Dear butch lesbians,

I love you.

Not that you’re an indistinguishable entity, of course. You’re assorted — a strawberry creme next to a dark toffee next to one of those things with the ganache, and some nuts. But what you (mostly) have in common rises mightily from the multilayered box* of you with a WHOOSH, knocking me on my ass like the Goddess just planted her knees on my shoulders and bit my bottom lip.

I love that you are womyn; that you look the way all womyn would if they didn’t pluck and wax and tan and bleach and totter around on high heels: femaleness distilled and undiluted. I love how you keep being who you are no matter what kind of looks/comments you get on the street.

I love that you aren’t men — not jealous of men;  not wanna-be men; not passing as men; not bois. Thanks for leaving your breasts alone.

I love that you choose action over talk. You don’t drone on about “gender as performance” or “queering the dialogue” or whatever. You’re doers.

I especially love all you Lindas and Kathys over 60: You didn’t have Ellen DeGeneres, The L Word, Curve personals, or any other palatable, fuckable, mainstream lesbian chic. You got arrested, demonized, and ignored. Nobody made it easy. Nobody let it be easy. But you got up every morning, put on your wing tips, and navigated the world successfully. You made money; created families; took care of each other.

Thank you for showing me that aging well means passion and vitality; motion and rage. Thank you for refusing to get out of the way; for valuing your lived experience and knowing that “the voices of young feminists” are in no danger of going unheard. Thank you for not “passing the torch.” Thank you for insisting that we work together without dismissing or retiring anyone.

Thank you for helping me set up my tent at Michfest so the rain never gets in.

The potlucks are a lot of fun, too.

Love,

Phonaesthetica

 

*heh

 

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