Yes, My Lady

I get misgendered in public a lot. Never cruelly. Just a lot. Which makes sense.

I'm 190lbs of muscle with a deep voice. Which I enjoy. Typically I'm wearing leather and jeans. The vast majority of people are going to gender me as male because my gender presentation is inherently masculine, and other parts of me are also masculine.

This is a problem that cis butches face regularly, and that fact helps me cope with constantly being read as male. But it aches the most when I see other lesbians/queer women.

I don't really get to be 'publicly' lesbian. If I see another dyke on the street, I'm just a man. There's no quiet solidarity there. There's no recognition.

Femmes don't preen under my gaze at a bar. Instead, I have to walk up and explain my whole situation and hope that they're cool. Which is rough, because sometimes they're not. Or, worse, they say they are, but they aren't. Which results in a lot of wasted time for everybody.

It takes a supreme amount of self-confidence to walk up to a cute girl and boldly declare yourself also a girl in a voice that immediately gives some kind of lie to what you're saying.

So, baseline, I'm pushing and establishing boundaries. I'm already testing her just by talking to her. Which makes flirting hard, you see? If I feel like I'm already toeing a line, then I'm not going to make a sly comment about her dress. I am, instead, going to be as non-threatening as possible.

This is a great way to make new friends and acquaintances (I have a lot), but a terrible way to get laid.

A lot of people relate to what I've said here, which is great. But a lot of people also don't understand what a butch is. I'm not gonna explain that, but I am gonna explain some more about myself.

I enjoy being masculine.

I enjoy having a deep voice. I enjoy dressing in leather and jeans. I enjoy being muscular. And, while I do feel isolated, that's just a result of my condition. Which I accept.

I'm not repressing myself. I'm not 'boymoding.' And, most importantly,

I do not want to pass.

I do not want to look like a cisgirl. I do not want be mistaken for a cisgirl. I don't want to read as feminine. I'm a trans dyke and I'm quite pleased with that.

I'm glad everyone relates and supports, but I think a lot of you are getting the wrong message.

Sometimes, I try to write this post over again. I want to nail down the feelings of frustration and isolation that I glazed over in the original. I want to take the nebulous blob of emotions that I'm feeling and pin them to a corkboard.

I'm sure you're familiar with the quiet and often accidental ways transwomen get misgendered: assumptions, requests, warnings, expectations. Things that you can't really say something about without sounding insane. Wounds that get triggered by something completely innocuous. And I'm sure you're familiar with the latent paranoia that comes with all this.

I'm sure you're familiar with the sensation of your teeth on your tongue.

I'm sure you're familiar with the smile, the nod, and the gesture of acceptance. I'm sure you're familiar with standing silently in the circle. I'm sure you're familiar with politely excusing yourself and walking away.

I'm sure you're familiar with taking a long drag off something that's going to end your life sooner or later while you stare at Orion in the night's sky.

I know you know. I know, too.

I know you think about why so many of us fetishize weakness.

I know that you're walking through life this way because you don't have a choice. I know that you choose everyday between yourself and the world.

It's the looks and the whispers or it's death, isn't it?

No need to answer. I already know.

It's a complex feeling. Drag shows are currently on the front page of the national consciousness. They are deeply intertwined with transgender rights. Specifically, they're tied to the rights of transgender women. So why am I the only tranny in the room?

Statistically, I know why. There simply aren't that many of us. It's a wild and crazy night when there are 5 or 6 trans women at the bar.

There's a complex venn diagram that outlines the experiences of trans women, transfems, cross dressers, sissies, queens, gay men, faggots, bisexual men, nonbinary people, genderqueer people, and genderfluid people. And, like a ring species of Californian salamanders, our experiences can travel back and forth across this chain that connects us. All of these people can relate to me in some way or another, and I can relate to them in return. But I'm not really part of it.

When I'm outside smoking with the queens after the show, I feel alone.

My section of the venn diagram is an interesting one. In addition to claiming my femininity, I'm also claiming a very visible sort of masculinity. My link in the chain connects me to lesbians, dykes, bisexual women, mascs, butches, kings, transmen, transmascs, cross dressers, femmes, studs, genderfluid people, genderqueer people, and nonbinary people.

When I'm outside smoking with the dykes, I feel alone.

There's only one other transfem butch in the Seattle area that I know of. Most women who pick up the label use it to reclaim their own masculinity and mature as women before they put it back down and go on with their lives. This is a good thing. There's nothing more butch than being there when someone needs you.

I get misgendered in public a lot. Never cruelly. Just a lot. Which makes sense.

I'm 190lbs of muscle with a deep voice. Which I enjoy. Typically I'm wearing leather and jeans. The vast majority of people are going to gender me as male because my gender presentation is inherently masculine, and other parts of me are also masculine.

This is a problem that cis butches face regularly, and that fact helps me cope with constantly being read as male. But it aches the most when I see other lesbians/queer women.

I don't really get to be 'publicly' lesbian. If I see another dyke on the street, I'm just a man. There's no quiet solidarity there. There's no recognition.

Femmes don't preen under my gaze at a bar. Instead, I have to walk up and explain my whole situation and hope that they're cool. Which is rough, because sometimes they're not. Or, worse, they say they are, but they aren't. Which results in a lot of wasted time for everybody.

