There is something about being in close proximity to a butch woman that makes me go a little fluttery inside – kind of melty and shy, and occasionally, bold. Perhaps this is accentuated by the fact that butches are becoming rare and precious in my particular corner of the universe, but when and wherever they cross my path, something within me sits up and takes notice – because I share the other side of the secret. I know the special magic that happens when female yin meets female yang, and the opposite polarity locks us together like magnets caught up in each other’s sway.
I’m beginning to see a trend, where lipstick lesbians and glamorously androgynous sirens rule. Many of the women that I meet definitely trends more towards feminine women seeking the same. Believe me, I appreciate that dynamic. I’ve been there, and still, on occasion, find it lovely country to learn and love and grow in, but for me – it’s not quite home.
I am a femme lesbian who desires butch lesbians. I derive from this identity, from this dynamic, a sense of satisfaction, of completion so sweet that I can hardly begin to articulate it. And yet, from time to time, I hear this complex, richly diverse way of relating boiled down to something like, “If that’s what you like, why not just date a dude?”
I don’t pretend to understand my preference for women on the masculine side of the gender spectrum anymore than I understand why I am attracted to women in the first place. It just is. It’s the swagger – the strut. It can be as understated as her steady gaze, but if you look for it, it’s there. It’s the written language of her body that reads, “this is who I am, this is the way that I am comfortable, and if that makes you uncomfortable, that’s your problem.”
The musk of good cologne clinging to curves does wicked, wicked things to me. My particular cup of tea happens to be butch tops, which, as a group, have elevated the art of pushing a girl up against a wall and kissing her into senselessness to searingly electric new heights.
I love the confidence, and if you throw in the occasional moment of innocent bashfulness, that melts me to my core. I love the smirk. But that confidence thing, that phantom butch phallus thing – that slays me. And I’m not just talking about sexual head space; I’m talking about a particular kind of masculine energy residing in a female mind and body, and the way that turns traditional conceptions of what it means to be a man or a woman upside down. I’m talking about the underlying strength of character required to live and present as a butch woman not only in mainstream society, but also in a gay community that all too often fails to appreciate them. I’m talking about the power that comes with unabashedly just being who you are, even when it’s not the popular thing to do.
I love the way a butch can walk into a room and command the attention of everyone in it. I love that uniquely self-assured way of moving through the world and the safe haven I’ve found again and again in those arms.
I don’t think there is anything sexier on the planet than an intelligent, articulate, well-mannered gentle butch, who knows when to take, and when to yield – the perfect marriage of hard and soft, before I ever enter the picture. I love butch women and the ways, in which they define themselves, describe themselves, manifest out in the world as women who embody butchness only serve to further pique my interest, my esteem, and my longing.
Maybe I’m just looking for Prince Charming in a woman’s body, heart and soul, but the point is, I’m rewriting the fairytale to fit who I am – my strength to match hers. We compliment each other, coming from different sides of the spectrum, reaffirming our very identities in simply wanting one another. We meet somewhere in the middle, and make of it what we will. And in an L World that all too often seems to offer no place of honor, if any place at all, to my beloved butches – consider this testament a love song.
(Skye created the ning network Black Lesbian Friend 40+ at http://blfriends.ning.com/. I am thrilled to have her piece published on Deyes Karayib. )
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Left Behind (Finished for Now)
Left Behind
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
No
Not in that same place-
the barefoot on wet shower floor space
the dry heaving, chest collapsing place
not that half sleep/stumbling pace
Not from that place
where these lips crack
from neglect and under/use
where this brow furrows
from deep incandescent
soul searching truths
where thieves take from pockets
unearned souf (breath)
not in that place
of broken-words
and broken-ness
and un-done seams
in broken dreams
not from that place...
where I laid
naked
in those wilderness parts
frail hands my only guards
against the elements
against the malcontent
within this heart...
...that I gave
under the absence of pretense
without the guise of
repentant lies
I gave
the cradle
where my soul sleeps
the moments
between my heart beats
the womb
where my children speak
in a word: all of me
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
No
Not in that same place-
the barefoot on wet shower floor space
the dry heaving, chest collapsing place
not that half sleep/stumbling pace
Not from that place
where these lips crack
from neglect and under/use
where this brow furrows
from deep incandescent
soul searching truths
where thieves take from pockets
unearned souf (breath)
not in that place
of broken-words
and broken-ness
and un-done seams
in broken dreams
not from that place...
where I laid
naked
in those wilderness parts
frail hands my only guards
against the elements
against the malcontent
within this heart...
