Milk

We saw “Milk” the other day. It was heartbreaking – in more than one way.

I grew up in the Bay Area, not San Francisco, but down the peninsula. I remember the times; I remember seeing Harvey Milk at a Pride parade in the City. It was wild back then! It was good and bad. One day it felt like anything was possible. The next day our gay brothers were dying right and left.

I remember the day that Milk and Moscone were shot. I remember the newscast when Dianne Feinstein announced their murders and took charge. I remember crying. I remember the absolute incredulity we felt at the “Twinkie Defense” and the outrage at the brevity of the sentence.

And, while I remembered all of that, watching the movie, what really broke my heart is the realization that we are still fighting the same damned battle. We are still second class citizens. We are still denied our civil rights. Sometimes it feels like progress is being made, but mostly it’s one step forward – two steps back. I get discouraged sometimes at the lack of real, substantive progress, the kind that is codified into law.

But, yes, there has been progress. My girlfriend and I are able to live openly. We can hold hands in the grocery store. Ok, only in the “gay” Fred Meyer by our house in NE Portland; we’d never do that in, say, Vancouver or Gresham or Hillsboro. Again, a glimmer of change but limited. My employer can’t fire me because I’m gay. In fact, I am able to cover my girlfriend on my health insurance – that’s a huge step forward. True, same sex domestic partners are taxed on the benefit while heterosexual married couples are not. Why is there always a qualification to the progress? Why does there have to be two steps back?

I know that in the future there will be equal rights for all. I know that we will have to fight to win those rights. My hope is that in the future, if I have a mixed race, homosexual, differently-abled great grandchild, she or he will have the same rights and privileges as any other citizen of the country.

We’ve got a long road ahead.

Anniversaries

Anniversary: 26 January 2009

Most people celebrate anniversaries of one sort or another ~ birthdays, weddings, special or significant days in their lives. Today is the anniversary of the day I met my girlfriend.

We celebrated it (sort of) on Saturday night instead of today, Monday. We met at a lesbian dance called Hot Flash. It’s a good time mob scene at a club in Portland’s Old Town district. They bill themselves as “seasoned sapphists and their allies” or something like that. It’s a great thing for women of a certain age and orientation to have a dance of our own. The youngsters have all sorts of L4L dances and really, their music is marginal. This one is ours and there are a lot of us.

So we decided that we would always celebrate by going to the January Hot Flash dance and call it our anniversary. But, then we started talking about other significant dates and there are a few. Should we mark the date that we first slept together? How about the date that we decided to be in an exclusive relationship? Or when she moved into my house? What about the day we filed for domestic partnership, that’s pretty significant. Of course, we are holding out for a “wedding anniversary” someday.

We thought about going to California last summer and getting married. But, our families are here in Oregon and Washington and we want to celebrate the day with them. And, then the opportunity was snatched away. We are not going to Massachusetts to get married, or Canada. We want a local option! We want to get married in our town, and have our government recognize our union. City, county, state and federal recognition is what I’m aiming for. I want to be able to file a joint tax return, and share the meager crumbs of each other’s Social Security. I don’t believe that’s too much to ask.

But, that giant issue aside, when we are allowed to marry, we will be picking a date between November and April. When we met we were the same age and I loved that fact. Since my birthday is in April, for half the year I am older than she. I like it to be even. We like our relationship to be 50/50 as much as possible. So, sometime between November and April we’ll be creating yet another anniversary to celebrate; someday.

IMPOSTER

I said earlier that I wore scarves to keep my neck warm. That’s true. Scarves, like all accessories of femininity, are mysterious objects to me. I never learned how to wear them or apply them or accoutrement with them.

Today, however, I am wearing a scarf. I’m wearing it because:
a) it’s keeping my neck warm
b) I got it at Race for the Cure last weekend and
c) it’s pretty and matches my shirt quite nicely

But, here’s the thing of it: I feel like an imposter. Like a female impersonator when I wear a scarf as decoration. I feel as if there is an aura of inept about me because it is so obvious that I don’t know what the hell to do with a scarf.