It takes a supreme amount of self-confidence to walk up to a cute girl and boldly declare yourself also a girl in a voice that immediately gives some kind of lie to what you're saying.

So, baseline, I'm pushing and establishing boundaries. I'm already testing her just by talking to her. Which makes flirting hard, you see? If I feel like I'm already toeing a line, then I'm not going to make a sly comment about her dress. I am, instead, going to be as non-threatening as possible.

This is a great way to make new friends and acquaintances (I have a lot), but a terrible way to get laid.

A lot of people relate to what I've said here, which is great. But a lot of people also don't understand what a butch is. I'm not gonna explain that, but I am gonna explain some more about myself.

I enjoy being masculine.

I enjoy having a deep voice. I enjoy dressing in leather and jeans. I enjoy being muscular. And, while I do feel isolated, that's just a result of my condition. Which I accept.

I'm not repressing myself. I'm not 'boymoding.' And, most importantly,

I do not want to pass.

I do not want to look like a cisgirl. I do not want be mistaken for a cisgirl. I don't want to read as feminine. I'm a trans dyke and I'm quite pleased with that.

I'm glad everyone relates and supports, but I think a lot of you are getting the wrong message.

Sometimes, I try to write this post over again. I want to nail down the feelings of frustration and isolation that I glazed over in the original. I want to take the nebulous blob of emotions that I'm feeling and pin them to a corkboard.

I'm sure you're familiar with the quiet and often accidental ways transwomen get misgendered: assumptions, requests, warnings, expectations. Things that you can't really say something about without sounding insane. Wounds that get triggered by something completely innocuous. And I'm sure you're familiar with the latent paranoia that comes with all this.

I'm sure you're familiar with the sensation of your teeth on your tongue.

I'm sure you're familiar with the smile, the nod, and the gesture of acceptance. I'm sure you're familiar with standing silently in the circle. I'm sure you're familiar with politely excusing yourself and walking away.

I'm sure you're familiar with taking a long drag off something that's going to end your life sooner or later while you stare at Orion in the night's sky.

I know you know. I know, too.

I know you think about why so many of us fetishize weakness.

I know that you're walking through life this way because you don't have a choice. I know that you choose everyday between yourself and the world.

It's the looks and the whispers or it's death, isn't it?

No need to answer. I already know.

I'm loud. I'm masculine. I'm muscular.

I'm also a leader. When I speak, my voice is heard. When I speak, my opinion is valued. In my boots and my armor I swagger through the world with my chin up and my shoulders back. In short, people very rarely smell the tranny on me. If they do, they assume I'm a trans man.

In my day to day life I benefit from masculinity.

Transmisogyny happens to feminine trans women. It happens when they claim their feminine gender. It happens when they step into a feminine role within public society. Transmisogyny happens when you assert your womanhood in a way that the transmisogynist can understand.

Most people don't understand my womanhood.

I don't need most people to understand my womanhood. As I've said elsewhere, it is unreasonable of me to expect a cis person to understand who I am without a lengthy explanation and at least one book. I'll enforce my pronouns all day, but respecting pronouns and recognizing gender are two different things.

I experience transmisogyny only when I need to be recognized as a woman. This, therefore, happens exclusively in queer spaces. It happens behind closed doors. It happens on dating apps. It happens in intimate moments when I let my guard down.

It happens when someone is capable of recognizing me as a woman.

That is not very many people.

Most of the transmisogyny I experience is, in fact, self-inflicted. No one is more aware of the "pervert man trying to invade women's spaces" narrative than I am. No one is more aware of the actual cis men who pretend to be trans butches in order to hit on young lesbians than I am.

In my head, there is a daily war. Desire fights propriety. Pride wars with humilty. Self-defense battles with self-expression. I wrestle with my own recognition of my own womanhood until I'm bloody and exhausted.

Like so many of my sisters, I am Guarded. Selective. Afraid. I must wade through the morass of myself before I can offer my womanhood to someone. Consequently, I have a lot of time to think.

Is intimacy worth it? Is trusting you worth it?

Is it worth it to take my armor off for you? Is it worth it to let you hurt me in a way that is so uniquely painful that the scar will stay with me for the rest of my life?

No. It's usually not.

They think that the system can be fully reformed out of capitalism and into socialism. They think that revolution can be conducted without violence. They believe that their actions are revolutionary because they are afraid. They look at the bloody road to revolution and they cover their eyes.

They still dream of houses, children, and the middle class. They have too much to lose in the revolutionary fire. You can show them injustice, oppression, and genocide and their reaction is to make some signs and call their representatives.

They honestly believe that voting democrat will make this nation and the world it dominates a better place.

They're not training militias because they're still afraid of guns. These people look at Castro, Che, Huey, Fred, Mao, or Lenin, and they laugh to themselves. They thank God that they live in enlightened times where such violence isn't necessary.

They're not studying government because they want to make a new one. They're studying government to get a career in politics.

Org after org after org steps up to the plate to declare that they have the answers. They have the actions. This time, the protest will work. This time, it won't be hot air. This time, our gains won't evaporate in a year.

Organize yourselves. Educate yourselves. Arm yourselves. Gaze at the road to revolution and make peace with it. There can be revolution in our lifetimes. We just have to decide that we want it.

Check for 2 grand? Worthless piece of paper that I'm going to leave on my bedside table for months.

Bead lizard?