...that I gave
under the absence of pretense
without the guise of
repentant lies
I gave
the cradle
where my soul sleeps
the moments
between my heart beats
the womb
where my children speak
in a word: all of me
In Miami
© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre
There is a place in Miami where you can get American Processed Cheese Food for pennies per pre-wrapped slice. Imagine my surprise and gratitude the day I discovered this. Surprise as Abuelo casually shuffled the tepidly chilled slices in the cold food case with deft fingers, dropping slice on slice till he reached my desired 1/4 pound request. Gratitude that thankfully, I was not the first to make such a demand on his time. Time I can only imagine could be filled playing dominos while reminiscing about days that would have never left their history in my blood or dared to course through my veins. So that in the silence that hobbled together English or broken dreams bring, Abuelo handed over my parcel, taking time to stare at me through hollow semi-glazed Cuban cafecito eyes. Never seeing me nor marking my existence in this life, however brief; though his quick retreat back behind the cold case, ready to serve no other patrons at that moment but me, signaled his notion that, It is hard times for us all Mija.
Papery cast-off onion skins, dried salt fish, thawing chicken leg quarters, mottled sour orange, bagged star anise, boniato and ripe-too-long bananas lend each other their scents, shake hands fiercely, hurl common insults to one another and greet you at the door. The very same that had it belonged to a chain of stores say, would have been fully automatic and in functioning order. Instead, this door, hangs dejectedly on its hinges, while remaining propped open with a wad of old store flyers or maybe even a rock.
The first time I entered into this Saturday morning market day place, I fully expected to see free range chickens, if not a baby goat running loose. Though it is inside of doors and I am sure the air conditioner would work, if they would have just turned it on. But they didn't. Not that day or for many of the other days I made my way through their aisles. Aisles that seemed to have no particular rhyme nor reason, order or concern that there was soap next to cereal next to canned items though the over-head aisle marker said that pet food and bug spray were supposed to be there, even though there wasn't any that I could find.
I simultaneously loved and hated that place in the way that my last four dollars were able to buy a loaf of bread, 1/4 pound cold case sliced turkey, 1/4 pound pre-wrapped cheese slices, 2 25¢ bags of chips and a two-liter Sprite-like soda. Hated that this, was the only place left where I was able to spend those last four dollars. And I knew there would be more money to come, I knew there would be a check in the mail, on its way to me, with about a years worth of salary typed on it. My prize, my retirement come to usher me into a new Life. But that would come later. Right now?, my hope began to wane under the taunting of hunger and silence, those Devil's Advocates and the embarrassment that I had four dollars left and that this, was how and where I would spend it.
This was also the place I remembered my Mother the most. I saw her face in the faces of those other Haitian women. The ones who wrapped their heads in dire cotton scarves and pulled a hat over it all, like no one would notice or see. Though my own Mother, never left the house without her hair at least in a ponytail. Those women who carried their purses in the crook of their arms and expertly maneuvered the shopping cart with their free hand, while eyeing the produce with suspicion. Though my own Mother, seemed to approach the produce with a vengeance, determined to make the pile of fruit or vegetables give up only their best to her. I saw my mother in the bags of finely ground cornmeal used to make la bouye, in the speckly red-brown boniato she would boil during winter and serve with warm milk and sugar. I smelled her in the busted plastic bottle of Florida water that she would use for spring cleaning; in the hurricane candles, brightly sitting in their tall glass containers, waiting on the shelf to be bought for lighting during a storm or maybe in prayer to a saint. That place haunted me with pieces of my Mother.
Upon returning home, I would always feel at a loss, like I left something behind, like I needed to go back and pick up one something more. Once more to that place and I would peer in the watercress maybe, in the carrots, in the celery, the malanga, red skinned potatoes, onions, stew beef, the Maggi seasoning, hoping maybe the sweet boniato would bring it together for me. Once home again, stirring and slicing, peeling and browning - all would bob up and down, nodding recognition like long lost neighbors in the big pot, half filled with water, a bit of salt, some tears, a pinch of regret and maybe, if I could find it, love. As the smells mingled and hurtled shouts to one another in the bubbling boiling pot, I found the history of my Haitian people in my veins, the roiling unsettled nature of a people in revolt. A revolt I managed to stage every time I left my house or opened my mouth in opposition. I saw the stories of my Mother and her growings up take shape in the fierce steam rising above the pot. Heard those unspoken words of my Mother whispering to me from the tear-salt broth.
