I just found out that one of my pieces is going to appear in an anthology.
Naturally, I’m excited.
Yes, even butches get scared sometimes. Especially butches.
We just look like we’re made of bricks. Under that tough exterior, it’s a different story.
So, what’s the story about being so scared, Middle-age butch?
I’ve spent most of my life pretending and posing. Trying to move through life so quietly that I appear invisible.
But this is just the opposite. It’s shouting or at least raising my voice. It’s believing that I have something to say and actually saying it and then signing my name above my words so that everyone knows where it all came from.
I worry most about those who know me. What they will say? What they will think?
I worry about my parents. Sure, they know I’m gay. But that’s about all they know. They don’t know about my inner struggles. Or, how I’ve been evolving. How I now believe that there is a little bit of boy buried deep inside me.
It feels shameful. Disrespectful in a way. Contrary to how they raised me. I was taught to be quiet and obedient. To follow the rules: the rules of the house, the rules of society, the rules of gender.
My writing is all about breaking the rules. It’s about living in that middle place where I get to make up the rules as I go along.
I worry that my parents will be embarrassed by what I write. They thought they were getting a daughter. That’s what the doctor had said. A bouncing baby girl that they dressed in pink. They did the best that they could.
They didn’t get a rule book either.