I ran across a picture of a dyke who had top surgery. Just for clarification purposes, she had her breasts completely removed from her chest. What remained was a perfectly flat pectoral area, with only two crescent shaped scars shadowing the area where the breast had been. The scars were large and noticeable.
My first thoughts?
She was absolutely beautiful. More so with the bright read scars that touched from one side of her rib cage to the other side. They were a symbol of liberation. Scars you have to wear. Voluntarily or involuntarily. And she wore them so proudly.
This is where this story gets complicated.
I would wear those scars proudly, too.
Would I? Would I really? In a world with less judgment, I absolutely would. I wouldn’t think twice. My body would be different. Leaner. More muscular. No breasts. But that is in a perfect world. In this world, I am afraid. Afraid of everything it would mean to realize the way that I sometimes feel inside.
I say “sometimes,” because I have come to an amicable compromise with my body. Allow me to paint a picture. My body is exclusively feminine. Not butch. Not even andro. My style is as butch/andro as I can comfortable pull off. But I have curves. Like, enviable curves. Large, beautiful breasts and a perky rear with a relatively small waist. I would look amazing in a dress. But these are not curves I can hide, no matter how much I tried in the past.
This is the first time I am discussing this frankly and honestly. Even with myself. This was the first time I had actually seen someone post-op and I was so in love with the idea and image that it was more than just fascination. It was desire. It was jealousy.
Currently, my body and I, we get along. I stay muscular where it counts and I stay soft and curvy where I have to.
But what if?
What if I had the courage to truly turn my body into the temple that I envision? So many fears cross my mind. What if my parents truly disown me this time? They are barely coming to terms with my being a lesbian. But to be a post-op or transitioning? I don’t think they could deal with that. But the ultimate issue is, can I deal with living my life compromising with my body?
And now the crucial questions are coming back. The issues that I thought I had laid to rest are suddenly stirring in their shallow graves. What is it that I truly want? To be the best damn lesbian in the form I am given? Or to be the best damn lesbian in the form I chose?
I know I would be more comfortable with this more masculine body. But do I want it?
So many questions and no one to answer them for me.
Am I soft andro?
My friend, we’ll call her Kiley, sent me this random text mid-day yesterday. Now, I already know that she is stepping into the queer/lesbian scene in a completely different manner than myself or most Metropolis lesbians. She grew up and came out in the Mid-West. And by Mid-West, I mean that expanse of land between California, New York, and Florida. She moved (quite bravely in my opinion) to Los Angeles just recently “for the culture” and so now she is getting a taste of L.A. lesbian culture.
Where she grew up, in her own words, she was one of a handful of queers. Thusly, there is little need to label or categorize or identify in a community so small. But here in the greater Los Angeles/Southern California area, there are dykes in, literally, every size, shape, color, creed and style. We have the ultimate honor of hosting the full spectrum of queerness in a very small relative space. It’s like our own personal Apple Store in our backyards. We have the product in the exact style you want.
So now that we know the product is available, how do we go about requesting and selecting the product that will fit our wants and desires? How do we specify that the Shuffle is just too damn small and the Classic is too damn big, but the Nano Third Gen in purple is just right? (Ok, you get the point, no more iPod references.)
Enter, Labels.
As much as we hate them and we try to avoid them like the Zune. (Ha! Ok seriously guys, last reference.) They encompass our lives involuntarily. But they can be fun, when used appropriately. And by “appropriately” I mean Flexibly.
That’s the problem. We get frustrated when words do not fully encompass the ideas we are trying to express. What we need to come to terms with is the fact that words are imperfect and will never be able to perfectly express what we are feeling and thinking. And that’s the beauty of it! We will continue to try to express our emotions with words and continue to fail. There will always be miscommunication for that reason.
The arts are maybe slightly or significantly better at this form of communication. That is why music brings people together so completely. This is why paintings make us feel things that we cannot express in words or make us cry for no apparent reason. But we would be silly to think that there are enough colors or chords in the world to express the full spectrum of the human mind and heart.
But I digress. Per usual. Back to the task at hand.
So labels can be useful. They make us feel like we belong to some group of people like us. They help explain the dynamics of our relationships. They help us describe our likes, dislikes, and preferences.
But most importantly, they attempt to help us transfer an image from one human mind to another. Whether that image is stereotypical, connotative or denotative is subjective. But in order for communication to occur we need labels.
