Cabin Fever & Gender Expression

It's a snow day! Just when I'm so sick and cranky about being cold, I'm reminded why I love the Northeast. There is nothing like a snow day to bring back childhood memories of goofing off and feeling as though the world has been lifted, with one simple cancellation.

I love snow, when I know that I can stay inside and watch it fall, rather than try to maneuver the slippery roadways. It's silence is what's really divine. A look out the window is proof of the transformation, it seems so soft, gentle and delicate. Ideally, this kind of day should be spent under the covers or fireside with your lover and hot cocoa. Instead, I find myself in the company of my neurotic mother, adding Baileys to my coffee on the sly (she's not a big fan of drinking in the afternoon.) But less about the Mother and more about the Lover.


She lives down south, though she too is from the Northeast. I decided to call her Boots for her Harley Davidson kicks that I find sexy. Or how about just "B"...I'll try that out. This woman is amazing. She's vivacious, and has great energy. We seem to be similar where it counts, yet different enough to bring balance to one another.


I keep thinking about the conversation we had a few nights ago on the phone. Physically, B appears to be butch, her style of dress, shaved head, the way she carries herself. I suppose glancing quickly through heteronormative eyes, she could appear to be a man. So she walked into a women's restroom and the nice restroom attendant with her little basket of hairspray and tampons told her she was in the wrong place. I realize that this isn't a new phenomenon for people who find themselves somewhere in the middle of the gender spectrum. Also, having dated butch women, I have seen his happen on multiple occasions before. My girlfriend being called "sir," the two of us presumed to be a heterosexual couple, aggressive hate slurs being used. Each time something like this has happened while I have been present, I could feel the anger swelling up inside of me. I became instantly alert and more defensive. Sometimes this was for safety reasons, others, it was pure anger. My guttural reactions consist of fear and disbelief. I'm still surprised when strangers feel they have the right to offer up commentary on an individuals physical appearance. Because I am femme, or look stereotypically feminine, my gender identity and sexual orientation are never questioned. This isn't always advantageous, but day to day, living in a small, strongly homophobic area, it usually makes my life a little easier (but that is relative, and a different topic.)

I tried having a more in depth convo w/ B the other night about how those comments make her feel, how being mistaken for a man affects her. As a butch, female identified individual, how does it feel to be perceived as masculine, and mistaken for such on a daily basis. B began to talk rhetorically, "Look at me! Yes, I had on baggy pants, yes my head is shaved. But look at my face, look at my breasts in the snug t-shirt I had on, look at me, look AT me, Look at ME." She went on to say that it hurts her to not be viewed as a woman, when that is such a strong piece of her identity.

Is there a difference between "mistaking" someone for being a gender they don't identify with and knowing they are gender bending and taking it upon ones self to call them out on it anyway? Why do we care so much? I feel that people are fearful of women who do not look the way that society perceives they should. What are we afraid of? Are men are scared that those women will have more power, that patriarchy is threatened by them? After all, "women who look like women," wear clothes that show off the shape of their bodies, and shoes with heels designed to push asses out. Our bras push our breasts together and lift them higher, making them easier to notice. We put paint on our faces and line our eyes to look like cats, like animals. Our suit jackets have tiny decorative pockets and we can't fit anything into the pockets on our jeans. Why not? Why do men's suits have at least five or six places to store money, cigarettes, writing utensils, condoms, watches, and weapons. Women who want to wear women's clothing have no where to put their things, so we carry purses with all of our belongings, leaving everything we have more accessible and more vulnerable. Our breasts, and asses, and even our money are just a grab away.

This isn't to say I don't wear high heeled shoes or make-up, because I do. And sometimes I even revel in them, in how feminine and sexy they make me feel. But I remain conscious, of where I am going, of who I am doing it for. The clothes, and make-up and shoes can be fun, but they do not make the woman.

My woman wears mainly men's clothing; jeans, boots, belt buckles. She shaves her head and walks with a little bit of a swagger. I like her swagger, its her confidence, her inner beauty stepping out, slowly and strong. She sometimes jokes about "being one of the dudes," and I've seen her having conversations with men that I would never have any interest in being part of. I like those parts of us that are different. I love they way that she is both handsome and beautiful. I love how her womanhood rests in the courage she has to be herself. She is not a woman because of her short skirts, or her long wavy hair. She is not a woman because she of her make-up, or the way she crosses her legs to take up less space. She is a woman because she is strong enough to defy boundaries and norms in the name of being in the skin that feels comfortable to her. I'm so moved and proud of that kind of resoluteness in the queer community, in my community.