Me Femme Her Stud

Glossary - For your convenience 

Femme: A traditionally feminine woman.  Mainly used to refer to a feminine lesbian who is attracted to masculine or butch lesbians (“femme” def 1).  It is important to add here that not all femme lesbians are attracted to butch lesbians.

Boi: For lesbians, a boi is a woman who is biologically female, but has a boyish appearance or presentation. A boi may be lesbian identified or s/he may be trans identified. For gay men a boi is a gay man who is boyish or young in appearance or identity.

Stud:A dominant lesbian, usually butch. This is usually the type of dyke that has gender identity disorder (she thinks and wants to be a man). She takes on the very dominant role in relationships, the male role to be exact. She dresses like a man and acts like a man. There is nothing feminine about her. She is sometimes more of a man than some men. In bed she will only want to make love to her women with a strap on. She will not want women to touch her breast, or her vagina, go down on her or provide her with any type of pleasure. She wants to do all the pleasuring. She does not want women to touch her breast etc, because it reminds her that she is a woman.

When people write into Lesbian Love and Advice for advice, they often times feel the need to classify who is talking. "My girlfriend (stud) and myself (femme) went out to eat last night." or "I want to buy my girlfriend (femme) a gift that means a lot (I'm a stud) but am having a hard time...."  Sometimes even, "We got into a massive fight last night. My girlfriend (stud) said something that I felt was inappropriate. I'm a femme."  Sometimes it's not enough to clarify the roles in the relationship. Sometimes members want to solicit advice only from femmes or studs on the page. "Femmes -- what do you think..." and "Studs -- you know what I mean" posts are quite popular.

 Labels can be misleading. You can't tell everything you need to know from a label. And sometimes, the person wearing the label has a different interpretation of said label than you do. Labels don't mean that we can automatically assume what another person's experience or opinion is. "Oh... I see. You're a FEMME. Well then, here's your advice. I thought you were a boi. If you were a boi I would have given you this bit of advice." Smh. Really hard.

I'm tired of labels being some sort of cheat sheet we use to understand people more readily. I would be better served as a giver of advice if someone were to tell me what type of family their woman grew up in, what relationships they both had currently been involved in, what habits and idiosyncrasies each of them had, etc.  A label does not tell you all there is to know about a person, nor does it give you any road map into how to best solve whatever issue the person is experiencing. It's ridiculous to assume otherwise.

I heard once that someone felt labels were important and compared it to shopping for cereal at the local supermarket. So -- Customer A likes fruity pebbles, and looks for the label that says Fruity Pebbles. They don't like shredded wheat. Shredded wheat might be good for someone else, but it's just not doing it for customer A. See? The label helps, because Customer A is not going to go home with the wrong cereal! Yeah. Ok. But this is the thing: sometimes food gets mislabeled. And sometimes manufacturers start putting shit into your fruity pebbles that wasn't there before. And sometimes there's equally great fruity pebbles that the store makes that are less expensive, more convenient -- hell, sometimes the "alternative" even tastes better. Sometimes labels fall off.

Slapping the label of "femme" or "boi" doesn't mean it's a femme or a boi anymore than putting lipstick on your dog makes it a covergirl spokesperson. And the characteristics of a boi doesn't mean that my girlfriend is going to follow the criteria of a boi to the letter anymore than my "label" is going to dictate how I act.

Arg.

I guess what I'm saying is:

Let labels be a starting point to your conversation -- not the ending where you can make assumptions and then seek generic type answers. Your girlfriend has her own personalities and her own gifts and shortcomings. Seeing her as a person might get you further.

P.S. I know these definitions of these labels are surely going to rub some people the wrong way. I'll talk about them in my blog tomorrow. Yup -- blogging every day in July is about to commence. Why not?  <3

Lens

 

 

It's a beautiful day today. Doused in Cutter Backwoods Insect Repellant, Jay and I made our way to the lake. A storm is coming, but for now it's pleasant -- just the right amount of wind to keep away most bugs -- sweatshirt weather. It would be a great day to fish or cruise around the lake in the pontoon. If I could get going. For now I'm content to take a walk to the lake front, avoiding the holes the turtles dig up in the yard to bury their eggs, only to have skunks later dig them up and dine. It's nature, my father says, but it's still sad, especially when you see turtles crawling steadily to check up on their families later.  

