Female Bodies

My body is not my own.  I can adorn it with whatever I choose, as long as it accentuates my butt and as long as you can see my chest peeking through a tight shirt.  As long as it doesn’t involve carpenter jeans and a loose fitting t-shirt.  As long as I can be objectified, I can wear what I want on a body I don’t own.

My body is not my own.  I can use it to go places, as long as I walk with a sway in my hips and move out of your way.  As long as I move it to draw your attention to my accentuated butt and exposed chest.  As long as my movements excite your imagination with sex, I can move how I please in a body I don’t own.

My body is not my own.  I can use it for pleasure, as long as I bring pleasure to you.  As long as you can still dominate my body for your desires, even if they are not my own desires.  As long as my wet vessel makes you come in all your power, I can experience “pleasure” in a body I don’t own.

My body is not my own.  I can sustain life inside me for the next generation, even if it’s not my choice.  As long as you don’t have to take responsibility, even if it means a less than full life for me.  As long as your power over my body can continue, I can bring life through a body I don’t own.

My body is owned by a construct which says a penis has more power than my life.  A construct which says you can suppress me, rape me, or force me to bring forth a child I don’t want.  You tell me I’ll be grateful for this demand you have made on my body and my life.  And then you’ll own two bodies.

My body is owned by the powerful, the political, the male.  I am held a slave because I have a uterus.  I am held powerless because my balls are ovaries.  I am conquered because of the curve of my breasts.  My body is not my own.

Yet, there will come a day, a day when the religion which made you the possessor will turn against you in a faith which makes you the last and I the first.  A day when the white bearded God you spoke for, will speak for me and you will see that God has always been “She.”  A day when the bodies of my sisters, mothers, and lovers will be their own; no longer raped, beaten, or forced.  A day when my body will be my own.

3 Gay Men And A Lesbian Walk Into A Bar...

It hadn't been long since my return from a weekend getaway with the sweetheart when I received a text from my beloved roomie about her upcoming/unexpected date.  I must admit that the female side of me still gets all giddy at the thought of friends going on the first date.  This exciting news was followed up by a “The boys are going to check him out.  Want to go?” text.  Hell yes!  And from there the technical details of the covert op were set.

The boys, as they are referred to with love, are three of my gay male friends.  We’re quite the group, all the males are gay with the token lesbian (me) and my roomie (the only heterosexual in the bunch).  The boys wanted to check him out for several reasons, and so did I, but for purely protection/curiosity reasons.

The roomie arrived and began her date with mohawk boy (who, I might add, can rock a mohawk!), and the boys and I followed shortly after.  Now, I am currently calling New England home, and having grown up in the South, perceived this place to be... “progressive.”  Of course, every place has it’s exceptions, just like there are progressive places in the South.  However, I was still caught off guard by an interaction that occurred during this covert op.

Their date was at a local cigar shop/bar.  I’ve been once, but since I’m not a fan of smoke, it’s not my top choice for a place to hang out on a Monday night.  It’s almost 10:30 pm when I walk in with the boys, and we are immediately carded.  Having sold alcohol before, I could appreciate this request.


The last time I had my driver’s license renewed, I think I was a either a freshman or sophomore in college.  It’s an understatement to say that a lot has changed since then.  In my picture I look...different.  Long hair, younger face, and not to mention my name is very feminine.  In real time I look more androgynous, and sometimes referred to as “sir.”  I have a male style haircut and wear male clothing, but I still look rather feminine in my facial features.

I hand the woman my driver’s license and she looks at the card, looks at me, looks back at the card and after what feels like forever, hands me back the card.  Ok, I get it, no problem, seriously, thank you for checking.  No problem, right?  Well, it gets better.

