_Here are three excerpts from reader emails and comments this month:

"I wish I was born a man, but I don't want to be trans.  What gives?"
"I don't want to be a guy, I am a woman, but I want top surgery, or at least smaller breasts.  I guess I might be genderqueer?"
"I don't get why all butch lesbians aren't trans.  Why not go all the way?"

One underlying commonality is that all three readers are trying to reconcile a female body with the desire to have "masculine" attributes.  They all seem to assume that if a ciswoman (someone who was born biologically female and identifies as female) wants attributes that we associate with maleness, she secretly, somewhere deep down, wants to be a man.  Or at least, they suggest that being a woman with certain male attributes undercuts a self-identification as female.

As a butch who has great respect for trans men but no desire to be one, I have a few answers to the "why aren't all butches trans" question.

1. First, gender is culturally imposed.  The idea that men should wear ties and women should wear dresses is not biologically embedded in our brains.  If a woman wants to sample/use/enjoy "male" culture, why would this necessarily indicate that she would also want facial hair and a penis?  To me, the two feel totally separate.
2. "Genderqueer" means different things to different people.  But I most often hear it defined as existing outside the gender binary--someone who sees themselves as neither male, nor female.
3. "Genderqueer" is a fashionable thing to be right now.  But you need not identify as genderqueer just because you are a butchy dyke, or a cross-dressing man, or a transwoman, or anything else.  You can be a man in a dress who completely identifies as a man, or a woman in a tie who completely identifies as a woman.  Personally, I am not genderqueer.  I look rather butch/androgynous, but I completely identify as female.  Just because a woman has short hair, or binds her breasts, or wears a tie, does not mean she is automatically "genderqueer." 
   
4. There is a big difference between being a woman in "men's" clothing and being a man in "men's" clothing.  I feel at home thinking of myself as the former, but not as the latter.  I want a cufflinks and big watch and boots and a button-up shirt.  But I don't want the chest hair or Adam's apple or anything else that supposedly "goes with" being male.  Assuming that a butch "really" wants to be a man embraces the false idea that gender and sex are one and the same--that a person's body and mannerisms and shoe choices should all align. 
   
5. If you are a woman-identified butch lesbian, becoming a trans man is not "going all the way."  Being butch does not set you on some path to "full" masculinity.  A butch woman's masculinity is not different in degree from that of a butch man or FTM; it is different in kind.
   

At the risk of sounding trite ("we're-all-beautiful-and-unique-and-special-like-freaking-snowflakes-kum-bah-yah"), I hope you'll embrace your woman-ness or man-ness or genderqueer-ness or whatever-you-are-ness without regard to culturally imposed ideas of what a man or a woman is.  That doesn't just include mainstream culture, but queer culture as well: our music, magazines, friends, and community.  Question people who think inside the box.  But also question those who claim to think outside it.  Because in the end, your wild and precious identity* is yours alone.


* Apologies to Mary Oliver

     

I recently read this story in the New York Times about a photographer who takes pictures of old animals.  I find the pictures beautiful, and they made me think about aging.  I've long thought societies that revere and cherish older people have gotten it right.  I live in the U.S., where people start saying they're "getting old" in their thirties or forties, where people love getting carded, and where it's considered insulting for someone to guess that a person (especially a woman) is older than she really is.

I'd like to think that the lesbian community is different, and that we have tons of respect for the older (by "older," I mean 60s or 70s plus) dykes among us.  But I'm not sure this is true.  More than once, I've heard people my own age (30s) talk disparagingly about older lesbians, saying that they don't "get it" with regards to boi culture, or trans culture, or some other aspect of contemporary queer life.  (And, to be fair, I've occasionally heard older lesbians say disparaging things about queer youth culture, too.)

