No. 2 of a Four Part Series:
How 'Butches' Dominate Lesbians in Mass. Culture

Often by the Use of Violence

MassNews Staff
April 2, 2002

The world of lesbians is divided into two parts. One is the "butches." These are women who look and act like men. However, there is no one who believes that all women with that body type enjoy having sex with other women.

The other type of lesbian is "femmes," who look like all other women. But for some reason, they are attracted to other women for sex. These are the ones who will go from men to women and back again, and are classified as bi-sexual.

In 1997, the Network for Battered Lesbians began to welcome these "bisexual women" into their organization.

The Network wrote when it welcomed the bisexuals, "One thing we've done to be more inclusive of bi-women is refer to 'woman to woman battering' rather than 'lesbian battering,' in recognition that not all women who have intimate relationships with or are battered by women are lesbians."

A 'Femme' Writes About Her Many 'Butches'

Sad Story of One Woman's Experiences

"Sometimes I think I learn too well.

"One of my girlfriends taught me that I could save her from her alcohol and drug addiction. That if I loved her enough and took care of her well enough she could stop using. She instructed me on how to cope with her all-night binges. She schooled me in how to do what she said when she was high or drunk.

"I was a good student. I learned how to be calm when she drove with one hand on the wheel and a joint or beer in the other. I learned how to not sleep for days so I could stay up and talk to her for hours on end; for if I went to sleep she would wake me with unwanted kisses. I learned how to blame the drugs for her running down the street screaming at me -- alternating between calling me names I had not even imagined and pledging her love to me.

"Another girlfriend taught me that I did not deserve my dreams; for I could never sing the way I want to, or be responsible enough to get the job I wanted, or have the right kind of friends. After all, she taught me I could not even come to a good decision about where to go for dinner. She also taught me that I don't make good choices and I don't know how to take care of myself.

"So I learned how to let her make decisions about where we would live and what job I could take. I learned how to enjoy the kind of sex she wanted. I learned how to say what she would listen to; for she taught me that there was so much she would not, could not, did not want to hear.

"My last girlfriend taught me how I am responsible for decisions she made. She taught me how to sit quietly and be calm when she screamed and kicked things around the room. She taught me how to wait. Wait for hours while she talked on the phone, got ready to go out, sat around. Whenever I was ready to start my day, she preached her lessons of patience till several hours later, she was ready and our day could begin.

"I learned how to be patient. I learned to be grateful that she was only kicking at clothes and not my face. I learned that it was better not to get in an argument than to confront her and find that it was all my fault to begin with.

"And when I am asked what the definition of abuse is, I think of unwanted kisses, carefully thought-out comments and patience. I think of how my heartbeat quickens when I walk down the street and can hear my ex-girlfriend's voice telling me I've been a bad girl. I think of how I have to change my clothes several times before I go out and can almost see my other ex-girlfriend's face reflected in the mirror, shaking her head at what I have on. I think of how yet another ex-girlfriend taught me that I am somehow responsible for every bad thing that happens in her day.

"The most important lesson I learned was the definition of abuse. How though bruises fade, the lessons they serve to punctuate take much longer to go away.

"I have also learned that I now have so many lessons to unlearn "

Another Lesbian Also Complains About Her 'Butch'

"Depression is repressed rage", some wise sistah once told me.

"So what is constant and consistent anger?"

I'd been alone for a long time. I know it feels like it's better to be with someone than to be alone. But what if you are still lonely, even in a relationship?

The bed feels empty with or without her.

Which is worst? What's the difference?

"I've beat down men twice my size."
"No one fucks with me."
"She's only 5' 1". Her punches don't hurt anyway."

I pretended for a long time that everything was fine.
Then "the pretending" ended. And I believed. Swore up and down, that everything was OK. I just needed to make the adjustments.
"Yes, dear the sky is green. Of course dear, the grass is blue."

"My baby just has lots of issues."
"She's been through so much. And I'm the only one in the world who understands her."
"That's what a good butch does. You take care of your woman."

I covered up, made excuses for, apologized profusely. Made up mantras of hope, prayed to some dead white man for forgiveness. Soon I turned on myself. I turned the rage inward. I twisted my insides until they are turned outside for everyone else to see...but me.

Like the night she made me spend with the straight couple she had the menage-trois with while I was out of town. I even shook the man's hand because "real men don't care about fidelity."

Like the night I made the whole cast of my show wait for two hours after opening night until she arrived... drunk. I snapped at them, "Nothing is wrong!" while I carried her to the car.

Like the fact I moved from another city to be with her. Organized and planned it together for two months. To be told, with my bags still in hand. "I don't want to live with you. I never told you to move here. It's not my responsibility to take care of you."

"I'll just try harder."
"We can work it out."
"I know things will get better. I love her so much."

She's a curled up ball, fetal position baby.

Baptized in beer, stinking of rum, cigarettes, vomit
Brain decoding cocaine
Her mind flip flops, double somersaults
bed spins and slowly she lands,
I listen to her gasp for air, choke on her own breath
then wail into the pillow.

It is 6:00am. And I been up with her for hours.
I've wrestled away the car keys, threaten drug dealers
listen to her mourn her ex-lovers.

