Location: The “Sad” Vons in Echo Park.
Look: Oh man this butch was super cute. Denim overshirt with sleeves rolled up. Dark skinny jeans (she’s more of a man than I, for these). Brown tight-laced workboots, but stylish ones, not John Deere ones. And her haircut… close cropped, almost military.
It helped that she was buying only vodka and pickles.
My gf and I couldn’t stop smiling.
I was fortunate enough to see my amazing trans friend T and his lovely partner C this past week, and it was one of those evenings that was almost too good to come to an end. The conversation carried us from my front patio to the delicious vegan restaurant (T and C’s preferred cuisine – I certainly would have gone for BBQ) and then back to the street outside of our house over the course of five hours. We would each take one step away – my gf and I up the front steps, T and C towards their gigantic rental car, which would immediately propel one of us into another amazing and hilarious story guaranteed to magnetize us right back to our places. In one of the final of these multitude of exchanges, we somehow got onto T’s guilty pleasure of terrible movies where women dress in drag (aren’t they almost all terrible?). He mentioned that he believes his “root” lies in this pleasure – from an evening during his elementary school years where he caught the end of Just One of the Guys on tv. Having missed the premise entirely, T’s eyes still lit up as he explained feeling enrapt, watching the antics of Joyce Hyser parading around her highschool, disguised as a boy. His genuine delight registered as “I know you’re a girl, but you’re dressed like a boy, and everyone else thinks you’re a boy. I want that. ”
This got me thinking about my own root, which is tangled in the fact that I’m the youngest, by far, of three girls and spent most of my young, introverted life trying only to be whoever it was my sisters wanted me to be.
But my root may be clear – my earliest memory goes something like this: I am three years old. I am sitting under the kitchen table, wearing my everyday uniform of light blue Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, black denim shorts, and red suspenders. Oh, and also my ratty green Peter Pan hat with my given (girl) name embroidered on it in yellow thread. I am squeezing my eyes tight shut, praying in whatever words I understood, that when I opened my eyes, God would make me a boy. Every time I opened my eyes I was sad.
Hi there folks –
I went away this past week to teach a bit a the physical theater school I went to about four years ago. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt like I had friends, so I’ve worked hard to maintain a connection there, no matter how strenuous it is to keep up with such a fickle long-distance relationship. The school is a twelve hour drive north of LA in the thick of the redwood forest on the Northern California coast. It is narcissistic, insulated, secular, flagrantly liberal, and producing some of the most exhilirating, and – on off nights, the most puke-worthy – live physical performance in the world. It is also a place which routinely embraces pretty girls stripping down and jumping naked into the river at midnight, which is not to be underestimated on my list of reasons to visit. 🙂
Now I’m back in la-la-land, and trying to cope with a rush of feelings that hitched a twelve hour ride in my car on the way home.
I’ve lived here a little over two years, and I keep wondering where the community is. Sure, I have friends here – friends I’ve made from shows I’ve done, friends who moved here because I did – but really what I need these days are some queer friends. Some butch friends.
Not that I’ve ever had more than two butch friends, neither of whom have lived near me for over six years, but still. A person can wish.
I just want to go out and drink beer after beer. And talk about girls. And sex. And ties. Fuck, I even want to go talk about gender theory and the straight hegemony, or some crap like that. Something that cute girls talk about in San Francisco, or Portland, or Chicago, or Northampton. Places where there are communities of girls like me. Girls who are not necessarily entirely girls.
I’ve been having all kinds of weird emotions lately, and not the least because aunt flo is here for the first time in a while (I don’t bleed so much these days). I would love to talk to someone who knows the frustration of bleeding on your boxer briefs because you stayed at the bar too long trying to chat up that one pretty straight girl who thought you were really funny. Because those are the kind of things I do when I’m up in the Woods, and coming back to my real life is always a bit of a letdown.
Also, I’m working this week on the genderqueer/trans monologue play, and honestly – I wish I weren’t. I feel totally exhausted, and like I want to crawl into a hole and feel and feel until I can feel myself into a better place.
At least I have a good haircut right now. Grasping at the silver lining.
Went to a special screening last night of Pariah, an INCREDIBLE new film by the very talented lesbian-of-color writer/director Dee Rees.
This film is astonishing, hilarious, and heartbreaking. Although I didn’t grow up black or in Brooklyn, Dee Rees managed to convey most of the aching pain and triumphs of my own coming out story. Adepero Oduye is the gentle, smart, 17-yr old Alike – struggling with her own identity and jumping full force into what it fully means to like girls. The real winner for me, though, is Pernell Walker’s portrayal of the butch best friend Laura. Walker’s combined bravado and vulnerability had me almost standing up to say “I did that! I did that!”. AND the best moment of the q&a afterwards was when Dee let it slip that Walker’s headshot was like a magazine glamour-shot, all parted lips and big hair. Hi-larious.
Pariah opens in select theaters December 28th. GO. You won’t be sorry. Check it out here.
Location: outside CNP, downtown LA
The Look: sporty workout butch. Asymmetrical shock of pink hair, and sporting an Outfest shirt.