Why does this age divide exist?  Maybe because LGBTQ history and culture have evolved so rapidly in the last 50 years.  Maybe those who came of age in the Stonewall era share less with their younger counterparts than is true for straight people.  I don't think so, though; I suspect it's a manifestation of a broader tendency to dismiss older people rather than integrating them into society and seeking their wisdom.  And why does this tendency exist?  Are we obsessed with "progress," which we conflate with youth and newness?  Does hanging out with old people scare us because we don't understand it?  Does it force us to confront our own mortality?

It's especially important for the LGBTQ community to take care of its older members, because in many ways, it's harder to be an old dyke than it is to be an old straight woman.  Here are a few reasons why:

• Lesbians have more health problems than straight women do.  (This stems in part from higher rates of obesity, smoking, and alcohol abuse among lesbians than among straight women.)  Heath problems become more severe with age.
• While many lesbians have kids, we are less likely to have them than straight women are.  Old people are often taken care of by their kids; a lot of lesbians lack this resource.
• Lesbians are more likely than straight women to be alienated from their families.  This means fewer financial resources, but also fewer social ones--leading to increased rates of depression.  
• Lesbians often have few legal resources if their partner dies.  The deceased partner's family may challenge the living partner's legal standing to keep property or other assets that previously belonged to the couple.
  

I'm curious to know what you all think about this.  In general, do you think the queer community takes care of older dykes?  Should we? 

Do you ever hang out with older lesbians?  What's it like?  Tell us about your experiences: positive, negative, whatever.  And if you're a 60+ lesbian reading this blog, I'd love to hear your perspective about younger queers.

If you grew up celebrating Christmas, the holiday that used to bring you unbridled joy may now bring a big ol' dollop of mixed emotions.  When we were kids, Christmas was less complicated.  After all, what can top the idea of a benevolent, costumed, bearded man leaving gifts while you sleep?  (Hmm, come to think of it, that sounds like something a gay man dreamed up.)  But if you're like me, somewhere along the way, Christmas stopped being so easy.  Note: if you're totally stoked about the holidays this year, this entry doesn't apply to you: go have a cup of eggnog or something.

My own mixed feelings about Christmas have to do with divorce, with people I miss, and with various types of guilt.  For others of you, it has to do with a falling out with your parents, or with the death of someone you love, or with the frustration of having to pretend to be someone you're not.  These aren't exactly thoughts you can bring up at the office holiday party.  Instead, they're the kind of things that hit you when you're in line at the drugstore at 9:30 pm with a box of Red Vines in one hand and a bottle of zin in the other (just hypothetically, of course), and "The Little Drummer Boy" starts blaring from the store speakers, and--BOOM--a wave of Holiday Depression.

The first thing to know about Holiday Depression is that you're not alone.  Lots of people deal with it; they just don't talk about it.  The second thing to know about Holiday Depression is that it passes.  Don't let yourself think that your unhappiness during the holidays is somehow symbolic of the shortcomings of your life more generally.  Because this is not true.  Holidays are the time of year when the highest number of people report feeling depressed.  You will feel a hell of a lot better in January.  I promise. 

A few quick fixes for dealing with a sudden wallop of Holiday Depression:
-    Lay on the couch.  Put your headphones on and listen to the least holiday-ish music you can think of.  Angry, not sad.  I recommend Tool, Rage Against the Machine, or whatever the current equivalent of that stuff is.
-    Open up Pandora and create a "Suzanne Westenhoefer" station.  Listen.
-    Start planning a trip for somewhere you're going to go in 2012.
-    Write to me.  Ask me anything.  Or tell me something you don't feel like telling anyone else.
-    Do a project that involves plants or animals.  Personally, I love paperwhites, and they're only about $1 each for the bulbs.  You can grow them in anything and it's mesmerizing. 
-    Buy yourself a new watch, or some other stylish thing that you will look awesome in.  My DGF (and others) call this "shopping therapy." 
-    Clean your whole house.  Rearrange stuff that's been bothering you.  It will distract you, let your mind wander, and make you feel like you accomplished something.
-    Go for a walk or a run--anything that gets you outdoors.  Don't come back until you're exhausted.  Then take a nice hot shower.

