Who's the man?
Let's dump the pink and blue and just start being who we are
By Sally Sheklow 02/02/2006
I have a video clip of Pat Robertson on a tirade. He'd heard a parody of "God Save the Queen" and was outraged at the refrain, "God Is a Dyke."
America's top televangelist was livid. "Do you know what a dyke is?" he asked the studio congregation and devoted listeners at home. His angry face contorted in the camera's eye. "A dyke," Pat sputtered, "is the male partner in a lesbian relationship."
Hello, Pat? Get a clue. There is no male partner in a lesbian relationship.
What is it with gender roles? No sooner do we take our first breath than someone swaddles us in a pink or blue blanket. Isn't sex role differentiation kind of a heavy trip to lay on a newborn? And it never stops.
As a kid I agonized: Was I made of sugar and spice, or snips and snails? Couldn't I grow up to be a ballerina and a cowboy? In college I identified with Janis Joplin, but my friends said I looked like Art Garfunkel. When I came out at 25, I tried to act like James Dean, but the bar dykes seemed to always pick up Marilyn Monroe vibes. Everyone had to be one extreme or the other.
That butch-femme identity used to drive me nuts. I had dumped heterosexuality to transcend gender role stereotypes, not reenact them. And here were all these lesbians preoccupied with who was what. I was galled that they labeled me femme just because I picked butchy girlfriends, had pierced ears and cried at movies.
Being butch was my goal. I had to rebel against years of being told to be more ladylike. I figured being a big butch dyke was about the most unladylike thing I could do. I didn't wear make up, dresses or heels, like the high femmes sometimes did. I bought my clothes in the men's department - even underwear.
I tried everything. I took up martial arts, worked in a warehouse and changed flat tires. I firmed up my handshake and learned to speak in a lower register. I shouldered 50-pound dog food bags at the grocery store, just to show I could do it. I even rehearsed tough, non-girlish body language and mannerisms until they became second nature. And I developed a distinct swagger. But I never did attain the coveted butch status.
Eventually I stopped working so hard at it. I quit caring how other people categorized me. I relaxed into a more ambiguous gender identity. Neither one of the polarities fits me. I'm in drag whether I wear a dress or a neck tie.
At our Jewish wedding, both brides wore pants and we both smashed the glass. Around our house we divvy up the butch chores. I am the bug butch, called into action whenever a bee or spider needs to be escorted outside. My wife is the power-tool butch, the darling of drill drivers. I'm the driving butch on road trips, mostly because I'm too nervous as a passenger and she can actually sleep while I drive. She's the electronic butch in charge of the computer, stereo and VCR. I glaze over in the digital world.
On the dance floor, I lead slow dancing and she leads a mean cha cha. We've both been called sir, which we hate only slightly more than being called ma'am.
And we're okay about sharing the femme stuff, too. I'm the household social secretary and gift wrapper. She's the kitchen organizer and scrapbook keeper. We take turns cooking and we each do our own laundry. We both swoon over k.d. lang.
So what's the big deal? Gender ambiguity doesn't hurt anyone. Can't we dump the pink/blue dichotomy and start everyone out with lavender blankets? Or rainbow ones?
Then we wouldn't be stuck with the limited choice of either defying or complying with our gender assignments. We could all just grow up being who we are.
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