Faith, Keeps Me Dreaming While I'm awake

Then, just recently, I heard a rumour that the younger queers don’t like the word butch. This makes me wonder, if I were 20 years old right now instead of 40, what would I call myself?

I grew up without a road-map to myself. Nobody taught me how to be a butch, I didn’t even hear the word until I was 20 years old. I first became something I had no name for, in solitude, and only later discovered the word for what I was and realized there were others like me.

So now I am writing myself down, sketching directions so that I can be found, or followed.

If the word for you is butch, remember this word. It will be used against you.

If the word for you is butch, then your history is one of strength, and survival, and largely silent. Do not hide this word under your shirt. Do not whisper it, or sweep it under the basement stairs. Let it fill up your chest and widen your shoulders. Wear it like a sleeve tattoo, like a medal of valor.

Learn to recognize other butches for what they really are: your people. Your brothers or sisters. Both are just words that mean family.

Other butches are not your competition, they are your comrades.

Be there when they need you. Go fishing together. Help each other move, and move, and move, and move. Polish your rims or your chrome or your boots or your knobs together. See these acts for what they really are: solidarity.

Do not give your butch friend a hard time about having a ponytail, or a Pekinese-Pomeranian cross, nail polish, or a even a fucking smart car. Get over yourself. You are a rare species, not a stereotype.

Trim your nails short enough that you could safely insert your fingers into your own vagina, should you ever want to.

Scars and purple thumbnails are a status symbol. When attempting to operate, maintain or repair anything mechanical, always remember the words of my grandmother: “The vast majority of machines are still designed, built, driven and fixed by men. Therefore, they cannot be that complicated.”

Be exceptionally nice to old ladies. They really need their faith in the youth of today restored (and they might think that you’re the youth of today!). Let them butt in the line at the Safeway. Slow down and walk with them at crosswalks so they’re not the only ones holding up traffic. Drive your grandma to bingo. Shovel her driveway. Let chivalry not be dead. Misogyny we can do away with, but chivalry? *shakes head*

If you’re going to be the kind of butch who is often read as a man or a boy, then be the kind of man or boy you wish you would have slept with in high school. Be a gentleman. Let her finish her sentence. Share the armrest. Do her laundry without shrinking anything this time. Buy her her very own cordless drill.

Open doors for gigantic body-building men, saying things like “Here, let me get that for you.”

Carry a pocketknife, a lighter and a handkerchief on your person at all times. Learn flashy lighter tricks, how to tie a half hitch, a slipknot and a double Windsor.

Learn how to start a fire with a flint and some dry moss. Then forevermore use lighter fluid or gasoline, and a blowtorch.

Burn most of your eyebrows off lighting the barbecue with a birthday candle, and then tell everybody all about it.

Wear footwear that makes a clomping sound, as opposed to a tick or a swish.

Let the weird hairs on your chin and around your nipples grow unhindered!

Learn how to knit, quilt, crochet or hook rugs: women appreciate a fellow who isn’t afraid of their feminine side.

Practice saying you’re sorry, however you people say it, I don’t know. This is one activity where you should not use your father as a role model. Fonzie was a fucking asshole. If you are too young to remember who the Fonz was, then youtube it.

Locker room talk? Tsk tsk tsk, a surefire way not to get laid a second time.

Sleep around. Repeat, this time without feeling guilty.

Then, just recently, I heard a rumour that the younger queers don’t like the word butch. This makes me wonder, if I were 20 years old right now instead of 40, what would I call myself?

I grew up without a road-map to myself. Nobody taught me how to be a butch, I didn’t even hear the word until I was 20 years old. I first became something I had no name for, in solitude, and only later discovered the word for what I was and realized there were others like me.

So now I am writing myself down, sketching directions so that I can be found, or followed.

If the word for you is butch, remember this word. It will be used against you.

If the word for you is butch, then your history is one of strength, and survival, and largely silent. Do not hide this word under your shirt. Do not whisper it, or sweep it under the basement stairs. Let it fill up your chest and widen your shoulders. Wear it like a sleeve tattoo, like a medal of valor.

Learn to recognize other butches for what they really are: your people. Your brothers or sisters. Both are just words that mean family.

Other butches are not your competition, they are your comrades.

Be there when they need you. Go fishing together. Help each other move, and move, and move, and move. Polish your rims or your chrome or your boots or your knobs together. See these acts for what they really are: solidarity.

Do not give your butch friend a hard time about having a ponytail, or a Pekinese-Pomeranian cross, nail polish, or a even a fucking smart car. Get over yourself. You are a rare species, not a stereotype.

Trim your nails short enough that you could safely insert your fingers into your own vagina, should you ever want to.

Scars and purple thumbnails are a status symbol. When attempting to operate, maintain or repair anything mechanical, always remember the words of my grandmother: “The vast majority of machines are still designed, built, driven and fixed by men. Therefore, they cannot be that complicated.”

Be exceptionally nice to old ladies. They really need their faith in the youth of today restored (and they might think that you’re the youth of today!). Let them butt in the line at the Safeway. Slow down and walk with them at crosswalks so they’re not the only ones holding up traffic. Drive your grandma to bingo. Shovel her driveway. Let chivalry not be dead. Misogyny we can do away with, but chivalry? *shakes head*

If you’re going to be the kind of butch who is often read as a man or a boy, then be the kind of man or boy you wish you would have slept with in high school. Be a gentleman. Let her finish her sentence. Share the armrest. Do her laundry without shrinking anything this time. Buy her her very own cordless drill.

Open doors for gigantic body-building men, saying things like “Here, let me get that for you.”

Carry a pocketknife, a lighter and a handkerchief on your person at all times. Learn flashy lighter tricks, how to tie a half hitch, a slipknot and a double Windsor.

Learn how to start a fire with a flint and some dry moss. Then forevermore use lighter fluid or gasoline, and a blowtorch.

Burn most of your eyebrows off lighting the barbecue with a birthday candle, and then tell everybody all about it.

Wear footwear that makes a clomping sound, as opposed to a tick or a swish.

Let the weird hairs on your chin and around your nipples grow unhindered!

Learn how to knit, quilt, crochet or hook rugs: women appreciate a fellow who isn’t afraid of their feminine side.

Practice saying you’re sorry, however you people say it, I don’t know. This is one activity where you should not use your father as a role model. Fonzie was a fucking asshole. If you are too young to remember who the Fonz was, then youtube it.

Locker room talk? Tsk tsk tsk, a surefire way not to get laid a second time.

Sleep around. Repeat, this time without feeling guilty.