These are only temporary fixes, but sometimes a quick fix is all we need to get us over the hump.  So let's hear from you: Do you ever get hit with Holiday Depression?  And what do you do about it?

I have a pet peeve: straight people who are married but nonetheless use the word "partner" rather than "husband," "wife," or "spouse."  I'm not talking about the abstract sense, in which one says, "People should support their partners."  I appreciate this looser, gender-inspecific term.  Nor am I talking about people or couples with whom I am close friends and know that they use "partner" in all circumstances as a symbol of their commitment to marriage and/or gender equality.  I'm talking about people I meet at a conference or know through work, and we are merely acquaintances and I'd have no idea if said person and his or her "partner" are legally married.

Reasons this bothers me:

1. "Partner" with convoluted sentences to avoid pronouns makes me think you're gay.  Are you doing this on purpose?  Then when I use the wrong pronoun for your partner, I feel like the idiot.  If you use "partner," follow it with a pronoun to clue me in.
   
2. You took advantage of the privileges of marriage at a time when gay people can't marry.  Fine.  I understand that.  It's your choice, and I won't judge it.  In fact, I did the same thing back when I was a wee straight lass.  But OWN it.    

I especially hate when people use "partner" in front of gay people, but "wife" or "husband" when they're with family or straight friends, it bugs me.  If you want to adopt the term "partner" full-time, awesome.  But you do not, I feel, get to have it both ways: happily traditional at Thanksgiving dinner with grandma but tolerant and sensitive around the lesbo at work. 

Yes, it's all a little irrational of me.  But when I get to know a straight couple, and they use the term "partner" all the time, and then later I find out that they're actually married, it bugs me.  It's as if they were hiding their traditional selves to spare my feelings or pretend to be politically correct.

I feel an asshole for writing this post, because:

1. I know a lot of people who use "partner" have good intentions.  They read me as a lesbian, and they're trying to be gay-friendly.  
2. People can call their spouses whatever they want to, whenever they want to.  Who made me the label police?
   

I guess "partner" bothers me because it can seem so inauthentic sometimes.  Am I the only one who feels this way?  What do you think, dear readers?

Ah, gay men.  Often we think of them as having a lot more money, much better porn, and nicer abs than we lesbians do.  But how else do we think of them?  As our buddies?  Our rivals?  Our best bet for a Christmas dinner date to Grandma's house?  In this post, I introduce something I've been thinking about for a while: the relationship between lesbians and gay men.  And I intersperse a couple of polls throughout the article to get your take on the boys.  To start with:

Many lesbians and gay men dated each other in high school, but too often we grow apart later in life.  I've heard gay men say mean things about lesbians' supposed frumpiness, grumpiness, and penchant for plaids, and I've heard lesbians say mean things about gay men's supposed bitchiness and promiscuity.  (For the record, I am against neither plaids nor [consensual] promiscuity, though frumpiness and bitchiness are both no-nos in my book.)

There's something about the gay male ethos that's very appealing to many dykes.  Just as some lesbians exude masculine energy from a female body, some gay men exude feminine energy from a male body.  Maybe the mix of masculine and feminine energy is one of the reasons that gay men and lesbians sometimes develop crush out on each other.  (They can be as mad about Maddow as we are, and goodness knows we were stoked to learn that Quinto's a queer.)

I was reminded of my fondness for gay men after spending much of Thanksgiving chatting with my wonderful gay cuz, R., who is a photographer and a total cutie (and he's single, boys, so get in line!), and the evening before Thanksgiving with some great friends (including K&M, one of my all-time favorite gay couples). 

Maybe some of my affinity for certain gay men comes from their reputation (deserved or not) as tidy, dapper, and bookish.  There's something about the "dandy" aesthetic that many butches embrace.  In defining ourselves and our style, there's often a shortage of female icons to draw on.  The gay male aesthetic offers an image of masculinity that doesn't draw on heterosexual machismo as much as many straight male icons do.  And for those who see ourselves as oppositional (in one way or another) to heterosexual masculinity, gay male masculinity provides an interesting reference point.

