Out
I don't look gay enough.
If I look around me, I see attractive women.
In the store, at work, on the street, at the park--
And relatively often, some little signal,
More or less obvious,
Sparks the nape of my neck.
I grin. "She's a dyke, I know it."
And, therefore, even if we never meet or speak,
She's somewhat more within the realm of possibility
Than, for example, the annoying little college girl
Draped over her boyfriend's shoulder
(Whom I would never want to ask out anyway).
But, see . . . it *occurs* to me that she merits a second thought.
I might say hello, I might not;
I might only offer a half-smile, that says, "I know."
I'm not necessarily seeking someone to date,
Only wanting to be friendly,
To share that bit of momentary recognition.
The problem is that, often as not,
She's only a little confused by my smile.
"Why's that straight chick looking at me?"
Hello! I'm not! Doesn't the rainbow on my car give it away?
The freedom rings on my keychain?
Please, do me the courtesy of recognizing me.
But she can't see my car right now,
And my keychain is in my purse . . .
Oops, yes, that's right, the purse.
That's bad, right?
Well, damn it, I work in Dilbertland,
And I need somewhere to stick my rainbow-striped wallet
And my make-up, and such.
Oh, yeah, the make-up. I'm sorry.
I don't wear it on weekends, but that's only because of me,
And even though it's part of the uniform of Dilbertland,
I have to admit I don't really mind it most mornings.
But the purse is also handy for tucking away my kids' stray leavings . . .
Kids. Yes, kids. There are all kinds of books out there
About how lesbians can have children,
About lesbian parenting, about lesbian parent support groups . . .
Is it really that confusing, that I have children?
Two of them, and they're my life, and I love them,
And I helped found the local PTA, not just a member,
And I host slumber parties and go to the zoo,
And yes I knew I was a lesbian when I had them,
And yes I wanted them, more than anyone reading this could ever know.
My children know I'm a lesbian, and they're proud of who I am.
They talk on the phone a couple times a week with the woman who was once my partner,
And I'm hoping we can all visit soon.
These people who know me don't question who I am.
And I don't, either.
So why do you, total stranger?
Why is it that it simply doesn't cross your mind that I'm a possibility?
Would it help if I wore combat boots to work?
Perhaps a rainbow-striped tattoo on my forehead?
What would it take?
A sign posted in my cubicle?
(Oh, yeah. I put a rainbow stripe up there, over my kids' pictures.
I guess that wouldn't be enough, after all.)
The last woman I went out with
Said--as a compliment, and I took it as such--
That she liked it that I look like "the girl next door."
But then again, she met me first through my writing,
And so she started out, as happens with so many others,
Already categorizing me among the realm of "possibility."
Would she have looked twice, had we met at the library?
I took the silly little "butch-femme" test online,
And it scored me a perfect androgyne--
Meaning, I suppose, that it didn't know what to make of me either.
I love to go camping, prefer to pay for dinner,
And am most likely to break up the bag of ice by slamming it on the concrete outside.
But I also wear my hair long
(to be finished soon)
Return to my Library.
Return to the Front Door.
E-mail me at Weavre_@hotmail.com.