So, back to Kiley, at first I told her to forget about labels. But then I realized she needed to find herself. Eventually, she would find that labels are constantly changing as is the way we choose to identify with them. Eventually, she will find her niche and how she chooses to express herself and her own self perception.
For now, don’t feel trapped within labels. They are not our masters, but our tools. Use them (or don’t) as you see fit. They are only as imperfect and flexible as we are.
How do you feel about labels? How do you identify? Why don’t our heterosexual brothers and sisters use similar labels when describing who they are and what they seek in a relationship? That’s and interesting topic…
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Femme Slash Alert!
Sucker Punch (2011, Warner Bros)
Alright, so the lesbian/bisexual/queer movie pickings are slim at best. But the subtext abounds! And until, my own awesome queer-centric film comes out (whenever that will be), then I can’t complain, and like a vegetarian vampire, I will have to survive on subtext for a while.
The subtext is basically shouted from the rooftops and heralded from the towers in Zack Synder’s action-esque female-centric film, Sucker Punch, starring Emily Browning, Vanessa Hudgens, Abbie Cornish, Jamie Chung, and Jena Malone. Obviously, this is not a plug for the film, but it is available on DVD now, so check it out!
The film’s cast is a promising group of young, attractive females, which is probably the reason I agreed to see this film in the first place. I had absolutely no preconceptions about the film, it just happened to be a random date night movie. Firstly, this movie’s tagline was spot on with the reality of your viewing experience.
You will be Unprepared.
Unprepared, I was.
Coming from the director of 300 and Watchmen, the visuals and graphics were just as beautiful and aesthetic as one would expect. The cinematography was beautiful and the special effects worked well within the story. Now for the homerun, the Story.
Beautifully written and executed, the movie flickers between three distinct verses to tell one story, and all of the verses get the story told, even if you as the viewer are denied actually seeing what has happened while you were transported into the dream aspects of the verse. Layered like a perfectly frosted cake, lies the Asylum, the Brothel and the Dream verses which all interact to tell the tale of these four disturbed young women as they battle for their lives, sanity and freedom.
The story line is brilliant, by my standards. The movie is completely entertaining.
And now, the fun part. A cast of all 20-ish good looking females means there has to be some pretty prevalent subtext right? Right!
Main protagonist, Baby Doll (Emily Browning) is quite obviously enamored with the fiery, independent Rocket (Jena Malone). Rocket alone gets major queer points for her awesomely done coif which elicits images of Japanese anime and video game characters (cosplayers, it can be done!). The touches last just a second too long. The words unsaid are screaming in their eyes! But then, enter Rocket’s holier-than-thou older sister Sweet Pea (Abbie Cornish) and suddenly, when you squint with your queer-tinted spectacles, you can just barely make out a love triangle, just waiting to happen. Watch the movie, and tell me you don’t see it??
Well, at the very least, and at its very core, is a message of empowerment, specifically of the feminine variety. These women are placed in a situation that they have very little physical control over, but they manage to find the inner strength to overcome their surroundings. It sends the message that you are prisoner of a hell you create. You’re true strength is in your mind and within your ability to challenge reality. We are the weapons of our own salvation.
Anyone hear the Queer Bells ringing?
Ok, maybe this is just an excuse to see sexily clad females kick some ass, in amazing costumes, with big guns.
But you know what? I am more than okay with that.
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I’d heard the phrase “The one who cares the least, wins” several times in the past. But I never really paid it much attention. Probably because I was usually the one who cared more. So that statement couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t! Could it?
And this is just one of those things that spans across gender and orientation and is just a human truth.
If you want to get hurt less, stop giving a damn. If you want to get laid more, stop caring so much. Or at least don’t show it. The simple truth is, as much as I hate to acknowledge it, it is all a game. Personally, I never got the rule book. I’ve just been fumbling the ball and learning along the way.
That girl that you are completely lusting over? The one who gives you mixed signals and false hope. The one who teases you with promises and illusions of interest. You know what, stop giving her the attention that you have been. Do not text her. Do not call her. Do not Facebook her. Do not email her. Do not stalk her at work or on Tumblr or frequent places you might run into her. Yes, I know all your tricks you sneaky Lesbo you.
Wait, patiently. It will come. Keep waiting. Just a little longer.