What stereotypes do you hold about gay men?  What stereotypes do you think they hold about lesbians?  What could a gay man and a lesbian learn from one another?

I admit it: I don't always look forward to weddings--especially straight ones.  For one, it makes me think about my own wedding to my DXH--which, while it was a joyous and terrifically fun occasion, now makes me a little sad to think about.  For another, straight weddings often include a hefty dose of gender inequality.  My brother's wedding included something in the vows about how the man was the head of the household and the woman should obey him.  (When they recited this at the rehearsal, I chortled audibly and then started giggling...  the pastor was not amused.)  Straight weddings also make me think, of course, about how the right to enter holy matrimony was one of the manifold civil rights plucked away from me as soon as I came out. 

So when I went to the (straight) wedding of two friends yesterday, I was  happy and excited for them, but not 100 percent looking forward to the event itself.  Boy, was I surprised.

For one, their vows weren't just about their commitment to each other, but to their community.  They talked about their commitment to sustainability, and to marriage equality--yes, in their vows.  I was touched.  At the brunch the next day, I went up to the bride (a pretty close friend of mine) and thanked her for including that.  She said that they decided they couldn't take part in the state-sanctioned version of marriage without making a conscious commitment to changing the institution itself.  How cool is that?!

Other factors made the wedding great, too: a casual, garden-y atmosphere, excellent wine, tasty (local, organic, sustainable) food, good music, at least eight or ten other gay folks, and the chance to dance with my DGF (we were both in ties, a dapper duo).  The whole thing was very mindful and very fun.  I was talking to another thirtysomething (straight) couple there, and they got married right out of college and had a very traditional wedding.  As far as they had known, that's how weddings were, and they didn't venture too far outside the box because it didn't occur to them.  It made me think about how much of weddings--and other parts of life--we take for granted, when with a little mindfulness and creativity, we could completely transform them.

I just had an interaction with a work acquaintance and learned that she has a new boyfriend.  She talked about him a little, and it occurred to me that he and my DGF have quite a bit in common.  I suggested we go on a double date sometime, and my acquaintance said that that might not be a good idea.  I couldn't figure out why, so I looked at her quizzically, and then she stared at the floor and started saying something about how her boyfriend "is coming around," but doesn't think that gay people should be able to adopt kids, and that he would probably be "pretty awkward" about going out with us.  (We don't have kids; this was her way of saying, "There's no way he wants to hang out with gay people.")

Personally, I think she should drag the boyfriend--kicking and screaming, if necessary--into 2011 and go out with us anyway.  But maybe it would have been unpleasant.  In a way, my acquaintance's honesty was refreshing.  I think most people would have said, "Oh, sure..." and then kept being conveniently unavailable.  I was fairly silent in response, and the quieter I was, the more my acquaintance talked: first about how no one is perfect, about how she's getting older and had to widen the dating pool, and then analogizing between her boyfriend and her mom, who is apparently also "pretty liberal" but "really awkward" about gay stuff.  What was I supposed to say?  She can date whomever she wants.  But I'm not going to give her a bye and say it's no problem.  It is.

My friend B and I have often talked about the fact that most of the friends I've made since coming out are gay.  (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) I've noticed that most of my lesbian friends hang out mostly with other lesbian couples, too, and I've made a concerted effort to hang out with more straight people because I don't want my sexuality to be the only sculptor of my social world.  But my experience this afternoon certainly encapsulates one mechanism behind homophily, doesn't it?  By hanging out with people who accept and/or relate to our "lifestyle" (don't you hate the word "lifestyle" used in reference to queer sexuality?), we avoid all sorts of potential--sometimes microscopic--hurts, slights, and awkwardness. 

Anyhow: in this case, it's their loss.