We grab a table a couple of yards from the bar where the roomie is all smiles with mohawk boy.  It’s quite cute, really.  The boys begin discussing something about something, and we decide on coffee and tea for our drinks.  The boys order their coffee and dirty chai while I make my decision (as though it might be a hard one).  Of course, I decide on the chai, and make my way to the counter to order.  No one is there, so I wait.  The woman who carded us walks back up to the counter, sees me waiting to order, and walks away.  I keep waiting.  After some time passes with no service, I go back and sit down with the boys.  Now, I’m not one to accuse someone of denying me service because I’m queer-ish, but not too long after I arrive back at the table without a drink, one of the boys goes up.  Yup.  You guessed it.  She took his order.

I get it.  When you decide to break social norms you can expect various reactions.  I either look like a gay boy or a butch dyke.  I challenge heteronormativity by having a female body that loves another female body.  I challenge gender conformity as I behave and appear androgynous.  I get it, but what I want people who encounter me to get is that I am still a person.

I hate going into public restrooms because I get the strangest looks.  Part of me wants to expose my “angry lesbian” side, but the truth is, I’m fearful of my safety at times.  It’s not safe to be gay or gender defiant.  However, not expressing my sense of self is a greater threat to my life as a healthy and whole person.  I’m not expecting people to agree with my choice to express and break social norms.  I do, however, expect to be treated as a person, as a customer.


To the woman in the cigar bar:  my money isn’t gay or a gender bender even if it is in my man wallet, and believe me, my difference isn’t as threatening as your lack of compassion.

I Think My Dog Would

The outbox is full-

Requests for documentaries and newsletters

Regarding “Transsexual,” “Transgender,” “Genderqueer”

All labels designed to break labels.

My body speaks female;

My mind doesn’t sound feminine.

What is feminine anyway?

What does it mean to be female?

Can I be a girl

Who dresses up like daddy?

Can I be a girl

Who plays with trucks?

Can I be a woman

With short hair and a bow tie?

Can I be a woman

Without a purse?

Can I be a woman

Who desires a woman?

To pleasure with touch

Without being “the man?”

Can I be a woman

Who binds her breasts

To appear not a woman,

But not a man?

Can I be a woman

Who changes her name

To sound both

Male and female?

What does it mean to be a woman?

Breasts, ovaries, vagina?

Submission, weakness?

The opposite of man?

Would the feminists, 

The lesbians, the trans

Still call me “she”

If I challenge their very identity?

Would the world

Accept this dichotomy

And consider me just the same?

I think my dog would.

Why The Angry Queer Writes...

Silence.  A word and an action I know all too well.

A girl born of deep southern roots with an acquired eccentric religious view knows her place.  Her place is to accept the truth quietly.  I was that bible-beating christian who knew nothing of grace.  I was supposed to become that submissive wife, who silently stood by her man.  I was to be all those things that denied my being and my voice.  I was to be silent. 

As a woman educated in the liberal arts, I fled from my childhood.  No longer content with southern oppression, I fled to the northeast.  No longer content with the bigotry of Christianity, I believe only in the universe.  No longer content with the truth, I hold fast to the truths postmodernism has set free.  No longer content with pious self-denial, I rejoice in my queerness.  No longer content with silence, I speak.

I speak because my voice is told that it has no validity, because of my gender and my sexuality.  I speak because I am an angry feminist queer.  I speak because I refuse to let the dominant discourse that threatens my life, and the life of those whose voices who are ignored, to kill us while we live.

In a recent class at an ivy league divinity school someone defended “power” as something that isn’t always negative.  They said that power is good.  He would.  The frustration of my oppression began to rise as this white, heterosexual, upper class male defended the goodness of power.  Power is only good when it serves the oppressed.  My response:  silence.  It was in that moment when I realized that I can no longer suppress my voice.

I write to find my voice in a world that says I don’t have one.

I write to challenge the discourse the world calls “truth.”

I write, not to simply rant, but to expose the things that oppress us.

I write so those deemed voiceless will find the courage to find their own.

I write so they may speak their silence.

I write because I believe that humanity can still surprise us in its capacity to love.

I write because it is the only way I know how to speak.