Mostly, I just drape it around my neck. I like this particular style of scarf because it’s long and linear and looks ok just hanging there. The ones that are big squares are harder to deal with, for me. I’ve seen women who tie a scarf quite stylishly or even artistically and they look so… put together. They usually also have some sort of jewelry attached to their upper body. A pin. Or, is it called a brooch or a broach? That sounds like a grandma word! And, of course, all the coordinating stuff like earrings, necklace, bracelets and rings all matching.

I’m not much for jewelry either. A number of years ago my friend Lisa suggested that I wear a necklace to “break up the vast expanse of décolletage”. Well, shoot. Ok, yeah, I’m a chesty shaped girl, it’s true, but vast expanse? So, naturally, I took her advice. Lisa is my diametric opposite when it comes to accessories. She has them, understands them, and wears them. And looks good in them, looks like she should.

I wear a little silver necklace most of the time now – because of the vast expanse. I bought it in Mexico when we were down there on a short get-away. It does its job re the expanse, and I think it also gives me an ever so slightly more girly look. I’ve been pretty neutral for many years. As androgynous as a non-bound chesty gal can look.

Also, I’m now sporting a little silver ring, courtesy of my beloved. We got them this summer when we went to the beach for the weekend. We were staying in Lincoln City and drove south to Depoe Bay to eat at the Sea Hag. While we were perusing the shops I had a little fit and said, “I want you to buy me a ring!” Well, not here in this gift shop full of plastic starfish and tacky t-shirts, she replied. We made our way all the way to the end of the boardwalk and the last store was a silver jewelry store. She doesn’t like the fact that she gave me a sterling silver ring, devoid of bling. Personally, I suits me just fine. Matches my little necklace and goes great with this scarf!

tomboy femme and soft butch

Tomboy Femme meets Soft Butch

Tomboy femme meets soft butch and sparks fly! But, who’s who? Or, who wears which label? With me and my beloved, the labels are fluid and the roles are not fixed. That’s how we like it.

Why is it that the lesbian community wants definitions for every gender and gender role? Maybe it’s not a lesbian thing. Maybe it’s our culture. I find the labeling constricting and resist it as much as I am able. On forms, instead of a couple of check boxes for gender there should be space for a paragraph. Or no gender question at all.

Many lesbians will recall that their childhood years were spent as a tomboy. Not every tomboy grows up to be a lesbian, but lots of us did. Being a tomboy was having the freedom to dress like your brothers, climb trees, ride fast, play sports. To live those years as androgynously as we chose.

So, who’s who in our relationship? I’m the tomboy femme. I wear jeans and t-shirts when I am not at work. Also, I’ve never really gotten the accessories thing. For instance, scarves are to keep your neck warm, not to dress up an outfit. I’m handy with the tools I own. I’m a black belt in my martial art and I can kick your ass.

But, I’m the one with the long, pretty hair. I’m the one who owns and even wears skirts occasionally. And high heels. I like doing the laundry. I love the smell of clean clothes! I’d rather sweep and vacuum than mow the grass. I absolutely do not want to mess around with cars.

And my girl? She’s the soft butch. She’s sporting the short, but not buzzed, hair – think Ellen-esque. She always wears jeans; unless she’s wearing sweats. She works in construction. She fixes everything in our house. She would rather mow than vacuum. She does the car stuff.

But, she blow dries her hair. And has it colored. She primps more than I do! Although she likes being the Daddy, she does not like being mistaken for a man. She wears earrings. She is pretty, and she knows it.

I’m not femme and I’m not butch, and my girlfriend is neither as well. We’re just a couple of quirky girls making our way in the world. We don’t feel obliged to fit into a category; you can’t use us as a definition of anything.

Sometimes I want to shout, like Popeye, “I yam what I yam!”