Girls, It’s Okay To Wear Boys’ Clothes! Hooray!

A New York Observer article recently declared, it seems, that the prevalence of women wearing men’s clothing is now acceptable and, even, to take it a little further, cool.

Let’s consider the following juicy paragraph, full of melodious intrigue and superior knowledge, as a starting point for a brief discussion:

It was just a few years ago that everyone was nattering about the metrosexual, the New York man who, though straight, loved his Kiehl’s and Thomas Pink tattersall shirts and is addicted to Grey’s Anatomy. Less discussed has been his female counterpart: gals who, while not lesbians, dress like guys (young guys), well into their 30’s; who leap into games of pickup basketball with male friends while the rest of us watch wanly from the sidelines; who affect a wry detachment from their sex’s conventional concerns of shoe-shopping, man-hunting and family. Think of the comedienne Sarah Silverman, mugging and shrugging and strumming her way through an “I’m F*cking Matt Damon” video, a birthday gift to her boyfriend, ABC talk-show host Jimmy Kimmel. Or matter-of-fact Juno actress Ellen Page. Or surly pop star Avril Lavigne. [Color emphasis mine, of course.]

The words combined are like a football-field-sized trampoline for a kangaroo. Where to begin? And yet, when will it end? Allow me, a mulatto dyke who’s been wearing boys’ clothes since before I could recite the alphabet, to engage in a quick discussion about clothing and gender.

According to this, there hasn’t been much discussion about women (straight ones, of course!) who are the “counterpart” of that cool straight guy who is comfortable enough in his sexuality to brandish a fierce fashion sense, replete with silver accessories and groomed nails. So confused by the heterosexuality of these wonderful guys, popular culture spawned the word “metrosexual” to label them. Awesome.

But until now there hasn’t been a word to give safe haven to those women (straight!) who dress like boys. Who have “largely given up on mainstream women’s fashion, with its expensive, often unflattering vicissitudes, finding refuge in an eternal sporty girlhood that may or may not be tied to any real athletic bent. They borrow from men’s wear, which is more constant, comfortable and, lately, focused on well-made basics like jeans and T-shirts, and they profess ignorance of female grooming rituals, even if they have a secret love of eyeliner.”

Well, ha! Now there’s a term (two words!) — not just a word — for these women and, therefore, a place to roam free, uninhibited, in their comfortable clothing while still able to cling to the security of their sexuality. “Urbane tomboys” they’re called. And what the hell’s taken you so long?

But, then again, what the hell’s the point?

It’s very annoying to read something like this and consider the fact that an issue is being made out of it. A positive issue. After all these years of listening to criticisms, homophobia from non-lesbians and lesbians alike who decry those women who wear men’s clothing with a shorn head of hair as a complement, this article seems to bless the practice, albeit natural, of adorning jeans and a t-shirt. And being sexy while doing it. Suddenly, it’s okay. It’s cool. It’s even encouraged. And why? Because it’s getting play in popular, heterosexual, culture. That’s part of why.

It doesn’t seem to matter that a slew of women have been donning dudes’ clothing for decades upon decades, and looking damn good while doing it. I’m not talking about Marlene Dietrich, Katharine Hepburn, and Diane Keaton, although the three of them certainly have their place in the spheres of the fashion conscious. I’m talking about girls, like me, who intend on remaining girls, love girls, and dress in boys clothes all the time because it is required within their psyches. The girls who visit gap.com and macys.com and bananarepublic.com and all the other dot-coms that have links to the men’s section. The girls who only give women’s clothing another thought when it’s on women they think are hot. The girls who don’t do it because it’s what “Urban Tomboys” do and because it’s convenient “in between glamorous appearances at awards shows.”

I understand it’s not such a big deal to 97% of the population. That’s the group under which a male friend of mine falls when he asks, “Why don’t we go to the women’s section and find you something when you’re here? What’s the big deal?” I don’t know what the big deal is, but I also shouldn’t have to explain it. Ah, privilege.

I’m gonna go change into some different boys’ clothes and take a walk.

Punctuation is Key

There is more lurking about the subways these days than bag-searching cops looking for terrorists. What is that? Pen-wielding taggers who have no respect for the importance of punctuation.

I was following my back-up plan on the morning commute one day last week, which has me transferring at Union Square to the 6 when I’m pressed for time. As I walked alongside the tracks, or, rather, the cliff that leads to the tracks, I was struck by a confusing statement that could have been cleared up if only a semi-colon or comma had been used. Written on a ceramic brick pillar in blue felt-tip pen, the statement read: “Lesbians are taking over niggas better watchout”

Here it is in all its illiteracy. Unfortunately, by the time I could get back there and take the picture, some letters had been rubbed off.

There are many problems with this, and I’d like to address a few here. First I will argue that “watchout” is not an acceptable version of the intransitive verb construction. It appears in Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, but I don’t care. Put a space in there. Moving on.