There! See? That little cell phone jingle? She text you. Now, hold your horses just a minute longer there, Turbo. What exactly do you want? It’s time to regroup and reformulate our plan of attack. If you text her right now, then she knows that she has you by your plastic, detachable balls. And that defeats our purpose here.
What you want, is for her to be thinking about you as much as you think about her. That is the only way that you are going to spring your trap and snag your prey to take home and eat as you please. Yes, pun intended.
She should be wondering about you. She should be asking herself, where you’re at, what you’re doing, who you’re with. And why aren’t you feeding her need for attention? You must be having a damned good time if you aren’t thinking about her. Why isn’t she a part of that good time? She wants to be a part of that.
Exactly.
For. The. Win.
So you know what, make plans that don’t include her, but make sure you tell her about them. Don’t invite, just inform. Don’t respond to messages like instantaneous response is your mutant power. Settle down, Flash. Let her simmer and wonder. Even when all you want to do is talk to her via some variety of electronic medium and you think it’s perfectly harmless to send a simple, “Whatchu up to?” or “Hey,” think again.
If she can have you, you become undesirable. If other people want you (your time, energy, and attention, romantic or platonic), suddenly you become a precious commodity. Every girl wants what she can’t have!
It works, trust me. The moment I stopped giving a female the romantically interested attention they wanted, all of a sudden, she is inviting me out, texting me “Good Morning!” before my alarm has a chance to wake me up, and planning our wedding getaway in New York…
She already knows you were interested. Now she is suddenly realizing that her fatal mistake was not jumping on the amazing, once in a lifetime opportunity that is you. And maybe, just maybe, someone else is taking full advantage of that opportunity.
So grab your balls and bats, ladies. Take your position, bases loaded. Line drive, up the center. And play ball!
My relationship with my parents very much resembles the state of the US Military, prior to this year.
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.
So long as I’m silent and keep any and all details of my life a tightly pressed secret, then we can pretend to get along amicably. Leave it to Beaver, Little House on the Prairie amicably. It’s like we are constantly on camera, choosing our words carefully and shifting our weight uncomfortably as we walk through the hot coals until it’s time for me to go home. Don’t get me wrong. I love them to death and I love spending family time, but it’s just that it gets really difficulty trying to wrestle all the colors of a wily, bucking rainbow back into a cramped closet.
My Mom is the best. She’s trying to get comfortable with the idea that her daughter is a flaming hot lesbo. Little by little she has been progressing towards the G-word. She asked me if I was going “to that thing in San Francisco”? She admired all of the little rainbow souvenirs I had brought back from Pride this year, saying she liked the colors and she would wear it (gasp) but did it strictly mean that she was… you know? (Hesitation. Uncomfortable eye shifting.) Gay?
My younger sister started laughing uncontrollably, knowing that this was the first time she had finally let the little G-word trickle, however uncomfortably, from her lips. I wanted to answer the question seriously but then they both started cracking up and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. We laughed long and hard and it was amazing. The ice had been broken just a little bit more. Making way for bigger and better progress.
And so, as my Mom, Dad, sister and self are all gathered around either side of the breakfast bar in the kitchen Mom drops this little ribbon-wrapped atomic bomb.
“Hey, that new gay bar is open in downtown!”
Dead. Silence. Even the crickets are leaving the war zone.
I don’t even bother looking at my Dad. I don’t even want to see what his expression is. I can already envision the disgust and the clenched jaw and the flared nostrils. And that little vein above his eye that I hate with a passion.
“Why? Did you apply?” his question is not directed at me at all, but as a joke towards Mom, who is a lifetime waitress and restaurant manager.
Wtf?
“No. But it’s open now. It’s supposed to be cool,”
I feel like I’ve just stepped onto the set of Punk’d. I’m waiting for the host to rush out with camera men and tell me I’ve just been had.
But no host, no cameras. The uncomfortable (but suddenly not intolerable) silence is lifted by my amazing sister changing the topic with her woman’s intuition of perfect timing, and I breathe a little easier.
My brain does an instant replay as I recap what just happened.
Mom said the word Gay. And the world didn’t end. Dad didn’t spontaneously combust.
Maybe there is hope for my little family yet. Maybe I’m the one who has been too afraid to broach the subject. Maybe the only reason progress hasn’t been made is because I haven’t been reading the signs of change.
