I wear labels- each one explains something, none are contrary, each one – sought, questioned, embraced- They are etched into my belt.
I enjoy the company of everyone who flags queer. I don’t need complete sentences to understand what a person who has walked in Butch shoes for many years is trying to say; and for those new to just finding those shoes, I feel a little ache as I know the challenges that lay ahead for them.
As a Butch I understand the struggle and strength of the Femme, the role that each played in allowing me to walk tall, for letting me see in myself what only they could.
I am Butch because others walked before me and demanded the name; I am Butch because a Femme risked everything to tell me and everyone looking our way that I am wanted. I am Butch the noun. I do not understand butchy, butch-like, or sometimes butch. I am old enough and have ventured far around the globe enough to carry the scars that the politic of any given day inflicted.
I am the kind of Butch who does not laugh easily, and who has to consciously make an effort to smile in order to make someone feel at ease. I am the kind of Butch who detests bullying and without thought will rise to the occasion. I am the kind of Butch who carries OFOS expectations and struggles with the concept that it is not universal within the community.
I am the kind of Butch who finds pleasure in every single day, feels deeply others sorrow, finds wonderment in the extraordinary, relishes lessons learned, and finds amusement in the ridiculous..... and I am the kind of Butch that you would have to know well to see that.