“I heard a rumor that butches have access to the world of men by virtue of their polished boots and perfect Winsor knots Some tragedy tells me that they are the pretend women; the women born wrong; the women-not-women who inhabit a spectral plane where they wear shackles identical to mine but cannot name the cage they’re in I heard a lie that butches are men in a bad plastic mask That their privileges include public hisses, leering eyes, and strangers plodding close behind I heard that butches sink venom into femme women into straight women into whoever passes by their street corner at which of course they are leaning against a brick wall with their thumbs hooked into their Dungarees (But this is not about my fantasies) I was told some tedium when I was a baby gay salivating over Stephanie with the chain wallet and the sneer who spoke against the cruelty of boys in my class when I was sold the snake oil that butches were hiding in the shadows with lighters waiting to burn my bra But here is what I have learned: Butches swing bats against true predators scaled monstrosities preying up and down the block They have dug their heels in for my right to call myself a lesbian to free me from every constricting dress and shapewear that men would otherwise cram me into I was always good enough, small enough, big enough, loud and quiet and sour enough A butch woman taught my public school sex education class and gritted her teeth when her students asked about barrier methods hands tied by the confines of simply needing to pay her rent so no she could not dismantle the system But, she said, “If anyone–anyone–Has any questions, my office is open” Butches ask me if I’m doing okay when I’m in a new space They ask me to dance if I feel safe if I need to get a cab home Butch women have been the ones to catch my terrified stare when I have Shrodinger’s rapist standing next to me on the subway because you don’t know until you know Butches love flowers, split the bill whisper sweetly to their cats secretly sleep with teddy bears Butches snore like sleeping dragons and bite like them, too but only when their homes have been invaded caved in, gutted and carved beyond recognition Butch is not a liminal space a go-between Butch is a force to be reckoned with, but if you let it, then the rain will come and everything good will grow from the ground The rain will come The dyke rages on.”
— Dan Yell, @anarchism-lesbianism (via butchfemmeculture)