Maybe… it’s time.
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My parents car is in the shop for a shoddy transmission. Which is an expensive and time consuming repair. And they had tickets to the Power House concert that just happened at the Honda Center. It’s weird enough that my nearly 50 year old parents are going to a rap and hip hop concert, but that’s irrelevant.
Me, being the awesome, amazing, super heroine daughter that I am, let them borrow my car, my baby, my darling Nikki (yes, my car is named after a Prince song), on a Saturday night, nonetheless. Leaving myself stranded and solo for the entire evening.
Alright, fine. I can sacrifice a Saturday night of young adult debauchery for the greater good. Not a problem.
But now when they return my sister decides to tell me a “funny” story.
Apparently, Dad was so insulted by my unoffending little rainbow chain that hands from the rearview mirror that he grabbed it in a fit of “What the fuck is this?” and threw it to the floor on the passenger side. Mom saved it from insult and placed it gingerly in the glove compartment. Then he complained about my I <3 Boobies lanyard that holds my car keys. And took that off too, tossing it somewhere.
I mean, I get it. I’m gay, you’re not. And you don’t approve of it. But, damn. This is my property that you are so adamantly degrading. My property, that I LENT you out of the KINDNESS of my heart. Does anyone else see the problem with this? I’m not asking you to tie a rainbow bandana around your head or paint your own car with pink triangles. But to disrespect my property?
See if I ever do you a favor again.
I probably will.
I’m an idiot like that.
I didn’t approach him about it. I let it go. For better or worse, I don’t know. But Mom put everything back the way it started before turning the car back over to me, its rightful and loving owner.
Poor Nikki.
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But, that is irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is that people update their Facebook statuses with interesting tidbits at that time of morning; usually residuals of a night of Saturday debauchery. Which is entertaining to say the least. But now, here is the problem. This is what I read and I will correct the drunken errors so you do not have to be subjected to the awkward head-tilt to the side trying to make out what the hell he was trying to spell.
Friend #1: We’re running from the cops! Shouldn’t of punched a bitch for fucking up my drink… That bitch got what she deserved
Friend #2: Fuckin she-males
Friend #1: She males are not human creatures
Friend #1: Please. I did nothing bad… Is it so wrong to punch a woman that is really a man??
Friend#3: nah, that woman was looking at me funny. It was asking for it
Random Person #1: if it’s pre-op it’s fair game!
Random Person #2: haha hell ya!Discussion. First of all, this is Facebook we are talking about. And this is a status post. So, essentially, a means of waving your dirty laundry in everyone’s face. Or in this case, putting your ignorance and bigotry on your nose like a silver spoon and thinking that it’s a cool trick. Secondly, these are young adults. Not children. Not time-hardened, generationally separated grandparents. These are college graduates and young professionals. Thirdly, these are my friends. At least one of the parties is a BEST friend. And the primary offender is a high school friend and definite integral part of the core circle of friends.
I have no idea what transpired last night. Maybe the Tranny was bitchy or started the fight or attacked someone like a rabid, well-manicured raccoon. I have no idea. And I am all for self-defense and opening a Venti sized bottle of Whoop-Ass on anyone asking for it. But, something about this rang the little rainbow cowbell in my head.
THIS is the reason why Pride is so very important in this day. There is still way too much ignorance and misconception in the world today. And not just in Africa and China where the Gay and Human Rights movements are barely getting air beneath their wings, but right here, literally in my own backyard, where we have gained so much by way of Equality in the last 50 years or so, but we still think it’s okay to say things like Queers aren’t human beings.
And call them its.
It? Am I an it? Apparently I am because like that Transgender, I don’t fit the standards and typical definitions of mainstream Male and Female. I don’t wear dresses. Or makeup. I don’t flaunt my cleavage. Or giggle when boys give me attention. I don’t have the same outlook or values or goals as a hetero female. I’m oftentimes much more in sync with my masculinity than my femininity. All the same qualities as that Transgirl that got punched in the face.
It.
Apparently, to my friends, and much of modern America, I am an It.
So, all things considered, I was offended.
Now, maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe, I’m being too sensitive and the drunken rambling of an ultra-hetero-masculine-chauvinist are not something that should be rubbing my fur the wrong way. But it is. And even as an It, I am still entitled to my feelings.
