to throughout the year.

Hence: tomorrow we begin our two week journey to Florida. Disney, beaches, shopping.  Two weeks of sunshine before the winter fully sets in here in England. Which, given the fact I had the heat on today, will be fully in place by the time we get back.

I may have to do a bit of work while there, but the beauty of being a writer/editor is that I can do it while watching the dolphins swim past or the sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.

I’ll be posting pics, of course, and random updates while we’re traveling about. Of course, I also hope to do a bit of writing while laying on the sand. (Not so much while hanging with Mickey).

So, I may go slightly quiet, and probably not overly articulate, for a while. See you soon.

Recalibrating

So, due to redundancy issues, I’ve had a sudden burst of time on my hands since everything slowed down after the Olympics. Suddenly  documents are done, I’ve surfed jobs that might of be of interest, etc.

But today was a turn around day for me. A kind of recalibration, I guess.

I realized I fell off the diet bandwagon, and though I’ve had time, I haven’t done any of my own writing either. I’ve gotten the editing done I needed to, but not gotten ahead.

Why?

The answer I’ve come up with today is that I needed to decompress. I go full force, full throttle, all steam ahead, as long as possible, juggling all those balls.

When everything slows down, I don’t just drop one ball–I drop them all. And walk away.

But after a week of decompressing, of allowing those balls to roll around unchecked at my feet, I suddenly have the energy to pick them up again. I realize it wasn’t that I wanted to give up on stuff (like dieting) but rather that I just needed to let go of the strictness of my everyday routine. I needed to eat what I wanted, watch what I wanted, play games, sleep, relax.

It’s only been a week that I’ve done this, but I feel immensely better. I think in the scheme of things, I’m the type of person to need a break. I don’t have the greatest willpower on the planet, and it actually takes an exceptional amount of discipline for me to continue doing things I wouldn’t normally do (like eat salad for lunch and take long walks). Allowing myself a break in willpower allows me to feel like I have control again, that my schedule and personally enforced boundaries are not in charge.

It’s the last week of August. Autumn is just around the corner. How was your summer?

Song: In My Dreams by James Morrison

Book: The Golden Bowl

Blog: Limebird Writers

Calm down. It’s just your destiny.

1: 

I am sensitive. Yes, sometimes overly so. I cry at adverts, I cry at cartoons, I cry when I brush my teeth. But not much pisses me off. Really, if I were any more laid back I’d be in a coma.

There is one thing that irks me like nothing else, however:

Someone telling me to “calm down”, particularly when I’m happy or excited about something. There’s just something so patronizing about it. It’s like they’re telling you they know how you should be acting, that you’re acting inappropriately, that you’re a child.

Really, it makes me want to punch them in the face.

How’s that for calm?

There’s just something about being spoken down to that twists my knickers into knots. Not comfortable, I assure you.

2: 

Do you believe in destiny? Do you think there’s a master plan for you that you’re always working toward, even if you don’t know it?

Or are you just haphazardly flapping your way through life, pooping mid-air and emergency landing whenever you start to get sucked into a propeller?

If you do think you have a destiny, do you ever get to know what it is? Or do you make it happen and then kick the bucket, possibly without ever having a clue? Do some people have destinies but not others? Is there a destiny hierarchy? Are some people destined for greatness and others destined for…well, not greatness?

I watched a lovely movie recently, where the female main character was destined to be the change her clan needed to survive. Of course, she finds out and strives to overcome, etc.

I think we all hope for greatness. We all have dreams of being the best ever at something, where folks know our name and tell anecdotal stories about us for centuries to come. But how many people on the planet have that happen?

Your thoughts?

Song: The Other Side of the Kiss by Mindy McCready

Book: On Becoming a Fairy Godmother by Maitland

Blog: Always Off Topic

What Would You Say?

So, I’m good at asking questions. Particularly ones without answers. 

But talking about myself? Not so much.

In which case, me being me, I’m going to ask you this:

How would you describe yourself to someone who didn’t know you, but really wanted to? What details do you give,which do you leave out? If they didn’t ask anything specific, what would you say, and how would you say it?

Go.

(Like the others, I’ll add my answer after everyone else does).

Song: Cambia la Piel by Ricky Martin

Book: The Sea, The Sea by Virginia Wolfe

Blog: A Stranger in this Place

I remember that. I think…

Sorry about the prolonged absence. I’ve been slammed by an avalanche of work, and then drowned by tidal wave of commitments, both current and immanent. As well as swamped by new kittens and family. 

How’s that for water based metaphors?

So, I’m back in touch with family members I haven’t seen in nearly thirty years. People who knew my childhood self, but never my adult self.

It’s mind-blowing. Three decades of experiences to share: where do you start?

So there’s lots of sharing going back and forth, with the past left where it belongs.

But it’s led me to an interesting conundrum:

Where do your memories come from?

I mean, are they real memories, or are they taken from accounts of an event or a picture meant to capture the moment? How much of what you remember is actual fact, and how much is filled in, the creamy center inserted after the product is already baked, so to speak?

You see a pic, and think, I’m sure I remember that…so you tell someone about it. But how much of the retelling is real, and how much have you subconsciously made up in order to make sense of the event years after the fact?

It seems to me memory is easily manipulated. Something happens, and a few weeks or months later you reinterpret the event as you mull it over. Adding layers of nuance, of subtext, until the memory itself is replaced by that subtext. So what’s real? The new adapted memory, or the original? Can you even determine what the original is?

What do you think?

Song: Whenever, Wherever by Shakira

Book: Haunting Whispers by VK Powell

Blog: Rebecca’s Blog. Our lovely local Nottingham author and my good friend. Also, she likes to play dress up…

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