Now are the lesbians “taking over niggas” or are the lesbians “taking over” and so “niggas better watchout”? Let’s take a closer look. When I read it, I first took it to be the former. That “lesbians are taking over niggas.” But that doesn’t make sense; a simple semi-colon between the words “over” and “niggas” would have cleared it up, and I’m sure that’s what the writer intended.

Some sort of punctuation at the end would have been nice, as well. The writer is culturally illiterate; this much we know. His cover is further blown, then, because, going with this structure, we are to believe that lesbians will rule over “niggas.” But is this political rule or sexual rule? Both? I doubt this confusion is what the writer intended, which is another argument for a semi-colon. The other way makes more sense to me, and it more clearly establishes the writer as the homophobic coward that he is, rather than the paranoid one that the other construction implies.

Imagine for a minute that there is some sort of punctuation (at this point anything will do). What we have then is what the writer actually meant to express, which is that “niggas better watch out” because “lesbians are taking over.” But what are lesbians taking over? Are they simply taking over everything, including but not limited to the economic and political structures in the U.S. or are they engaged in a global takeover; clothing styles; radio stations; theatre; New York? I doubt the writer meant any of these given the lack of intelligence he has. So it’s probably pretty safe to assume that he meant that lesbians are taking over women.

But again, here we find ourselves in a bit of a bind. Is this “women” in general or black women, specifically? I won’t make an assumption about this point and will therefore explore both possibilities. First of all, this implies that a) there are no black lesbians and b) black women are the property of black men and therefore need to be protected from the army of lesbian marauders poised for a “takeover.”

But then what is meant by “black” if, in fact, this is what the writer meant but failed to get across? Does it refer to those who live in the U.S. and count U.S. slaves as their ancestors? Or does it also include other people who consider themselves “black”: women from Africa, South and Central America, the Caribbean, etc.? All of these questions make me think about this writer.

Perhaps his girlfriend dumped him for a woman. It’s happened. Often, “straight” women will find themselves intrigued by other women and will often do a little dabbling. I’ve unfortunately crossed the path of a few. (But this isn’t about me, is it?)

This raises an interesting issue, though: It’s acceptable for two “feminine-appearing” women to be together. To stroke one another on the dance floor. It’s acceptable for them to step out on their men for a time to see what it’s like on the other side. Because if she “looks like a woman” then it’s hot, according to some men, and these same men believe that the act is solely for their benefit. We know this.

What’s happening here, then, is that these “lesbians” to which the writer refers are marked as such. They are visibly lesbians, such as myself, whose most identifiable traits are recognizable as masculine. And, therefore, I think it’s safe to conclude that butches are the ones this writer fears. The ones who provoked this vitriolic vandalism.

But lesbians are women, which is another problem the writer failed to address. He has with this comment erased the sexual agency women have, thus rendering them helpless against would-be predators. Lesbian predators, that is. His fear is predicated on the fact that lesbians are sexual beings who will “take over” sexually, i.e. step in and overtake unsuspecting damsels on their way to power. But if he meant that lesbians are taking over, then one can’t ignore the fact that this means they’ll be taking over themselves, because, well, lesbians are women.

From this, one can assume that the writer believes “hot” ones are okay, and most definitely are women. Further, he believes that “hot” ones, in addition to being “acceptable” versions of “woman,” are not truly lesbians, because they’re acceptable versions of “woman.” But the other ones, the butches the writer seems to be talking about, are not “real women” and are therefore those lesbians to which he refers who have no physical or emotional need for men. This is one sentiment circulating through the small brains of the particularly culturally retarded.

Now, if we are to take butches as this man’s target, it might good to briefly look into what he could be reacting to. If we are to believe that he does not think butches are “real women,” then we are forced to ask, then, what are they? Smart people know the answer to this, but this man is not of that ilk and therefore we should consider his alternative mode of thought.

If they’re not real women, which, again is what I believe he must think, then they must be woefully inadequate versions of men. This notion pervades much of the homophobic rhetoric that exists not only in this man’s world, but also, sadly, in the gay world. So it would seem that he is actually copping to his inability to deal with his in(fear)iority complex concerning his masculinity. Butches are, in fact, women whose gender expression is masculine. But they are not trying to be men, nor do they walk around trying to co-opt a male identity.

This is lost on the writer who most likely believes that butches are trying to be men, and part of that includes an attempt to “take over” “their women.” But it doesn’t end here. I hate to beat a dead race horse, but not all of us are white. Black masculinity. Those of us in this category carry by virtue of our skin color another bag whose weight rests on the fear of the black and Latino male.

I think we can safely assume that this writer was sounding a warning to black men everywhere that they should protect their women — black and otherwise, let’s just say — from preying lesbians (read, butch) bent on taking over something. I still can’t be sure if it’s the world or simply the women he is afraid of losing control over. The “better watchout” aspect of his warning does imply that he does believe he has control over something.

