The other day, someone left a comment on this blog’s “About This Butch” page. She informed me that it was impossible for me to be a butch because I had been married to a man and had had a child with him.
Stop “appropriating” the word “butch,” she ordered me. As if she had the authority to do so. As if she owned the word “butch” and got a royalty every time someone used the term. Or was in charge of deciding who can be a butch and who can’t, perhaps based on some scale that takes into consideration how many pairs of cargo pants a person owns, if they’ve ever played softball and whether they drink Earl Gray tea.
Not too long ago, I wanted to be a gold star lesbian pretty much more than anything in the world. (Well, not as much as being Olivia Newton-John’s dance partner in the Shake Shack at the musical number at the end of Grease.)
I’m a work in progress, but I’m learning to accept my journey. That’s what makes me who I am. Or at least that’s what they say.
This might be what most makes me a butch:
I didn’t bloom like a flower.
I cracked myself open like a geode.
And took a risk that everything I had hidden deep inside would shine.