Jill Rants and Raves: the butch body politic

That is far too grand a title for this little butch tale, but couldn't come up with anything else. For my entire life, once some sort of gender consciousness was thrust upon me - the first time I was expected to wear a dress and not jeans or shorts (maybe at age 7), the first time some unknowing visitor brought a doll for me to play with and had to watch while I buried it right in front of them (age 7), the first time my mum suggested I let my hair grow a bit longer (maybe age 10), the first time I realised that boys didn't just see me as 'one of the gang' (maybe age 7), the first time my body betrayed me completely and I bled profusely, in terror and in anguish, (at 11 in the misery of a girls boarding school) - I have known that something was unusual about the interior and exterior workings of this humble soul. Because, let me tell you, the world as currently constructed will humble a butch woman at almost every turn as she makes her way through life.

A state of constant vigilance, an awareness of the looks, the snickering insults, the feeling of competitiveness from men, the threat of physical violence, the actual physical assaults, the disdain from some women, the fear and loathing, the rejections, the sense of eternal otherness, the ready for a fight sprung coil that unleashes when pushed.

Then there's the sense that some women look at us as if were an ageless Peter Pan, the smiles and glances of approval at our T shirts, jeans and Doc Martens, the flirtations, the joy of that hand in our back pockets as she takes ownership, the pure unadulterated pleasure of a woman in love with us, the pride in seeing gender barriers falling like dominos, the knowledge that truly, time is on our side.

For most butch lesbians, the convoluted contradiction of public invisibility (unless of course a beautiful femme is on our arm, in which case apoplectic men notice us like never before), and public visibility which means public danger, is a lifelong battle - fought as much within ourselves as in the world.

So, when a man walks towards me, spit forming in the corners of his mouth, his eyes blazing with hate, and makes sure I know he is taller and bigger than me, I am all too familiar with this act of misogyny. Been here before dude, will undoubtedly be here again. It is only his own arrogance that stops him putting a fist into my face. Because he wants to. And it isn't because we have had a fight over his damn dog lunging at one of mine. It is because - as he so succinctly puts it 'You wanna be a man, Jill?' Or I should say 'YOU WANNA BE A MAN, JILL?'

I once, when I was very much younger, dated a woman who forgot to tell me that she was a hooker! That's ok, these things happen. But when we accidentally ran into a client of hers, in a bar in Islington and he wouldn't take my 'please leave us alone' comment graciously, he told me to step outside. I didn't, but he waited on the sidewalk and took a swing at me when we came out. 'You fucking freak', he said, 'you wanna be a man?' What is it with that timeless phrase? The jolt of the fist was shocking, I had never been hit like that before. I got up. He hit me again, and I dropped. And got up. I'm not sure how many times I hit the replay button, but it wasn't till a friend of his pulled him off that the beating stopped. He kept telling me to stay down, but that is the nature of a butch, and a Leo, that we will not get beaten by this hatred.

Look, I know I'm in combat mode. I know it. No surprise there. I have tried, as I head into what can only be called senior status, not to be triggered by ugly men. But I don't always succeed. Because I do not like bullies. I so do not like bullies. And bullies, like the small pathetic man who stuck his middle fingers in the air as he took his arrogant steaming face away down the trail and yelled over his shoulder 'Youre not a woman,Jill', or I should say 'YOU'RE NOT A WOMAN,JILL', really piss me the fuck off. Do not pick a fight with me. I won't be pushed around.

No, I'm not a woman in any traditional sense. I'm distinctly not a man in any traditional sense. I am another. It has been and will be a battle, I imagine, for life. I am not miserable about my state of being, but I am and will continue to be proud, angry, subversive, combative, protective, defensive, joyous, excited, happy. And exuberantly butch.