What exactly, a black man in the United States has control over, though, is beyond me. The writer’s target, I argue, is the butch of color. Our existence threatens his masculinity, the very thing for which he relies on for a place in this world.

Anybody Know How to Get Glue Off Fingernails?

After a ridiculous swing-shift nap that got out of control last night into early this morning, I’m trying to recover some thoughts (feelings, even) about my very first non-fiction turn in front of a camera. It either was ok or amazing. I can’t tell.

I’m leaning toward the former, because stuff came out of my mouth. The only difference wast that I was doing it with one person operating a camera, one a boom mic held a foot above my face and one asking questions from a notebook. At the end, Kerry said she’d be able to use some of it, but that some of it would be hard to edit in.

The reason, she said, was that for the layman simply learning “how to come out,” my ideas might seem hard to grasp. During the interview, she asked about race and gender. And I just told some stories. After the first break, which came about ten minutes in as a result of some exterior noise, I was able to relax the tension I noticed had developed in me. And I asked how it was going.

Kelly, the interviewer, said I was a good storyteller. Cool. And Ronny, the 19-year-old kid holding the boom who was also there as a photographer, agreed. Cooler. Some problem spots I had came in trying to define butch-femme and how I fit into it. I think that was the question.

Well it turns out I actually have no idea. How do you answer that? I gave the obvious stuff. But then at some point I also said I don’t dress like this (whatever that even means, for fuck’s sake) because I’m “butch.” And I’m not “butch” because I dress like this. I got more confused as I went on, but I explored it through the words I was saying. I also observed to Kerry after it was all over that few of my answers were definitive. For instance, if I could take a pie chart, Kelly asked, and divide my identities up, how would it look.

You can’t do that. And I tried to explain the best I could that it depends on where I am, what mood I am in, and, frankly, which way the wind is blowing. I can’t talk about this stuff, or won’t, rather, without telling stories. And I had at least one for every question. Perhaps that’s why I am trying to write my book. Because I have stories and I want to tell them. But I like this setting, this format of documentary, because it’s not about just telling one story after another. It’s about developing a theme, my theme, and bringing everything together, all my identities, into one piece.

Another problem spot came when Kelly asked about my dating life. I had a bit of a laugh at first, and then tried to describe it. Laughable? Abysmal? My friends consider it entertaining. I realized I couldn’t really say good things about it. But I took full responsibility for my lack of success, and proceeded to talk about expressing need and communicating. I’m getting a little better at it, but am still choosing girls who don’t have the energy. But that turned into an interesting discussion about the “butch” dynamic. Again, though, I’m not “like this” (the care-taker at risk of my own feelings, the non-emotive one) because I’m “butch.” I’m not that bad to date, I finally said with a smirk. Or am I? Now I’ve made it public. To a gay public.

After that was over, Kelly had to leave. Ronny was shooting some still photographs, camera up in my face. Me talking. Me smoking. During this break, Kerry followed me outside and shot me leaning up against a wall. It’s frightening that I forgot the camera was there. I’m used to being watched. It was then time to play around. Kerry had the idea to have me put some press-on nails and lipstick on. She considered stepping out to get me me some mascara (please no), but Ronny told her I looked so different without my glasses that that would be enough. All along I thought it could be fun. After all, gender is play.

So I sat at the table and Ronny did his thing. During it, Kerry started packing up. But as I struggled to open the glue, having to do so with a pocket knife, as well as how to put this shit on, she grabbed her camera. My face perplexed while reading the directions, Ronny’s camera snapped picture after picture and Kerry walked around me going from my hands to my face. I was first disturbed after discovering I needed acetone to remove them. There was no way in hell I was leaving the house with red fingernails that extended half an inch over each finger. Kerry said she’d go get me some. “Yes you will, sister.”

The first nail I put on was my left thumb. I looked at it in horror. This shit is ugly. And I proceeded to apply the rest. But not without some struggle. I got some glue on my fingers, so when I tried to press them on, I pulled it right off with the glue. Ugh. I finally got the left hand done. And I stared at it. Ronny snapped my frustration from all angles with glee. “You’re enjoying this too much,” I told him. He shot my disgusted face through my outstretched hand. And then I had to do the other hand. Which meant I had to glue my clean hand with my fake-nail hand. What I now know is that stupid fake nails force your fingers into stupid, exaggerated forms. Marks of femininity that are lost on me.

I finally made it through, but not before losing one of them. The first one I applied. And not before screwing one up, which cut my circulation off of one finger. It was digging into my skin, but it was pretty much stuck there and so I tried to ignore it. Then it came time for the lipstick. Beaming Berry or Ruby Desire. *SIGH* “Don’t chicks use mirrors for this,” I asked. But the lighting was good where I was, so using the bathroom wasn’t an option. “I have an idea.” I went and got the biggest steak knife we have and used that to apply it.

