For me, coming out was a lot like this:
“You? Really? I mean… you don’t LOOK like a lesbian.”
Even my gay friends didn’t take me seriously. I thought I
wasn’t “lesbian enough”. I hated it. I hated myself- for not fitting in, for
not being “gay enough”, for not being taken seriously. So I did what I thought
I had to do: I cut my hair, took off my nails, traded my skirts for cargo
shorts, my diamonds for neck ties, and my lipstick for chapstick. I figured the
only way anyone would believe me is if I looked the part. I arrived on the
scene of my new life as a brand new woman- even I didn’t recognize her- but
there was no mistaking this chick for a dyke. And it felt great. Except for the
part where I didn’t know myself anymore.
At that time, all of the lesbians in my life either IDed as
butch or bore no label at all. Each of them were what I call 100 footers
(yes, I’m citing The L Word here). I knew none of the mythical creatures referred to as “lipstick
lesbians”, I wasn’t even sure they existed. I knew it was where I’d fit, but I
needed to be accepted in the community.
Allow me to clarify- I have never been butch. I didn’t spend
a single second claiming that ID; I never felt it in my core; I merely hid
behind a disguise: the disguise that I believed would *out* me, without the
discomfort of the conversation mentioned above.
Then one day, while living in Portland, Maine, I met a few
of the illusive ladies who identified as femme. Femme- probably the most
beautiful word I had ever heard- it sounded like music; it lit a fire in my
soul; it reminded me of the girl I had hidden away from the world; it gave me
the courage to be. Femme…
I realized that no matter who I had transformed into on the
outside, my insides had always been femme. I embraced the true Lori again. That
weekend, I did everything I could to connect with that girl I had suppressed so
deeply. And I had no idea what a struggle it would be.
I am again invisible as a lesbian. I’ve grown very
accustomed to coming out. I’ve been completely out for nearly 9 years, but I
still come out almost daily. I have done it so many times; it has become part
of my getting-to-know-you speech. I have claimed a femme identity with pride
for many years now. While it hasn’t always been easy, it has always been worth
it to know myself fully.
I recently read an article that sent my blood boiling- it
stated that femmes tailor their appearance to capture a man’s gaze. Absurd! The
identity of femme is enveloped beautifully in our queerness. The author was a
lesbian. That infuriated me. It reminded me of times that I have gone into the
local gay bar and been stared at, shunned, and disregarded because I’m femme.
This is my community, too, bitches!
On the flip side, there are femmes who haven’t exactly welcomed me
into the fold; perhaps because I’m not femme enough for them. I am not
high-femme; I do occasionally leave the house without make-up, in jeans, in sneakers,
with a ponytail. That doesn’t make me less than, though these ladies (and I use the term loosely) might beg to differ.
I have discussed this topic with a few of my partners along
the way (most of which ID as butch/stud), and have learned that my own plight
is not unlike their own. I have heard things from them like, “I wasn’t butch
enough because I know how to sew.” Or “She said I’m not really butch because I
like to be fucked.” Or “I’m not butch enough because I date other butches.” I
call bullshit.
Butch and femme are not only about personifying 100% traditional
masculine/feminine roles. Hell, I plunged my own toilet this morning- I can
assure you I am no damsel in distress. It is about who you are, how you feel
about yourself, what makes you comfortable in your own skin. And those are not
things someone else can determine for you.
So I say to you, my femme sisters: You are femme in your
heels or sneakers. You are femme in a dress or jeans. You are femme in a
ponytail or in full make-up. You are femme because that is who you are. I
accept you, I do not judge you, and you are beautiful. PS: you are welcome in
my femme-club any day.
And to my delicious butches, I say to you: You are butch whether
you are working on a motorcycle or cooking dinner. You are butch even if you
have long hair. You are butch whether you are stone or you like getting fucked.
You are butch whether you bind your chest or not. You are butch because that is who you are. I
accept you, I do not judge you, and yes- you, too, are beautiful. Feel free to
send me photos in your best necktie- it’s my favorite thing!
And to the rest of you: What does a lesbian look like? She
looks like me. She may look like you. She may have tattoos and a Harley and
shoot whiskey. She may have false eyelashes, amazing cleavage, and sip Cosmos.
She may be any combination of that. She may be none of those things. Sometimes
the dust jacket doesn’t reveal all that is the amazing book inside. Sometimes
you just have to start reading to find out. And I, for one, am a pretty amazing
read.
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