Every time I go to work, I dread the moment L sees that I'm there. Without fail, she calls out "Jak-uh-liiiiiin" and then proceeds to tell me that I'm looking so nice, in a way that means, "You're looking nice these days, compared to back when you were looking crappy." If there's anyone else around, she turns to them and says, "Isn't she looking nice with her hair all grown out and pretty?" I know L, and I know that she means this in a sweet way, not in a back-handed "ew gross don't do the butch thing" way. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm being complimented not on finding a hairstyle that looks good on me, or walking around with confidence, or looking happy, but on my femininity.
A few things in the last week have made me think more about this. When talking to a sweet friend about the queer community in his city, he said I'd love the femme group. This particular friend has no reason to know about my complicated feelings about femininity and queer femme communities, but he also has no reason to think that I identify as femme except that I'm a queer cissexual woman who usually dates boys. My friend apologized for making that assumption, and I know that he genuinely felt like a doofus for doing so. He knows what it's like to be misrecognized.
On my driver's license, my hair is short, in a lazy fauxhawk and I'm wearing no makeup. Now, my hair is past my shoulders and layered, and I wear makeup a few times a week. I genuinely think I'm looking really good lately. Because I am looking good. Not because I look better when more feminine, or women in general look better when more feminine.
Last night I went out with three friends. One is a queer woman whose gender expression is fairly similar to mine but who doesn't identify as femme, one is her somewhat fey but mostly straight boyfriend, and one is a guy whose gender identity is somewhat in flux but who tends to get "tarted up" to go out. We met at this last guy's apartment, and I said it makes me smile that in the bathroom he shares with his female roommate, it's pretty certain that the makeup is his. In the ensuing conversation, my girl friend said that she sees me as androgynous, but not as gender neutral. Basically, the construction goes like this: androgynous : gender neutral : : ambivalence : indifference. Ambivalence means having two opinions/feelings/etc that are in "opposition" to each other, and holding them simultaneously. That's how I feel about my gender. It's not moderate, or neutral, or in between. It swings wildly from femme to butch, or feminine to masculine, and doesn't much stop in between. I was thrilled that she understood that distinction, and even more thrilled that she correctly applied it to me. It felt validating to have all the parts of me recognized.
For a long time, I felt disdain towards the idea of a femme identity. The only femmes I knew were lesbians in relationships with butch women or, more often, trans guys, who felt the need to invest in their gender in a way that matched the intensity of their partners'. There was a lot of talk of invisibility, in a way that meant "it's so hard to get laid because no one thinks I'm gay." These folks, too, always assumed I was femme -- mostly because my partner at the time is a trans guy. Once I was away from that group of people, I realized that that's not always (or usually) what femme identities are about. I heard someone explain it as intentionally and personally choosing femininity and femme expression, in a world that expects us to be up to someone else's standards of femininity. The power of claiming something as your own is a power that I've grasped in other places in my life. For example, I can be a queer woman in relationships with straight guys because I get to choose how and with whom my relationships develop.
My identity is not femme, but it isn't butch either. It's not somewhere in between. It's kickass, and strong, and empathetic, and a good friend, and a rabblerouser. It's refinishing a cabinet to house my craft supplies, sewing myself a toolbelt, and taking apart my sewing machine to fix the broken lever. It's not complicated, but it doesn't fit easily into any box. And damnit, it's hot.
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