Both of the visual artists seemed to delight at that choice and scrambled for position as I applied Ruby Desire. For fuck’s sake this sucks. And then Kerry wanted me to get my tattoo taken, because, she said, it was sort of masculine. So I had to take my shirt off. (I had a t-shirt on underneath, thank you.) But I had to unbutton it. Ugh. Five minutes later, after suffering through each button with the stupid nails on, it came off. And there I posed, white t-shirt, jeans, fake fingernails and lipstick.

Ronny asked me to take my glasses off and called me Clark Kent, shocked still apparently at how different I look with them off. “Maybe that’s why my dating career sucks; I look like two different people.” I took them off and Ronny shot some pictures and hummed the theme to Superman. I thought it was all over, and Kerry said she was gonna go get some more exterior shots. Ronny and I talked. And the entire afternoon’s subject seemed moot as I listened to Ronny’s story about growing up in Ecuador after his parents left him there when they moved here.

He just joined them three years ago. Growing up without his parents like that when he had a U.S. citizen brother sitting pretty in a nuclear family. He talked of the numerous times he tried to come up, both legally and not. And he talked of his passion for visual arts. It’s clear he loves it after discovering photography just three years ago. He’ll be taking classes at the International Center of Photography, and he already has photos in the Queens Museum of Art.

My story all of a sudden became unimportant. Or, perhaps, just different. And then Kerry busted in and told me to grab a clove and my shirt. Fuck. I went across the street to hear what her idea was. “That means I have to put this on. With fingernails.” She buttoned it for me. “Do you want me to tuck it in?” She tucked it in for me. Standing on the corner of President and 6th, Kerry stuffed the front of my shirt down the front of my pants. I tried to ignore the curious passersby, hoping the camera sitting on the tripod was enough to justify the strange activity. I went back to the front of my place and leaned against the wall, smoking with my red fingernails clutching my brown clove. Then it was finally all over. And I wasn’t waiting for acetone. I just pulled them off.

Anybody know how to get glue off fingernails?

Cross-Cultural Gender

My former roommate, Cornelia, is about to head back to Germany for the summer. So last night she had a going-away situation to officially mark her departure.

The dinner party was a quaint affair in a loft about ten minutes from where I live. I didn’t do the dinner-party aspect of it, though, because I got home when it started and I felt I needed some unwinding time. So I took it. When I got there, the people had just finished rifling through whatever it was they had eaten, the remnants of which were some blue chips in a big bowl. And a tasty tasty pitcher of mojitos (a dangerous summer-type drink, to be sure).

Sitting around the table were mostly Cornelia’s co-workers from ABC Carpet. All were older than I, some of them by much, and they weren’t American. Turkey and Russia were represented as far as I could tell, and there were a couple of others who kept their conversations confined to the space between them. All of the conversations were like that, in fact, so I decided to enter the one between Debbie, one of the few in attendance I knew, and Irena, one of the Russians.

I approached them by greeting Debbie who will soon be studying philosophy at Northwestern and who I hadn’t seen in a while. After the cheek kisses, she began to introduce me to Irena, but she had redirected her attention across the table. At this point I took a mojito sip to wait for her attention to return. And then…. “Hey,” she said to the man with the G-Shock watch sitting across the table, “do you know who he looks like.”

She was pointing at me. Now, I’m pretty sure I would have ignored it in other situations, amused at the 1,543rd gender mis-identification I had been the subject of. Maybe it was the shot of tequila I had when I got home or it could have been the mood I was in — the one being where I am not totally concerned with protecting anything on the inside, therefore not caring much about what people will think of me.

“She,” I corrected her matter-of-factly, void, however, of any offended tone.

“What’s that,” she asked, hoping she had not made the mistake she now knew she had.

“She.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. It happens all the time. I wrote my thesis about it.”

“Your what?”

“My thesis.” She was about to say “what” again, as she leaned in a bit toward me, but changed her mind and decided to look to Debbie for some help.

“Her what?”

“[Debbie's Russian translation of 'thesis,' which sounded much more like a description of a dissertation, but I let it go.]“

There was some recognition from Irena, but I wasn’t convinced.

“It’s just a big paper. It happens all the time. People think I’m a guy.”

“You know why they do, don’t you,” Irena said, as if she had the grand answer and was about to fix all of the problems that she perceived I had.

“Because I look like a guy?”

“Well, yes,” she said, but there was more.

And she ran her hand up and down through the space between us as though she were describing my outfit. I knew what was coming. “And because you try to–”

“I don’t try.” Stopped her short. “I just do. If I dressed like her,” I said, pointing to Debbie who was wearing a white skirt that rested just below her knee and a black tank top, “I would look like a drag queen.” She laughed.

