“I need more faggy butches in my life. Faggy butch was good. It accurately described my pink button-down shirts, my giggles, the fact that I talk with my hands. I once saw a tape of myself in which I made a gesture that looked more like it belonged in A Chorus Line than in the middle of an interview. Faggy butch was like genderqueer—not quite this or that, a little of both, maybe. A friend once said to me, “I access my femininity through my masculinity.” I feel lucky to have grown up in a world with butch pioneers, and I feel lucky that I had an idea about what being butch might have meant. But instead of making me feel part of the community, these constructions of what butch was—stereotypes, really—pushed me away from the word and the identity. Instead, I chose a newer term, genderqueer, which had yet to be defined; it was in flux, it was a new frontier. I may not have been butch “enough,” but genderqueer was all mine to rewrite and redefine. I still like the word “genderqueer,” still claim it and own it and love the way it makes room for me, in all my complexities. But I’m coming back around to butch. Maybe it’s because the years of pink prom dresses are further and further behind me, maybe it’s because I’m learning from butch elders who talk in terms that make room for me, giggles and all. Maybe it’s also because the people I know have no idea (unless I tell them) that I was never a tomboy. They only know me—my short hair, tightly bound chest, and button-down shirts. I think every new generation feels the need to reject their elders, reject what came before them, and feel that they are the new gender rebels. We invent terms, we create new spaces, and sometimes, we come back to where our big brothers started—home.”
