W and I went to a LGBT fundraiser yesterday. We spent a beautiful afternoon outside in the company of a group of beautiful lesbians.
I was most struck by the 31 flavors of lesbians in attendance. Femmes in dresses and high heels, butches decked out in button-down shirts and neckties, old-school feminists in business wear, sporty dykes wearing sweatshirts and sneakers, older lesbians, baby dykes, a boy in a skirt and a beret … It was truly a wonderful sight.
W was browsing through some pamphlets there and pointed out a writers’ group being held at Philadelphia’s LGBT community center.
I instantly dismissed it.
“In my writers’ group, I’m the big butch in the little pond,” I said.
And it’s true. I’m not the only lesbian who attends. We usually get ten or so writers per week, and three of us are out lesbians. Which blows the one gay person for every straight person statistic out of the water. So, in that regard, we’re more like a softball team.
At a writers’ group at a LGBT community center, I would most likely be one of several butches. I can see us now — all of us wearing skinny neckties and sporting short haircuts like a gender-bending episode of Mad Men.
The truth is, I like being the only butch in the room.
Maybe it’s an attention thing.
Or maybe it’s because it’s been such a long, hard journey to get to where I am today.
No matter the reason, I revel in being the big butch in the little pond.