“And your voice. Your voice–”

“Yeah. Deep. Freak of nature, I guess. And check out the size of my feet.” She laughed. I smiled. And so it began. Soon after, I was sitting down next to Debbie and talking to Irena about gender and sexuality. How it’s taboo in Russia. How, men especially, are ridiculed and can be arrested. “It’s not like that here.”

“Yes it is,” I said. “It’s easier now, though. I’ll give you that.”

By this time, she had engaged her Russian compatriot, Nutella (swear to god) who wore too much make-up but who I liked, to help her explain the state of gay Russia. “Yeah, I heard about this,” I said. “My therapist is over there now talking about me to a bunch of Russian therapists about how to deal with Russian gays coming out.” (Ok, she’s not talking just about me, but it sounded better at the time.)

“You have therapist? Why you have therapist?”

“Are you crazy? Everybody needs therapy. Especially if the therapist looks like mine.”

“No, no, no. Do you know, the therapists I sell the rugs to are crazy. One said she couldn’t buy this rug because it had boxes on it. And she said she would end up counting the boxes over and over again. See? Crazy. You don’t need therapist, you talk to family and friends.”

This went on for a little while, but by now, the entire table was listening. “The gay people think will sleep with just anybody, this guy this guy this guy,” she said.

“What about the straight people who ho?” I was feeling on a roll, cuz I was about to have her tell me the difference. But she looked confused, so Debbie had to translate. And then came ‘adomineva.’ “It’s about adomineva.”

I nodded. “Ok.” I waited to hear more about dominance in patriarchal Russia, which contributed to the bigotry we were talking about.

“Do you know what this is?”

“Yeah,” emphatically. “Adomineva.” Then a pause and more confusion from Irena. “Adomineva?”

“No! No! Adomineva, adomineva,” she said, slapping my forearm. Hard. Now I was baffled, lost in a translated mess far from anything resembling a point. I looked at Debbie for a line.

“Adam and Eve, Eva,” Debbie came back with under her breath. Ah. Got it.

“Katya [she called me], listen to me. Domineva — you know how everything begin with Adam, and then he took from his hip–”

“His rib,” Debbie and I corrected her in unison.

“Yes, yes, rib.” I wanted to tell her I learned about this when I was four but didn’t stop her. She continued, going to the men who go to work and the women who stay home. Ok, why are we talking about this again? I let her go on. Ten minutes later, after trying to interrupt a few times by assuring her Russia didn’t corner the patriarchy market, I realized she was lost in her own translation. Apparently Debbie’s Russian is worse than Irena’s English. With the conversation exhausted, my point lost, and my mojito tapped, I sat back in my chair.

Irena then started reading palms, or, rather, the fatty outside of the hand that forms with a firm fist. Apparently everyone’s having babies. “Read mine,” I said, shoving my fist at her, “but don’t you tell me I’m havin’ kids, cuz that’s not gonna happen.”

“How you know it doesn’t happen?”

“I do. Just look at my hand.”

“I see you will have kid, one, but it won’t be yours from the beginning.” Well isn’t that convenient?

“Irena, what about wealth and girls. What do I have to look forward by way of love and money?” She looked for a second or two and then someone butted in from four feet away –

“Can you tell if it will be a girl or boy?” For fuck’s sake. Give me my fist back. Irena would later tell me that I would be very happy and I asked her where she saw that. She said she didn’t see it on my hand but could just tell. All right, sister. So that was last night. Tonight was a much more interesting party situation in Williamsburg after hitting Gingers’ Brooklyn pride festivities.

I was there for about twenty-three minutes then Paige, Sonia and Sara and I took off. And I have to say, no matter how drunk I am, which I wasn’t very, I will always take pleasure in a detailed conversation about grammar and punctuation. I guess it gets bad when you end up diagramming a sentence on the back of a Heinekin label to help somebody identify the subject of a sentence. It was quite pleasurable, fielding questions that have stumped people for years about commas, semicolons and possession. Big dork, I am.

Cruised on Christopher

The only plan I had for the evening was to hang out with Kirsten. Dinner at Mexicana Mama in the West Village and drinks somewhere after that. But that would change, unbeknownst to me of course, when she called and said she’d be a half hour late.  Such changes of plans don’t bother me. I figured I’d be able to take my time navigating through the Village, with map in tow (I hate that).

The Village streets don’t adhere to logic, and I inevitably lose track of which direction I’m heading once I reach 7th Ave. After walking a bit, I realized I had about 45 minutes to kill. About that time, I happened upon a small park situation.

It’s not a park in the “normal” sense of the word, but it’s a park, nonetheless, carved out as it is in a space on the corner of 7th Avenue South, West 4th, Christopher Street, and probably a couple of others that I failed to notice. (As I mentioned, this area lacks logic.) The park is lined with benches and trees, and there are four sculptures that are both frightening and soothing. I say frightening, because they’re a little too animated; it was also dark, and Halloween is next week, and, well, that’s that. I say soothing, because the four sculptures are actually two same-sex couples. The men are standing; the women are sitting.