And for the first time since leaving behind the security that my life had amassed in the past ten years, I felt okay... I was okay.
There is a place in Miami where you can get American Processed Cheese Food for pennies per pre-wrapped slice. Imagine my surprise and gratitude the day I discovered this. Surprise as Abuelo casually shuffled the tepidly chilled slices in the cold food case with deft fingers, dropping slice on slice till he reached my desired 1/4 pound request. Gratitude that thankfully, I was not the first to make such a demand on his time. Time I can only imagine could be filled playing dominos while reminiscing about days that would have never left their history in my blood or dared to course through my veins. So that in the silence that hobbled together English or broken dreams bring, Abuelo handed over my parcel, taking time to stare at me through hollow semi-glazed Cuban cafecito eyes. Never seeing me nor marking my existence in this life, however brief; though his quick retreat back behind the cold case, ready to serve no other patrons at that moment but me, signaled his notion that, It is hard times for us all Mija.
Papery cast-off onion skins, dried salt fish, thawing chicken leg quarters, mottled sour orange, bagged star anise, boniato and ripe-too-long bananas lend each other their scents, shake hands fiercely, hurl common insults to one another and greet you at the door. The very same that had it belonged to a chain of stores say, would have been fully automatic and in functioning order. Instead, this door, hangs dejectedly on its hinges, while remaining propped open with a wad of old store flyers or maybe even a rock.
The first time I entered into this Saturday morning market day place, I fully expected to see free range chickens, if not a baby goat running loose. Though it is inside of doors and I am sure the air conditioner would work, if they would have just turned it on. But they didn't. Not that day or for many of the other days I made my way through their aisles. Aisles that seemed to have no particular rhyme nor reason, order or concern that there was soap next to cereal next to canned items though the over-head aisle marker said that pet food and bug spray were supposed to be there, even though there wasn't any that I could find.
I simultaneously loved and hated that place in the way that my last four dollars were able to buy a loaf of bread, 1/4 pound cold case sliced turkey, 1/4 pound pre-wrapped cheese slices, 2 25¢ bags of chips and a two-liter Sprite-like soda. Hated that this, was the only place left where I was able to spend those last four dollars. And I knew there would be more money to come, I knew there would be a check in the mail, on its way to me, with about a years worth of salary typed on it. My prize, my retirement come to usher me into a new Life. But that would come later. Right now?, my hope began to wane under the taunting of hunger and silence, those Devil's Advocates and the embarrassment that I had four dollars left and that this, was how and where I would spend it.
This was also the place I remembered my Mother the most. I saw her face in the faces of those other Haitian women. The ones who wrapped their heads in dire cotton scarves and pulled a hat over it all, like no one would notice or see. Though my own Mother, never left the house without her hair at least in a ponytail. Those women who carried their purses in the crook of their arms and expertly maneuvered the shopping cart with their free hand, while eyeing the produce with suspicion. Though my own Mother, seemed to approach the produce with a vengeance, determined to make the pile of fruit or vegetables give up only their best to her. I saw my mother in the bags of finely ground cornmeal used to make la bouye, in the speckly red-brown boniato she would boil during winter and serve with warm milk and sugar. I smelled her in the busted plastic bottle of Florida water that she would use for spring cleaning; in the hurricane candles, brightly sitting in their tall glass containers, waiting on the shelf to be bought for lighting during a storm or maybe in prayer to a saint. That place haunted me with pieces of my Mother.
Upon returning home, I would always feel at a loss, like I left something behind, like I needed to go back and pick up one something more. Once more to that place and I would peer in the watercress maybe, in the carrots, in the celery, the malanga, red skinned potatoes, onions, stew beef, the Maggi seasoning, hoping maybe the sweet boniato would bring it together for me. Once home again, stirring and slicing, peeling and browning - all would bob up and down, nodding recognition like long lost neighbors in the big pot, half filled with water, a bit of salt, some tears, a pinch of regret and maybe, if I could find it, love. As the smells mingled and hurtled shouts to one another in the bubbling boiling pot, I found the history of my Haitian people in my veins, the roiling unsettled nature of a people in revolt. A revolt I managed to stage every time I left my house or opened my mouth in opposition. I saw the stories of my Mother and her growings up take shape in the fierce steam rising above the pot. Heard those unspoken words of my Mother whispering to me from the tear-salt broth.
And for the first time since leaving behind the security that my life had amassed in the past ten years, I felt okay... I was okay.
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