Sharman Zena - Persistence: all ways butch and femme

Ivan E. Coyote

A couple of months back, I came upon an article in the online version of Xtra! entitled Winnipeg Pride Wants Parade to be family friendly. In the article, the then-chair of last years parade was quoted as saying, We have to remember that this is a public event; part of the parade is to show people were not extremists. When pressed to explain just what she meant by extremists, she responded, drag queens and butch women. She then added it was important to show the people of Winnipeg that there are mainstream queer community members, too, like lawyers and doctors.

I was so mad I seriously considered a stern letter. The subtext of her words stung my eyes and burned in my throat. Apparently, according to this genius, regardless of my politics or attitude or tactics, I was an extremist, solely by virtue of my appearance. Nothing of who I was or what I might contribute to my community mattered, because of what I looked like. In order to be acceptable to the good citizens of Winnipeg, we needed to put forward a more mainstream face to the general public, an array liberally laced with professionals. I wondered how this line of reasoning was going to go over with the many perverted transsexual leatherdyke lawyers from working-class backgrounds I am lucky enough to know. Apparently, this woman hadnt read that part of queer history when drag queens and butches started the whole thing by finally standing up and rioting in response to police persecution and brutality. And now she didnt want us at her parade anymore. We werent family-friendly enough. Then I wondered what exactly this meant for those of us with families.

Then, just recently, I heard a rumour that the younger queers dont like the word butch. This makes me wonderif I were twenty years old right now instead of forty, what would I call myself?

I grew up without a roadmap to myself. Nobody taught me how to be a butch; I didnt even hear the word until I was twenty years old. I first became something I had no name for in solitude and only later discovered the word for what I was, and realized there were others like me. So now I am writing myself down, sketching directions so that I can be found, or followed.

If the word for you is butch, then remember this word. It will be used against you.

If the word for you is butch, remember, your history is one of strength and survival, and it is largely silent. Do not hide this word under your tongue. Do not whisper it or sweep it under the basement stairs. Let it fill up your chest and widen your shoulders. Wear it like a sleeve tattoo, like a medal of valour.

Learn to recognize other butches for what they really are: your people. Your brothers or your sisters. Both are just words that mean family. Other butches are not your competition, they are your comrades. Be there when they need you. Go fishing together. Help each other move. Polish your rims or your chrome or your boots together. See these acts for what they really are: solidarity.

Do not give your butch friend a hard time about having a ponytail, a Pekinese/Pomeranian cross, nail polish, or even a Smart Car. Get over yourself. You are a rare species, not a stereotype.

Trim your nails short enough that you could safely insert your fingers into your own vagina, should you ever want to.

Scars and purple thumbnails are a status symbol. When attempting to operate, maintain, or repair anything mechanical, always remember the words of my grandmother: The vast majority of machines are still designed, built, driven, and fixed by men. Therefore, they cannot be that complicated.

Be exceptionally nice to old ladies. They really need their faith in the youth of today restored, and they might think that you are the youth of today. Let them butt in the line at the Safeway. Slow down and walk with them at crosswalks so theyre not the only ones holding up traffic. Drive your grandma to bingo. Shovel her driveway. Let chivalry not be dead.

If youre going to be the kind of butch who is often read as a man or a boy, then be the kind of man or boy you wish you would have slept with in high school. Be a gentleman. Let her finish her sentence. Share the armrest. Do her laundry without shrinking anything. Buy her her very own cordless drill.

Open doors for men, saying, Let me get that for you.

Carry a pocket knife, a lighter, and a handkerchief on your person at all times. Learn flashy lighter tricks, how to tie a half hitch, a slip knot, and a double Windsor.

Learn how to start a fire with a flint and some dry moss. Then use lighter fluid or gasoline and a blowtorch. Burn most of your eyebrows off lighting the barbecue with a birthday candle, and then tell everybody all about it.

Wear footwear that makes a clomping sound, as opposed to a tick or a swish.

Let the weird hairs on your chin and around your nipples grow unhindered.

Learn how to knit, quilt, crochet, or hook rugs: women appreciate a fellow who isnt afraid of their feminine side.

Practice saying youre sorry. This is one activity where you should not use your father as a role model. Fonzie was an asshole. If you are too young to remember who the Fonz was, then YouTube it.

Locker room talk? A sure-fire way not to get laid a second time.

Learn to recognize other butches for what they really are: your people. Your brothers or your sisters. Both are just words that mean family.

Ivan E. Coyote is the author of seven books, including the award-winning novel Bow Grip, the Lambda Literary Award-nominated The Slow Fix, and, most recently, Missed Her. Ivan has also released three albums and four short films. A renowned storyteller, Ivan frequently performs for live audiences internationally.

Amber Dawn

You were a set of sturdy boys in well-worn Carhartt jeans and rock T-shirts. Rough scrubbed, each one of you, from your Brylcreemed hair to your polished black jump boots. You rode bellowing muscle bikes circa 1970s, drove cars with duct-tape interiors, or walked with practiced swaggers. You could hold your own at the pool table and in the kitchencooking your mamas comfort-food recipes. You played Ace of Spades on electric guitar and hemmed your own pants. Your days were spent painting six-bedroom houses in Shaughnessy, tending to show-jumping horses, keeping university grounds, or otherwise soiling your fingers. You were evolved renditions of the very boy a small-town slut like me was expected to wind up with. But unlike that probable boyfriend, you were a feminist, you rejected the status quo with much greater consideration than it rejected you, and you didnt leave me a knocked-up single mother-to-be. I couldnt possibly have told you enough how truly remarkable you were.

To all the butches I loved between 1995 and 2005, there is a consequential and heartfelt queue of things I never said to you. Blame booze or youth, frequently practiced self-flagellation, homophobia, or any brew of stinking societal influences for me holding my tongue. What matters now is that I put some honest words to our past andif the graces allowthat you will hear me.

If the details are a blur (and I dont blame you if they are), let me remind you that I was your girl, your mommy, your headache or your heart song (depending on my mood). On a good day I wrote poetry, walked rescue dogs, or led survivors support groups at the womens centre. Id all but quit rush drugs, but on a bad day I drank like a fancy fighting betta fish in a small bowl. I spent my nights gliding around softly lit massage parlours in a pair of glitter-pink stilettos. Personal economics informed my femme identity. My transition took place in prudent increments: I grew my neon-orange dyke hair into a mane of bleach blonde; I shaved my armpits and pussy; I dieted down to 100 pounds, and, in effect, I learned to indulge the tastes of men with money to spend. When the business was good, I made more in an hour than you did all week.