The opposite ends of the spectrum

I think perhaps often because I take the observer status, always ready to learn something new, and because learning requires a propensity to listen rather than lecture, that I can, to some, not appear engaged. But the opposite is in fact true; those around me typically have my full attention. A situation that prevailed when I recently attended a Women’s Pride party, with guests that included bi, and the otherwise heterosexual but somewhat same-sex curious, they all had my full attention. In my life, I have very rarely attended a “women’s only” anything, for reasons that I now explain.

Given the era that I grew up in, I lived through the second wave of feminism, not exactly a positive experience for a young (unformed) someone who had just discovered the Butch-femme dynamic which fully embraced the masculine-feminine chemistry. This is perhaps the only period in my life where I can find some understanding of being closeted, as the BF community seemed to go deeper underground when my moment in the spotlight seemed to suddenly disappear, and when ‘enlightened’ women felt entitled, and in fact obligated, to admonish and publicly humiliate me because of what they perceived as my masculine persona. It wasn’t that I stopped getting “dates”, it's just that all “dating” was forced to be behind closed doors, it wasn’t politically or socially smart to be seen with someone like me in any community, especially a female-centered one. It was the era, when not only anything remotely masculine became the enemy, but also a time when any celebration of what was considered stereotypical feminine in adornment or behavior was equally denounced. It was a period when lipstick and heels were hidden, and it was the time when I developed my adverse reaction to anyone who identified as lesbian.

As the planet continued to rotate, and time passed, I seemed to next find myself in an equally scarring world where the binary was essential, and it appeared from where I stood that there was no room for masculine female, or feminine male, that gender realignment (or affirming) was an expectation. This was a period when the question from the community that I inhabited changed from “do you” to “when do you” plan to transition. And it seemed that the Butches who had finally finished scrambling back to the surface became to again think of themselves as “less than” if they had no inclination to start T or go under the knife. And so, while I can, like so many, recall the insults, the blatant discourteousness, and even the physical threats, promised and realized, by the bigots and the homophobes, I also know what it feels like when up until that moment of infliction, the person who is lashing out at you because of how you present, you had believed was part of your community. So, I hold no illusion that unless someone very clearly identifies as part of the Butch-femme community (and all of the nuances within it), regardless of what flag they are flying, that they are automatically my ally simply because they are female.

In my previous site, I had talked of the challenges that femme invisibility presents, the assumptions that are always made that bring forth the constant need to make the choice of simply going with the flow (which buries us deeper, as lie begets lie) or to go through the emotional upheaval that is part of coming-out. A choice that most Butches rarely need to make, instead most of us who might sit at the stone-end of the spectrum, are often faced with the illusion of “passing”. Being referred to as sir and the various other male pronouns, chased from public bathrooms and change rooms, and instead of the accusation that we are intentionally trying to deceive others into thinking we are straight, for the Butch the alleged deception is that we are trying to pass as men. Imagine a world where Butch and femme were fully understood as an identity, where Butch wasn’t equated to male or femme equated to heterosexual, and where the intensity of attraction that can exist between the opposite ends of the female-bodied spectrum was fully understood.

These are all the thoughts that buzzed around my slightly inebriated head as I stood a little to one side at the party that was in celebration of Pride. Women, all of them beautiful, many exceptionally so, from the tanned and taut flawless youth through to those that held the depth and sensuality that can only come with maturity, yet none of them familiar with the Butch-femme dynamic. A few were curious, (a curiosity that reminded me of the distant days when I had habitually had to escape through the backdoor as the husband/boyfriend unexpectedly appeared at the front door) but this wasn’t the time or place to try to explain that Butch was a noun. This was female solidarity at work, women comfortable in their own bodies, sporting apparel with slogans that celebrated female sexuality, and as the party ended, some waited for their husbands/boyfriends to collect them, others it was clear had other plans that would require that the boyfriend was to be put on hold, if only for an hour or two.

Perhaps times have changed, and the third/fourth waves of feminism with the embodiment of individuality and sexual expression have created a safer world for those of us who sit on its fringes, I don’t know. But what I do know is that to see women celebrating together and each other, with abandonment and without judgment, was something that I needed to witness firsthand. It was good for my soul.