      

<--- Apropos of nothing, k.d. lang looks on with dashing skepticism.

(from http://www.autostraddle.com/top-10-lesbian-fashion-style-icons/)

Last week, I mentioned that my Fourth of July would be dyketastic.  The plan was that me, my DGF (dear girlfriend), my DXH (dear ex-husband), his DGF, and R & J (a very nice butch-femme lesbian couple) would go backpacking.  My acquiescence to the plan was a Big Deal, as I have zero desire to camp.  Yes, this makes me a bad lesbian.  My objections to camping are fivefold:

1. Camping requires sleeping outside on the ground, an activity I can understand in some situations (e.g., war; homelessness), but not when there are perfectly good B&Bs within driving distance that are positively brimming with toilet paper and clean linens.
2. Tents offer scant protection from riffraff (e.g., bears, serial killers).
3. I love being clean.  For me, part of hiking's joy is getting gloriously muddy and sweaty and tired, then coming home and taking a shower and curling up with a novel, a glass of cold beer, and a goodly amount of artificial light.  The last thing I want to do after a hike is crawl into a tiny enclosure with another sweaty person and sleep on the ground.
4. Camping requires an additional set of household items.  Frequently, these items are not only expensive, but inferior to the ones I already possess, such as cups, pans, a stove, and overhead shelter.
5. The number of espresso beverages attainable while camping are, to say the least, woefully limited.
   

My DXH loves camping, and tried (without success) to persuade me to camp while we were married.  My DGF also loves camping.  Now that they are friends and we all hang out happily, it was only a matter of time before they conspired to drag me into the wilderness.

Now, let's be clear: I like nature.  Indeed, I spend quite a bit of time in it.  But I also like bookstores and coffee shops, and I don't feel compelled to sleep in either of those places.  They are places for visiting, not temporarily relocating, and I feel that forests occupy the same category.

Anyhow, the DXH and DGF persuaded me to try a one-night backpacking trip.  I was secretly hoping to like it enough to do it in the future, because it would make me seem dashingly rugged while providing me with new excuses to go to REI.  Also, I wanted to use my pocket knife.

Loading heaps of our belongings into giant backpacks for a one-night stay felt a little absurd, but as we scaled the two-mile uphill trail to the campsite, I found myself enjoying it.  We arrived and set up camp.  (Admittedly, I had a short "OMG WTF my life is so strange" moment upon pitching a tent ten feet from my ex-husband's, but then I realized how awesome it is that he and I are such good friends, that the disparate parts of my life are so integrated, and BLAH BLAH BLAH.)  My DXH's DGF consulted a map and suggested we hike to the nearest body of water.  The farthest I'd previously hiked was six miles, and this would add up to nine or ten, but--butch that I am--I stayed silent and tried to exude "I'm cool with whatever, 'cause I'm so tough" vibes.

A mile into the hike, the back of my neck began to itch.  After another half mile, my thighs itched.  Then my arms and face.  Two miles in, my throat started to feel funny, and another half mile later, I asked my DGF to examine the back of my neck--which, it turned out, had sprouted giant hives.  Meanwhile, R (the butch in the aforementioned butch-femme duo) was having other allergic reactions: sneezing, congestion, and a swollen face.  (My DXH commented that two out of three butch lesbians were apparently allergic to local flora.)  I had never had a reaction like that, and--truth be told--I was a little worried.  But going back at that point seemed silly, since we were nearly there.  I grew increasingly miserable.  Little hives sprouted on my arms and I itched all over.  I quietly braced myself for anaphylaxis.  (R had an EpiPen, so I was semi-confident that death was not imminent.)

Eventually, we passed a campsite and accepted Benadryl from some kind strangers.  R and I still felt lousy, but at least our symptoms stopped getting worse.  When we reached the water's edge, I sat and reflected upon several  important things, namely: (1) how in God's name would I hike four more miles? and: (2) would I finally get to use my pocket knife?

