c o v e r s t o r y
Transgendered Butches and FTM's: a uniquely Femme Perspective
by Sonya Bolus

f e a t u r e s
Transgendered Lesbian
by Arlene Istar Lev
Passing as the Pope - the Story of Joan English
by Alison Phipps

c o l u m n s
Health
by Dr. Lipstick
Wealth
by Ms. Moneygrrl
Sex
by SexySuzi
Advice
by Victoria
Femme Perspective
by DeAnna
Butch Perspective
by E.T. Turner

Publisher's Note
Contribute to Femme

by DeAnna

It was late 1998 when I embraced my femme identity and met a Butch who became my lover, my partner, my best friend. Everything was right with the world and deep down I had that at home feeling that said "you are where you are suppose to be". From that moment on, I couldn't imagine myself not in a relationship with this Butch. I couldn't imagine us not indulging in the Butch-Femme Dance.

I have always reflected on the journey of my relationships as if we were walking a path together. Where it was hard, we had a steep and rigid mountain to climb, where things were steady and expected, the consistency and level of the land was smooth beneath our feet, the stream traveling in our direction calm. No matter who was to my right, walking the path with me, I knew who I was, I knew my limits and I knew the weight of my feet as I moved through time and space.

About a year into the journey, this romance, my Butch left a land mine on our path when he told me he wanted to transition from female to male. The resulting blast of his words left me dazed, the large crater now blocking our path rendered me lost, the words stung and the fear left me paralysed. It was then that my feet betrayed me and I was left to sit on the side of the path and wonder. Wonder why the Butch I loved didn't want to be a Butch anymore. Ponder what my family and friends would think and say. And the big one that loomed overhead like a threatening storm cloud: would my partners status affect my own identity?

When I think back to those first few months, the dust from the explosion still heavy in the air, I wish I could have a conversation with the girl sitting on the dirt, her face in her hands, warm tears spilling along the length of her fingers, dripping down over her wrists. The words I would want to reach her ears, the exclamation point forming in my breath, would surely give her strength. Yet I realize the only reason I can look in the mirror now and see an identity that has not been damaged by the course of a path that forked so awkwardly off in another direction is because I was forced to question who I was...when I thought I already knew.

And question I did.

Why was this happening? Where would I fit? Who would understand me? Would I just disappear? What would I call myself? Was I now a straight girl in femme clothing?

When I finally stood up to wipe the dirt and grass from my skirt, all I could see was red, I was so angry. I did not agree to this. I wanted the intelligent and playful Butch who took my hand, who made me feel safe for miles before I realized we had even embarked on any kind of journey together. I wanted to feel at home again. And I saw black. Knowing we would be masked in shadows, knowing I would be even more invisible to the world racing around me and to a community of sisterhood who related to me, felt me, and now would no longer.

I did not want my Butch to change, to transition, even knowing not doing so would cause the person I was in love with to not be completely happy. When I stopped denying transition was going to happen, I felt betrayed, cheated and afraid. I heard myself ask "why do you want to become something I don't want" before I realized he had no choice but to become on the outside what he already was on the inside. And wasn't that who I loved? In reality, the person we both wanted existed in the same heart and mind, it was the outside we each wanted to fight for, me for my own selfish reasons admittedly. And fight we did, each in our respective corners, boxing gloves circling in front of our faces, jabbing high, striking low. I found myself exhausted, drained emotionally, spent physically and ready to throw the entire match. I did not want to pretend to be someone I wasn't, even if only by the appearence of my relationship.

He raised the white flag before me though. The night before he was scheduled for his first T shot he said "I love you too much to lose you." Contact. I felt guilty, ashamed of myself and shocked that he would give it all up for me. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. In that instant I had the answer to the question that had plagued me since he first shared with me his intentions to transition: can you leave the Dance you so love with your Butch and begin the next song with the Transman who will tap on your Butches shoulder? After all the turmoil and fear and relucantance, I realized the answer was a resounding yes.

I have done a lot of soul searching over the last year and have come to realize that no one gave me my femme identity. It has always been within me and therefore wasn't something that would change just because my partners identity did. I accept that not all the world will know who I am, who we were then or who we are now, and that is okay. Just as long as I know.

We're still not around the crater, which is lined with rocks and weeds, the scenery ever changing. However today I'm at peace with the journey. Yesterday I lingered alone beneath the trees, so full of nesting birds, to concentrate on something other than The Transition. Tomorrow I may drift back over the path we already traversed, reflecting on the thoughts and feelings forming around me when my footprints there first took shape. Much like a roller coaster the feelings in those memories are. Sweet the view was from the top of the ride, terrifying during the journey back down. When we start the walk forward again, our steps synchronized, I look inside myself in search of pain, fear, confusion. Unlike yesterday, there is none. And unlike the day the land mine first exploded, I don't question the queer femme girl dancing with the transman in the middle of a long dusty road.

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