This was the view I had, but I didn’t take this picture. She did.

Sitting in parks like this, with time to kill and much flowing, as always, through my head, is one of my favorite things to do. There’s something about the passing of time that fascinates me. Making an effort to do so without getting caught up in having to be somewhere makes it that much sweeter. And this is what I was doing.

I whipped out a clove, turned my music up, and watched the people. There was a group of about four men sitting on the other side engaged in some kind of energetic conversation. Each appeared to have been in different stages of homelessness, but neither this, nor the chilling weather, prevented them from enjoying this time lapse. Across from them and four benches to my left was another man sitting by himself. Probably doing the same thing I was, I thought to myself.

Directly across from me, and sitting quite close to the benched sculpture, was a woman on the phone. A few minutes later, two men walked through in very good moods and sat next to her. It was shaping up to be a happy little Christopher St. party. A few minutes into a little Otis Redding trying a little tenderness, a man sauntered through. “Sauntered” is an understatement. I recognized him immediately.

The Avoidance Factor

I was in a good mood this morning, surprisingly, so I decided to treat myself to a bagel. I haven’t had one of those in a couple of weeks. I returned to my room and watched tv. Practically all day. I also watched a little bit of the movie Fiddler on the Roof.

I figured I would be able to avoid any personal racial revelations with this one. I was right. I love Tevya. The Papa! I did venture outside finally, later in the day. In an almost agoraphobic space, I meandered about the East Village and, realizing I was too early for the show I was supposed to see, decided to head to my favorite reading ground, the tea lounge. Sitting outside, smoking a clove, I began to think. This always gets me in trouble, leading me, as it is wont to do, to places I find it difficult to return from.

That ‘thing’ that happened Saturday morning is there, like a big cloud now, that I feel I can’t maneuver through. So I began to take it apart piece by piece. I didn’t get very far, though, because I tried to remember another time where a similar ‘thing’ happened, a time when I felt an overwhelming lack of history and singularity.

Immediately, I thought of it. The moment happened when I was about 25. I sitting on the back of a colleague’s pick-up truck on a lunch break at my first editing gig. I was reading Homegirls, a black feminist anthology compiled by Barbara Smith. The particular piece I was reading was about the sistren, the great-grandmothers, the grandmothers, the aunts, the sisters, the mothers.

I remember looking up and imagining all of them, sitting around telling yarns about the days of old, speaking in the language only they could understand. And for good reason. Just then, another colleague, returning from his own break, pulled up by me to engage in, what I’m sure was, a stupid conversation. His name was Daryl.

Who’s Confused?

I got my computer back on Friday, and had to begin the grueling task of putting all of my stuff back on it. Too bad I can’t quite locate my disks. This includes my iPod software, which wouldn’t have been a big deal, but the Apple folks had to test my little white friend and so were forced to erase its contents. This means I have no music. And my inability to find the disk means I can’t put it on my computer. And, well, it sucks.

And then the weekend started. Gay pride. The two days when gays everywhere don their rainbow flags and best walking shoes to express their pride and joy at being gay. Where they celebrate with one another as one big happy family. And then it’s over. And gays everywhere go back to hating on one another, refusing to maintain any sort of contact with friends they met unless there’s a function, looking down on those “unfashionably dressed, macho women (thanks “L Word” exec. producer for that comment),” and just about every other form of inner disdain. Yeah, it’s great to be gay. But I participated anyway.

My gay weekend began innocently enough Saturday evening. I was slow to leave my house, being engrossed in “Queer As Folk” as I was. But I left and was a little late in meeting the people I was supposed to meet. So instead, I joined the Dyke March a little late after an interesting jaunt down East 34th St.

I first stopped into Dr. Jays, a huge clothing store with clothes I love for not much money. I bought a new shirt, because I wasn’t happy with the one I had on. All the while, I felt some rage developing within me. I’m not sure what it was based on. It could have been the schizophrenic homeless looking man who sat next to me on the train. It could have been the cute dyke couple sitting across from me on the same train with their little wedding rings on. Ahhh. Love.

Damn Night

When I made a habit of going to sleep at four or five in the morning, two or three cups of coffee from a pot I brewed at 10 pm didn’t really affect me too much.

But now that I’m on a bit of a normal schedule that finds my head hitting the pillow ’round one or so, the same two and three cups of coffee from a pot I brewed at 10 pm seem to coarse through my veins with much more Irreverent Fervor. As the green colon on my alarm clock flashed on and off with each second, I lay awake, refusing to write or read. I was certain I would fall off to sleep any minute. After 108 of those passed, I decided to turn on the television and watch the episode of ER I recorded. Bad move. After Weaver lost Sandy on the operating table, my stomach developed knots.