Meanwhile, my DGF had approached the water.  She stepped in with one foot, then--in response to its chill, turned around quickly and started to run back to shore.  Only...  she didn't get far.  She was suddenly limping, then her calf gave out.  Luckily, one of my DXH's DGF's talents is medical expertise, and she quickly determined that it was a muscle tear. 

My girlfriend was no longer ambulatory, and we were four miles from our campsite.  This, I thought, did not bode well.

It soon became clear that my DGF wouldn't be hiking back to the campsite.  The map showed a parking lot a mile and a half away.  We figured we'd try to hitch a ride to my car, drop my DGF there, hike back up to the campsite, then I'd pack our stuff and hike back down and drive home.  (Admittedly, this prospect had perks: I'd get to be super butch AND not have to deal with the actual "camping" part of camping.)

The six of us made our way toward the parking lot.  R and J ran up ahead to begin assessing the generosity of strangers.  But they soon returned with an armed federal ranger.  The ranger asked my DGF lots of questions and made notes on a pad of paper.  He also shared the freeze-dried ice cream that R had cleverly brought along.  My DGF flirted shamelessly with the ranger (in her defense, he was in uniform), who seemed startled and flattered at the attention he was garnering from our little group (half of which, I'll remind you, was butch lesbians). 

Our ranger called another ranger, who arrived in a white ATV.  My DGF and I got in, but the others weren't allowed to come (some nonsense about "seatbelts").  We said our goodbyes, then my DGF and I peppered Ranger #2 with questions as he drove us back to our campsite: Why did he have two giant guns in a locked cage next to the passenger seat?  (A: "Because you never know who you'll be dealing with.")  Was the pay reasonable?  (A: "We get paid in sunsets.")  Had he ever seen a mountain lion?  (A: No, and he sounded sad about it.)  What was the most dangerous situation he'd ever been in?  (A: Raiding illegal marijuana fields.)  Did people ever try to live in the woods permanently?  (A: Yes.)  Who does that?  (A: "Crazy people.")

At the campsite, Ranger #2 told my DGF to stay in the car, and told me to pack up fast while he "checked out" nearby campsites. 

As I have mentioned, I am not much of a camper.  I hadn't broken down a tent in at least 12 years.  Picture a stereotypical prissy gay man trying to break down a tent.  Then double his confusion and give him a pocket knife, a small hammer, and some zip-off cargo pants.  That was me.  I managed to get the task done with only one serious injury (a large cut/blood blister on my left thumb).  When the ranger returned, we loaded in the bags and he drove us back to my car. 

On the drive home, my DGF and I stopped at an excellent Italian restaurant.  We were dirty, sweaty, and my DGF couldn't walk, but we had a great meal and spent a lot of it laughing.  It occurred to both of us that my DGF's injury may have saved me from midnight anaphylaxis, and also that it was a little pathetic that two butch lesbians couldn't make it through a one-night camping trip.

So there you have it, friends: I tried camping.  "Dyketastic?"  Maybe not.  But I've concluded that camping isn't half bad--as long as it doesn't involve sleeping on the ground, and it ends with some great Italian food, a drive home, and a nice, hot shower.

Ah, straight girls...  Nearly all of my butch friends have an anecdote or two about dating straight women, trying to date straight women, or straight women trying to date *them*.  So when I received the following [edited] email from a BW reader, I decided it was time for an entry about the topic:

Hey there.  I am really bad at telling if a girl is straight or gay.  I've hung out with this girl a few times and I want to ask her out.  She doesn't have a boyfriend.  Should I try to date her if she's straight?

LOTS of complications packed into that email, no?  In no particular order, here is my (admittedly scant) wisdom on straight women and butches:

1. If she's actually straight, you're not going to "turn" her.  If you identify as lesbian, think about this: is a really hot bio-man going to suddenly turn you straight?  No.  (Okay, except for maybe Jake Gyllenhall, and even then, only for a night.)  And wouldn't you think that a guy who presumed that he could turn you was an arrogant arse? See what I mean?  Respect straight women's sexuality.  That said...
   
