I looked in the mirror today and saw myself differently. I saw a Lesbian. I saw a Separatist. I saw a Radical Feminist. Oh it’s not that I haven’t seen myself that way before, for I have for a long while now. But today I saw myself as a dyke who is somewhere in the middle of her life. It took me aback for a moment because I often have a sense of myself as this younger dyke, but today I looked at a face that is not so young.
I stared with great interest at the lines that are coming to this face. Wonderful creases around the nose and mouth and “crow’s feet” around the eyes, etched by years of both deep sadness, the kind that comes with living as a Womon-loving-Womon in heteropatriarchy and boisterous laughing. You know the kind that Lesbians have when we let ourselves go and laugh from deep in our belly? I touched the valley furrows of my forehead just above my nose that become more prominent when I am deep in thought. Even now I can feel them as I concentrate on this writing. Yes, this face, this body is becoming seasoned. Still I find I am surprised by it and realize that although I am somewhere in the middle my mind still has some catching up to do in this.
For many years I was often the youngest in the crowd of dykes that I was privileged to be in the company of. When I met them, I was just barely 16 years old. Most of them had 10-20 years of living on me. Of course I saw them as being very wise and experienced (which they were) and I was hungry for knowledge. I listened to what they said, read the books they talked of and listened to the music they sang lyrics from. Never once did they push me to declare myself anything. They listened, they offered their experiences, they gave me unconditional love and support, and they waited. It was I who named myself. At 21 I declared myself a Lesbian. At 24 I claimed myself a Feminist. At 30 I proudly proclaimed myself a Dyke Separatist. Each name like the emerging lines of my face becoming part of my identity etched through the grace of knowing amazing Amazons.
On the flip side I find myself now being the one of the older dykes in a more recent circle of friends. I have about 10 years on them, but oh how much I still have to learn and indeed they are wise and experienced, even if their faces do not yet hold the lines and furrows that come with living. They like myself have steeped themselves in the writings, music, and analysis of Feminists throughout time. I have learned more from them than I thought possible. I often think they are old souls, likely of suffragettes reborn to continue their work. Their camaraderie and friendship has ignited a fire in me that I thought was long spent. Perhaps it is their exuberance and seemingly boundless energy, but it is contagious and I find myself inspired to take a hold of the reigns of my Radical Feminist Separatist heart and gallop forth reassured that we can create revolution.
At the Feminist Hullaballoo in New Mexico many sisters of the Second Wave surrounded me; I was one of a few younger dykes at the event. I was too young to have been a part of the Womyn consciousness upsurge, yet it touched and sustained me through the years of the backlash. I am too old to have been a Riotgrrrl, like my friends, but their commitment to creating Lesbian-only spaces, keeps me going and I feel renewal in the dreams of a wild Sapphic sisterhood. I have the best of all that those before and after me have to offer. As I appreciate the way my body reflects my living, so too do I honor the special place I now occupy in my own life. I am somewhere in the middle.
I stared with great interest at the lines that are coming to this face. Wonderful creases around the nose and mouth and “crow’s feet” around the eyes, etched by years of both deep sadness, the kind that comes with living as a Womon-loving-Womon in heteropatriarchy and boisterous laughing. You know the kind that Lesbians have when we let ourselves go and laugh from deep in our belly? I touched the valley furrows of my forehead just above my nose that become more prominent when I am deep in thought. Even now I can feel them as I concentrate on this writing. Yes, this face, this body is becoming seasoned. Still I find I am surprised by it and realize that although I am somewhere in the middle my mind still has some catching up to do in this.
For many years I was often the youngest in the crowd of dykes that I was privileged to be in the company of. When I met them, I was just barely 16 years old. Most of them had 10-20 years of living on me. Of course I saw them as being very wise and experienced (which they were) and I was hungry for knowledge. I listened to what they said, read the books they talked of and listened to the music they sang lyrics from. Never once did they push me to declare myself anything. They listened, they offered their experiences, they gave me unconditional love and support, and they waited. It was I who named myself. At 21 I declared myself a Lesbian. At 24 I claimed myself a Feminist. At 30 I proudly proclaimed myself a Dyke Separatist. Each name like the emerging lines of my face becoming part of my identity etched through the grace of knowing amazing Amazons.
On the flip side I find myself now being the one of the older dykes in a more recent circle of friends. I have about 10 years on them, but oh how much I still have to learn and indeed they are wise and experienced, even if their faces do not yet hold the lines and furrows that come with living. They like myself have steeped themselves in the writings, music, and analysis of Feminists throughout time. I have learned more from them than I thought possible. I often think they are old souls, likely of suffragettes reborn to continue their work. Their camaraderie and friendship has ignited a fire in me that I thought was long spent. Perhaps it is their exuberance and seemingly boundless energy, but it is contagious and I find myself inspired to take a hold of the reigns of my Radical Feminist Separatist heart and gallop forth reassured that we can create revolution.
At the Feminist Hullaballoo in New Mexico many sisters of the Second Wave surrounded me; I was one of a few younger dykes at the event. I was too young to have been a part of the Womyn consciousness upsurge, yet it touched and sustained me through the years of the backlash. I am too old to have been a Riotgrrrl, like my friends, but their commitment to creating Lesbian-only spaces, keeps me going and I feel renewal in the dreams of a wild Sapphic sisterhood. I have the best of all that those before and after me have to offer. As I appreciate the way my body reflects my living, so too do I honor the special place I now occupy in my own life. I am somewhere in the middle.
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