I swear to god i was a feminist once. at 11,14,even 16 pre-bulimia breasts proudly proclaimed that this café au lait skin, kinky curly hair, and white woman stickin’ white boy ass kickin’ shiny black combat boot combination was exactly what a feminist looked like. of course, the shirt was babydoll pink for retention of that idea of femininity and didn’t come any larger than a medium so it did not hug my frame, it squeezed and bulged and was completely unflattering. i had ordered the shirt from NOW because it just looked so becoming on the model, a girl of about my age with curly brunette hair, not like mine, staring in mock defiance towards the camera; her pale complexion and even paler blue eyes washed out by the lights and the computer screen. Even then I was bitter “what in the motherfuck does she have to be so angry about?” i pondered silently to myself in the darkness of my living room, for once free of the taunts and homophobic chatter of my mother’s oft violent boyfriend.
I swear to god i was butch once. soft butch. liquid butch. and goddamnit i fucking owned that shit. but in all honesty its hard to understand marginal femininity while only dating 86 pound blonde waifs in a town full of 86 pound blonde waifs. No i didn’t have money for a brand spanking new stud wardrobe, i had rent to pay, but i found every last flannel my mother’s first wife left in boxes and wore them well, although they reeked of attic water and spousal abuse. I tailored my own pants. I wore suspenders. I did my best. there was nothing mysterious about the way i had to act, it is no different from my attitude now. it was firm, direct, straightforward, confrontational, tender and usually aching in silence. but then someone told me that i wasn’t doing it right. its not like i never owned a skirt or something, i was exactly what i was, a liquid butch who sometimes wore skirts. a kiki. a switch. even a stem at times. my exit from whiteland purchased me a school full of studs who instantly coded my body, my movements, everything i did as femme. i didn’t care enough to think about what they were saying. if loving to wear skirts because they kept my coochie from getting hot, well then i was femme. it didn’t seem to matter that much.
i swear to god i was a femme once. ruby red lips shining on perhaps the most liberal campus in America. shiny white teeth. check. winsome smile. ill work on it. enough money that buying “femme” coded shit isn’t a problem . uh, ill work on it? perceived invisibility… hell the fuck no. im a fucking jersey girl, my moms a fucking jersey girl you cant ignore me if you were blind and crazy, shitttt. oh yeah and im black you know, like not a person of color, like nigger. like ms. nigger. i cant hide in a crowded room because i promise that room will be full of gaggles of white women squabbling about anything but the tuition and talking about passing and i cant pass for anything but another kind of black. but quietly i resigned myself to the philosophy of not needing a terrible amount of overlap to connect. i mean, were all queer, were all femmes. right guys…right? solidarity, completely based on convenience did not come when femmes would only refer to their lovers as “my black boyfriend”or when the other femmes of color or femmes with lovers of color did not check that choice of language. it did not come when i thought that i would have to swim out of the room on a wave of disarming white woman tears. in fact it just plain didn’t come. if that is what a feminist looks like. if that is what a femme looks like, or sounds like. if that’s what solidarity feels like i hope that i am not a femme.
I caught myself today, thinking about that woman from the Now website that i credit with making me realize that my experiences were womanist experiences rather than feminists experiences. i wonder if she was a femme. i wonder if she worried if strangers on the street thought she was straight. i wonder if she would have unwittingly shown me the door in a space that i was willing to fight for with a wicked combination of white skinned privilege and glib self interest. and to this day i wonder what it means to be invisible when one is silent.
silence is voluntary invisibility
I swear to god i was butch once. soft butch. liquid butch. and goddamnit i fucking owned that shit. but in all honesty its hard to understand marginal femininity while only dating 86 pound blonde waifs in a town full of 86 pound blonde waifs. No i didn’t have money for a brand spanking new stud wardrobe, i had rent to pay, but i found every last flannel my mother’s first wife left in boxes and wore them well, although they reeked of attic water and spousal abuse. I tailored my own pants. I wore suspenders. I did my best. there was nothing mysterious about the way i had to act, it is no different from my attitude now. it was firm, direct, straightforward, confrontational, tender and usually aching in silence. but then someone told me that i wasn’t doing it right. its not like i never owned a skirt or something, i was exactly what i was, a liquid butch who sometimes wore skirts. a kiki. a switch. even a stem at times. my exit from whiteland purchased me a school full of studs who instantly coded my body, my movements, everything i did as femme. i didn’t care enough to think about what they were saying. if loving to wear skirts because they kept my coochie from getting hot, well then i was femme. it didn’t seem to matter that much.
i swear to god i was a femme once. ruby red lips shining on perhaps the most liberal campus in America. shiny white teeth. check. winsome smile. ill work on it. enough money that buying “femme” coded shit isn’t a problem . uh, ill work on it? perceived invisibility… hell the fuck no. im a fucking jersey girl, my moms a fucking jersey girl you cant ignore me if you were blind and crazy, shitttt. oh yeah and im black you know, like not a person of color, like nigger. like ms. nigger. i cant hide in a crowded room because i promise that room will be full of gaggles of white women squabbling about anything but the tuition and talking about passing and i cant pass for anything but another kind of black. but quietly i resigned myself to the philosophy of not needing a terrible amount of overlap to connect. i mean, were all queer, were all femmes. right guys…right? solidarity, completely based on convenience did not come when femmes would only refer to their lovers as “my black boyfriend”or when the other femmes of color or femmes with lovers of color did not check that choice of language. it did not come when i thought that i would have to swim out of the room on a wave of disarming white woman tears. in fact it just plain didn’t come. if that is what a feminist looks like. if that is what a femme looks like, or sounds like. if that’s what solidarity feels like i hope that i am not a femme.
I caught myself today, thinking about that woman from the Now website that i credit with making me realize that my experiences were womanist experiences rather than feminists experiences. i wonder if she was a femme. i wonder if she worried if strangers on the street thought she was straight. i wonder if she would have unwittingly shown me the door in a space that i was willing to fight for with a wicked combination of white skinned privilege and glib self interest. and to this day i wonder what it means to be invisible when one is silent.
silence is voluntary invisibility
1 comment:
all i want to do is see you and talk and talk and talk.
so much love and strength.
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