Was all of this worth it, to hear you say "I love you" for the first time?

"Well, if you weren't so intense...", her best friend told me as we stood in the hospital lobby. My wife laid in a hospital bed. A suicide attempt for the record books.
Iubropen.
20 of them lanced with Merlot and the herbal tonic for her eczema. An hour before, she had punched me. Hard enough that I gasped for air, went down on one knee.

"It's over. I've had it!", and all her pleading for another chance would not appease me.
Finally, I was taking a stand.
She followed me around the house, insisting that she would never do it again. I was going to bed and leaving for a trip to New York in the morning.
I would of probably of changed my mind, I always did.

"I can't get up ...because of the pills in my stomach"
The next morning, I find the postcard with her mother and her therapist's number, written neatly and placed on the night stand. In the 2 years we been together she had never given me her mother's number before.

I did not go to New York. I fought with homophobic doctors. Wiped her slate clean and declared myself her domestic partner. I spent the next week delivering fast food to her bedside.
I did not eat. I did not sleep. I pretended everything was fine. And I believed, this, like everything else, was all my fault.

"I have to be strong. For her."
"My baby needs help."
"We'll make it through this together."
"She says it will be better this time."

One month later, she's hauling her belongings with a police escort out of the six room apartment we called home. She was to stay 100 yards away from me. State mandated, I had this invisible football field of protection.
They had not believed me at first. I had to fight to prove I was worthy.

A victim. In fear of my life.
I wore a dress, expose some cleavage, wet my lips.
I had not been a woman in a long time. I had never been "their" kind of woman before.

Our first summer together, I told her I wanted to go on hormones. She said, "I have no
intention of dating a man. I'll leave you if you transition." We broke up the following
July. By that August, I had shaved my head.

Her lawyer asked me why I hadn't documented anything.

"LIKE I WAS GONNA CALL 911. Ask some racist-wife-beating-homophobe into my house?"

Her lawyer asked me why I hadn't documented anything.

"You have no bruises, you have no scars," said the cop at the precinct.
"What do you mean Battering. It sounds like you had a fight."
"C'mon, you're busting my balls."

Her lawyer asked me why I hadn't documented anything.

"Women don't batter. Only men do", said the well-meaning community.
"Well, if all this was happening, why didn't you say anything sooner?"
"You're afraid of her? C'mon, she's just a little thing."
"Well if it was that bad why didn't you leave her?"

How do you document something when you don't know it's happening?
All you know is that the sky is green and the grass is blue... remember?
And that you love your woman.

It's only when you believe that everything she has done for the last two years, that

every word, every gesture, every kiss

was produced in order to assert power to gain control over you
"YOU'RE NOT A REAL BUTCH"

Then, you can document it.

How to be an ally to butches and femmes

Here are some opportunities for those who want to be allies to butches:

1. Don't project sexuality onto butches. Meaning, don't retaliate against us for not returning your mad crushes. In situations where we haven't lead you on, don't accuse us of breaking your hearts.

2. Don't expect us to change your oil or fix your plumbing.

3. Resist cart-blanche hating of masculinity. Believe in a masculinity that includes resisting oppression, assist in creating it.

4. Don't buy into the myth of the scarcity of butches. It's a set up for us.

5. Don't assume we're abusive or that we want to own women.

6. Understand our risk for transphobic and homophobic hate crime.

7. Don't freak out when I come in the women's bathroom. Guess what, in most places it's illegal for me to relieve myself anywhere else.

8. Don't avoid me because you think hanging out with me will implicate you as queer.
9. Don't assume I'm not feminist, tricked by the patriarchy, or am interested in disrespecting women.

10. Don't assume I'm trying to pass.

Here are some opportunities for those who want to be allies to femmes:

1. Look for us. See us. We are smiling at you in bathrooms, at parties, on the street, and in grocery stores.

2. Read things written by femmes, especially Femme: feminists, lesbians, and bad girls. Read them because you care about femmes, because you are interested in gender theory, and because we will blow your mind. Don't just read them because you want to fuck us, or want to impress some femme in particular who you are trying to snag.

3. Listen to us. Don't invite us to tell you about ourselves and then accuse us of taking up too much space when we take you seriously. Our history has been obscured and withheld from all of us. It takes time to find it and tell it to each other.

4. Assume our painful experiences in queer spaces are real. Assume that we are not too sensitive or making things up.

5. Don't try to convince us that our identities are a result of internalized sexism. And whatever you do, don't ever equate being femme with being in a "traditional" role. That is unless you grew up in the tradition of femmes using their foxy, strong, brilliant selves to excite, protect, and care-for their queer partners.

6. Don't assume I'm trying to pass.

7. Challenge femme-hating, even when you don't think any of us are around. Some of us are in hiding. Besides, ragging on femmes is boring, predictable, and misogynist.

8. Don't treat us like pets, meaning don't expect our gratitude for being included. We should not have to be grateful when we are invited to a party that we've been crashing all along. (Actually a party that we've been instrumental in planning.)

9. Resist mocking femininity. Claim it, reinvent it, celebrate it.