I'm more than happy to sit here, 29 days into my blog every day in June challenge, and watch this woman I've grown to love so much it's painful, with camera in hand, looking through her lens. She'll come back later and we'll check the pictures we've taken, removing 90 percent of the pictures I've taken because, well, my hands shake. But she doesn't mind. Nor does she comment much on my moisturized face leaving it's fingerprint on her Nikon screen. 

This morning I watched her profile. Her eyebrows and the thick lashes she says curl into themselves sometimes. I marvel at how her complexion is smooth without the need for foundation or correctors, how the top of her lip has a slight dip. I tried to take a picture of her profile with my iPhone this morning. It pisses me off that I can't show people what I'm talking about. It's the same madness that happens when I write and can't find the right words to use. I know there is a correct lighting, a suitable setting, the perfect focus and lens that will capture the moment. I just have to find it. 

Oh, but when I do --

Subtleties

subtlety |ˈsətltē|
noun ( pl. -ties)
the quality or state of being subtle : the textural subtlety of Degas.
• a subtle distinction, feature, or argument : the subtleties of English grammar.
ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French soutilte, from Latin subtilitas, from subtilis ‘fine, delicate’ (see subtle ).

This is the second time I've seen Jay in person. Even though we've talked for what would probably add up as years, seeing her in person -- up close and personal -- is a new experience. I'm trying not to stare as I know that gets on her nerves (ok, it doesn't get on her nerves but I can't imagine it's comfortable when your girl keeps staring at you...) and she feels that I'm a bit of a stalker when I do, but I have to soak up as much of her as I possibly can, then I can draw on my memory later when we're back on the phone -- our normal mode of communication.

When she says "What?" I'll picture the tilt of her head -- slight in moment but loud in meaning. I'll picture the little shrug she does and the smile she has on her face when she does it -- usually when she makes a point.

There are little subtleties of her that I love.

Last night when we were in bed, she curled up behind me. But she did it in this way that's all Jay-- like she knew the spot to curve and bend around me, or where to slip her hand around my waist, the place to rub my thumb. I'm learning to appreciate the way she touches me, or holds my hand and always in her quiet and comfortable way.

I like the way she touches me. 

I'm learning to be a bit more subtle. Learning to relax into the moment a bit more -- take things as they come and not be so quick to rush to conclusions, rush to judgements, or rush away from the moment and just "be." I have a feeling that I will be learning a whole lot about myself in these calmer moments.

How funny that while I'm getting to know all about Jay, I'm getting to know more about myself as well.

It's an exciting and beautiful thing.

The Problem Is...

Intimacy isn't easy for me.

Sex is easy for me, but intimacy isn't. And there is a difference.

I don't have many examples of intimacy in my life. I have the experiences that sound cliche I'm hesitant to share them ... so I won't. Shit happens -- and basically everyone I know experiences some sort of inappropriateness in their life. This isn't to minimize my (or anyone's) experience, by the way. It's just my attempt at moving on from it for the sake of this blog.

Shit happens.

The problem is when the "shit happens" taints the rest of your life's experiences. The problem is when you compare something healthy and meaningful to ... shit.

Unbeknownst to me, this is what I've been doing. I didn't realize it until she asked me if she had hurt my feelings in some way, or done something. Truthfully she hasn't. She didn't.

It really is me.

The problem is... finding someone who wants to do the "right" thing often times reminds you of every single time it was wrong. There's a sort of grieving process that takes place. I don't think you say goodbye to people when you break up, you say goodbye to patterns of expression or patterns of treatment that no longer work for you. When you can do that, saying goodbye to a person isn't that difficult. With the person comes whatever behavior. The behavior no longer works for you, so you can let it go. Easy Peasy.

If only it were.

I'm going to try really hard not to take it out on her. It's not her fault that she's one of the good ones. I'm one of the good ones for her, too.

We definitely deserve each other.

I Know How This Turns Out.