And watching her scream after her kidnapped baby, I was not only wide awake, but now I was stressed out. That is some serious drama. Timely, of course. I’m interested in seeing where the storyline is headed. I knew something was up when Sandy’s family showed up at the hospital and Weaver didn’t seem to have a close relationship to them. This scenario scares me. I don’t see myself having children at all, but the fact that this is possible and I’m sure goes on is frightening. The only rights Weaver has to their child are moral in nature and the law doesn’t recognize morality.

I find it interesting, then, that the arguments against gay marriage, the ones coming from the religious wrong, are mired in a shortsighted reading of a couple of verses from a great literary work. It’s immoral, they say. It’s inhuman, they say.

In a sad article from the Chicago Tribune, 23-year-old Mr. Miller says “If we allow gay marriage, it will dehumanize people and they will be no different than some kind of mechanized cog.” This same idiot said that “homosexuality and same-sex marriage is a sin that goes against God’s command.” The same southern town from which Mr. Miller comes is going to have a festival situation that apparently promises to draw gays from around the country. Listeners of a local radio station who called in to voice their opinions about the event, according to the article, “promised that visiting gays would be met with violence.”

Yeah. Moral.

I lied in my last post when I said I didn’t have any stories to regale you with. I totally forgot about an exchange that Olga and I had at work. I’m so used to it from her that I simply overlooked it. Despite the rain and slight chill that fell over New York this afternoon, I wore shorts. It was sunny when I left my house. And it was even warm at some point. Olga and I sit right next to each other at the job, you may remember from past stories. And as I walked back to my seat at one point today, I saw her looking at my shorts. And I knew something was coming:

Olga: When are you going to where a dress?

Me: Halloween at the earliest.

Olga: (smiling) Have you ever worn a dress?

Me: Yeah, every day for eight years to school.

Olga: What are you going to do for job interviews?

Me: Wear clothes.

Olga: But you have to look nice.

Me: I will.

Olga: What will you wear?

Me: Nice clothes.

She smiled again and forced herself to be satisfied with my non-answers. She then told me that one of her classmates is working on a design project about people who wear other-gendered clothing. She told her about me and asked if I’d be willing to talk to her. I said yes and gave her my e-mail address. I actually, believe it or not, have rarely thought about the reasons why I dress the way I do. All I know is that I’m comfortable. I forced myself sometimes because I felt I had to fit in. But that’s bullshit, of course, and I’ve spent a lot of time thus far fighting against that. Long-time readers may remember the picture of me as a four-year-old with a hat on. That was me. It started early and it’s all I know. If I could have been clothed on my way outta the womb, I definitely would have had a Spurs hat on backward and whatever combination of boys clothes that would have best impressed the nurses. Period.

So I haven’t thought about it and I don’t think I will have anything really intelligent to say about the matter. Now when I’m discussing the whole society-made-me-feel-like-I-had-to thing in my thesis, I’ll speak intelligently because I’ll have a film to back me up and maybe some theory. But in my head, it’s never been a question. It’s just been home.  It’s five now. I have to be up at nine. So I can go to work for six hours and then return home to sit at my computer for another bunch of hours to resume work on chapter two.

Right before I went to bed, I articulated in note form a good transition into the chapter that will be my running argument throughout. I was a little worried about that and so I kind of managed to shy away from it for the last five days. But it came out tonight/last night/whatever and I have something to start with tonight. The one good thing about my insomnia was that I checked my e-mail. I’m going to go read a message that put a smile on my face. And then I’m going back to bed. Good morning.

Best Line, Directed at Me, I’ve Heard on the Train

“I mean, I’m gonna charge you more if I’m gonna have to hold your dick.”

Let me explain.

I’m on a train reading, minding my own business as usual. Somewhere in midtown, I look up and there’s a guy looking at me. Relatively attractive with his unkempt goatee, his feet are resting on his skateboard and he appears unable to get out of his dead stare. Whatever.

I went back to my book. Then I hear, “Excuse me, can I ask you a question. I’m sorry.” I look up and he goes to the edge of his seat. Pointing to my earrings, he asks “Are those 12 gauge?” “No,” I replied. “They’re 6s.” “Really? They look like 12s.” “No,” I said. “The lower the number, the thicker the gauge.” “Yeah, I know, I’m a piercer.”

Then shouldn’t you be able to determine the correct gauge of my earrings from five feet away? Idiot.

“I was just gonna suggest that you get 6s because they’d look good on you.”

He then went on to tell me about his freelance piercing situation. He said that if I’d bring him five people, he’d pierce me for free. I nodded, not interested in the least in getting anything else pierced. As he got up and took the seat near me, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. I did applaud his self-motivation, but obtaining the services of a drunk freelance piercer doesn’t sound enticing.