2. Sometimes, "straight" women are still figuring things out.  After all, I was a "straight" woman once.  So was my DGF.  So was my buddy C.  Just because she's straight now doesn't mean she'll still be straight in six months.  And THAT said, tread lightly because:
   
3. It generally sucks to be someone's experiment.  You're trying to build a relationship with her and SHE'S still trying to figure out whether she wants to go back to her ex-boyfriend?  Yuck.  Who needs that kind of pressure?  And it doesn't feel particularly good when they go back to guys, either, saying that they decided they think of you as "more of a friend."  Do you really want to be someone's coming out confidante, experiment, and lover?  (The correct answer is: NO.)
   
4. Straight women flirt with butches.  I don't know why it is, but many straight women flirt with butches a LOT.  It's like we're "safe" recipients of flirtatious adoration.  Then if we ever try to make a move, they can suddenly be like: "Oh no--I'm straight, you know that!"  I have a few straight friends who will hug me, hang on me, and tell me I smell good, look hot, etc.  But I guarantee that if I ever DID anything, they'd flip.  This really, really sucks if you're attracted to any of them.  (I, personally, feel lucky that 99% of the time, I am attracted to other butchy types, because they tend to be more obviously "out.")
5. There is a difference between bisexual women and straight women who are "experimenting."  I know more than one lesbian who says she won't date bisexual women.  This strikes me as silly.  If someone has a track record of dating men AND women and identifies as bi, she's not "experimenting;" she's genuinely bisexual.  (If she's never dated a woman, though...  tread lightly.)  Yeah, I know it might be a little mind-boggling to those of us who are 0-1's or 5-6's on the Kinsey Scale, but some people truly don't care about their partner's gender.  They are not "undecided."
   

I cannot, however, speak to is how straight women respond to dating trans men.  I know a handful of trans men-straight women couples who seem to be dating without incident.  If any readers want to speak to this (or anything else I've left out), please comment!

One of my favorite butches, M, is moving halfway across the country, and her impending departure has affected me waaay more than I would have predicted.  On the surface, it’s no big deal: she’s in a sort of supervisory position over me, and though we’re friendly and have a similar sense of humor, we hang out socially only on occasion.

And yet, the idea of facing work without M there is startlingly depressing, and I have been surprised at the depth of my reaction.  I’m not the only out lesbian in my workplace, but I'll now be the only non-gender-conforming person there.  And where I work, lack of conformity to gender norms is a bigger deal than sexual orientation.*  No one blinks upon learning you're a dyke, but give a presentation in a tie and you'll get double-takes.  In fact, my current supervisor (a terrific person--and a lesbian I wouldn’t describe as femme, but who’s gender-conforming at work) has essentially told me I’ll never reach a position of power in my field if I keep dressing like a dude.

Partly for these reasons, M has become very important to me.**  It's been nice not being the only chick in men's clothes.  But it goes beyond physical appearance.  M is a kickass woman with loads of charm and masculine energy.  She offers a model for skilfully negotiating professional spaces while being gender-nonconforming.  M claims she doesn't think about gender much, and I doubt she identifies as butch (though, trust me, you'd categorize her that way).  But by being who she is, she has made my life better.*** 

Stuart Dybek has a line in the story "Pet Milk" where he talks about "missing someone you're still with."  That's how I've been feeling about M the past few weeks.  There's a kind of premature loneliness that now hits me every time I walk into work.  I'm going to miss her.  A lot.

Has anyone out there experienced something similar?


*  I know it's not this way everywhere, and I'm certainly not denying that feminine-presenting queer women face their own set of struggles!
**  Goodness knows what I'll do if C and her wife ever move.  Geez.  Butch buddies are so important!
***  I'm getting a little verklempt.  Talk amongst yourselves.