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!
Ladies. Gentlemen. Lesbians. Gays. Dykes. Fags. Drags. Kings. Queens. Trans. Bois. Studs. Butch. Femme. Bi. Queers.
What I propose is not radical thinking. But it needs to be addressed. There are so many queers in Orange County. But they seem to all be in hiding, ducking underneath the Orange Curtain, playing quaint games of hide-and-seek with not only the Conservatives that sneer at us, but worse, with each other. Let's face it, in comparison with the other major metropolises, Los Angeles, Long Beach, San Diego, San Francisco, etc, we are but an ink speck on the queer community scale. Agreed? Great. Now we can change it.
I read once, "Do you know what it takes to change the world? You just have to figure out what you really believe in, and then find other people who feel the same way. The only thing you have to do alone is decide what is important to you."
You are important to me. We are important to me.
We shouldn't have to hold our collective breath waiting to bask in the rainbow rays of Pride celebrations of other distant cities. We have some amazing, beautiful, talented, more than capable people right here. (And probably some single and available ones if we look hard enough.)
I have figured out what I believe in, what I am passionate about. Help me change the world. Locally, at least.
Now, I need your help.
If you agree, if feel as I feel, if you are just as passionate about community as I am - Contact Me.
Let's make something happen. I can't do this alone. Send me ideas. Send me thoughts. Send me rants. Let's arrange to meet, exchange ideas, volunteer in the community, set up events. Rainbows have no limitations.
Cheers.
Jaz.