He then went into his pricing, describing in great detail his discount prices compared to those of your standard piercing parlor, which tends to charge four times the price of the jewelry. He only charges two times, apparently. Unless he’s doing the genitals, of course. Which brings me to the best line, directed at me, I’ve heard on the train.

“I mean, I’m gonna charge you more if I’m gonna have to hold your dick.”
Despite this, I accepted a piece of paper with his name — Kendrick, a.k.a. Pennywise — and number, so that I may collect five people to go under his drunken gun.

It’s Apparently in the Writing, But Not Really

I discovered an interesting test on Language Log tonight called Gender Genie. It is an algorithm that allows you to paste some text you’ve written and then it will identify your gender based on the writing.

Well, I jumped at the opportunity, of course, and found out that, based on my Jan. 11 post, I am male. Then female from another post by a close margin. Then male again. (I think the key may be not to do it more than once.)

I specified that these were blog entries. Then I decided to do a different kind of entry. So I took the conclusion of my Passing paper and it overwhelmingly declared me female. Then I took the conclusion from my black militancy paper. Based on this, I was overwhelmingly male again. Whatever. It’s fun if nothing else.

I think I mildly sprained my thumb. I’m not sure whether I did it grabbing a stack of files or putting my laundry in a bag this morning (which is still sitting on the floor unclean). It started hurting when I grabbed the clothes and now it hurts more. I can’t extend it all the way without feeling a twinge. Hope it goes away.

I cooked salmon tonight. I didn’t eat it, though, because Cornelia ordered Bene and I can’t turn down their pasta. But I had to cook the fish because it had been sitting out. It was the first time I cooked salmon, not really being a big fan of it. It actually tastes pretty good. It won’t tomorrow, I’m sure, when I eat it cold.

Cornelia told me she was appalled at my lack of knowledge about fish. I kept questioning her about the white stuff in the middle. Big deal. So I’ve never been a big fish eater…. As long as she was the one tasting it to make sure it was done and not me.

And I’m sorry, I’m not going to be able to let go of “The L Word.” I would if not for stupid shit like this I found in a CNN article:  Viewers looking for the stereotypical lesbian will be disappointed: There’s not an unfashionably dressed, bulky or macho woman in “The L Word” bunch. “I don’t mean to disparage anyone,” writer-executive producer Chaiken said. “But I think there’s one image of lesbians that’s been put out to the world at large, and it’s nice to be able to get a chance to take it on.”

Um. I don’t even know where to begin. One of the things I’ve always been interested in was stereotypes. Why do they exist? What do they mean? How do they influence the production of meanings of specific identities? I immediately sent a quick e-mail to a friend of mine expressing my frustration at such sentiments.

Her response directed me to other stereotypes that exist in popular media — the television shows on or even the very existence of UPN — as well as historical uses of stereotypes — the minstrel show. I saw her point and it is valid.

I am just unwilling to accept the complete, intentional erasure of real individuals because they’re “stereotypes.” I can’t say a whole lot because I haven’t seen the show. Erin’s girlfriend will record it every week, so I will see episodes eventually.

I did see an ad for it tonight on television. I heard a sound bite referring to the straight girls who want to, but yet may be afraid to, dabble in a little girl-on-girl action: “Sexuality is fluid; just go with it.” Now, I’m all for that. So that will be a good topic, I suppose.

Maybe they’ll all come out of the wood work and we can do away with labels once and for all. Ok, so that won’t happen. And if anything, this show won’t make it happen. But my friend said that this show is a start. And she is right. Hopefully it will spark some dialog. But I also hope that this “one image” that people know will become something that the writers won’t feel they have to “take on.”

The tone of that is offensive and it is divisive. There is already a rift in the dyke community between the “straight appearing” ones and the intelligible, easily recognizable ones. This won’t help. It will only perpetuate further erasure.

The reason this “stereotype” (which I fit) exists in part because of the visibility of those who wear its markers. It’s not the work of the stereotyped individual. It is the reluctance of people to look beyond what they see to accept that, yes, Nicole Kidman could very well be a lesbian. She’s not. But you get my point. I can dream.

Let me flip-side this for a bit. One thing that will come out of this obviously is the presentation of women who don’t fit a stereotype. This is important and can definitely be a way to raise awareness that, to put it simply, one can never tell just by looking. Nevertheless my concern remains that an entire population of dykes is being punished, interestingly being made invisible, for something over which they have little influence. Wouldn’t a true exploration of all dyke types serve to question the reason the stereotype exists and then even give the L-word invisible ones a chance to represent fully rather than be relegated to the “unfashionably dressed, bulky or macho woman”? In a way, this is almost frightening because it rejects the notion of female masculinity, gender fluidity. If they can be open to fluid sexuality in the show, then why close the door on gender? Fuckers. I’m pissed now. I’m gonna go read Freud.