When I was just four years old, I was baptized (by my father) in a small Lutheran Church in Glyndon, MN. The year was 1971, and white couples adopting little black babies was not at all supported. Not even by the Lutheran Church. My younger by five months brother, Peter, had already been with the family for three years. He was a little bit easier to "handle" being he was only fifty percent negro. Yeah. 1971. When my dark chocolate beautiful self entered the scene, however, the townspeople had a little meeting in that Lutheran Church, and decided that my rainbow coalition family should pack their bags and head on over to another town where that kind of thing was acceptable. "One day those negro children will grow up and want to date, marry, and procreate with our white children - then what will we do?" they thought.

I can't make this type of stuff up.

My mother tells me very little about that time. But these are a few things she tells me:

At the "baby" shower some church folks threw for my mother on the arrival of her four year old bundle of joy, I pulled up my dress to scratch my tummy. One of the older ladies in the congregation gasped and said, "Oh my Goodness. She's black all over."

One day, my mother was fixing lunch for my brothers and I when there was a knock at the door. She went answer it and found someone from the church passing out literature. She handed the pamphlet to my mother then kindly explained that it was research that proved that black people had smaller brains, and therefore were less intelligent, than white people. Just a little FYI for your afternoon, Audrey. Have a nice day.

There are very few things I remember from that time in my life that coincide with the stories of our departure from that town. But I remember the day I saw my father cry for the first time. He was in his home office, on the couch, laying face down, and weeping. I have yet to hear a man weep the way my father did that day.  I can still see it: shoulders shaking, loud bellowing sobs I could see ripple from his feet to the top of his head. It sounded like my father's heart was being torn out of his chest, and that he was powerless to stop it.

I grew up in the Lutheran Church. Yes, it is filled with mostly white Norwegian, German, Swedish people from Minnesota or Iowa (I don't know if this is actually true, but the stereotype often has some small kernel of truth somewhere, right?). But despite the whiteness of the religion, I feel at home in pretty much any Lutheran Church in America. I will walk myself into any ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church of America) congregation, pick up a hymnal and sing any song the organist plays. Hell, I probably already played those hymns myself on the organ at my Dad's church in Houglum. I feel like my name: Kari Anderson, gives me a right to be there by birthright, and will often out qualify people who might "look" more Lutheran than I do.

I've gone through it before. I know that people inside a church don't always make the church holy. I know that there are people in church who can read the holy book and never, ever know the true story of love that permeates all of the pages. I know that I can sit inside of a church and hear the most beautiful of voices, and then hear those same voices outside of my families home telling me because of my skin I'm somehow less valuable, less beautiful... just LESS than them.

Some people might ask me why I stay. And I guess it's because I feel I shouldn't be the one to leave. I feel like I have it right. I feel like my family has it right.

In 1985, my mother invited two gay men to attend services at the church my father was serving as Pastor. On a good Sunday, the church maybe had twenty people in it. It was tiny.It was a "welcoming" congregation, however, when those two gay men came into the church... oooooo weee. To hear the people talk. My mother and father stood firm. They challenged many of the passages people had misinterpreted, spoke up and history repeated itself. They (my mother and father) were asked to leave.

So imagine my eye roll when my mother told me that 30+ years later, their church they are now attending had a vote on if the church should perform gay marriages. Did I mention this church is in Minnesota? According to the law, same sex weddings are legal, however, it's up to each church to determine whether or not they will perform the ceremony. "Your kind can come and worship here, Missy, but we're gonna have to ask you and your woman to not declare your love so loudly as to be married in this here facility. Thank you and have a nice day."  Basically.

On Saturday, my Aunt and Uncle are having a "Midsummer Night's Party." In Norway they would celebrate the longest day of summer with drinks and music and celebration. There will be people from the church in town here -- people who have left because of the decision to marry people like Jay and I, who will also be attending. My mom and dad will be here (they own the house...) and well, I've already told their story. I am planning on playing nice. But I'm not going to be invisible. My color, my identity, the people I love, are beautiful.

I've seen this movie before. I know how this turns out.

Making Wood Talk

 I suppose I've always been somewhat of a Daddy's girl. When I was little, I used to travel with my father when he would do his gigs: little mother/daughter banquet shows at local churches. Soren (his dummy), my father and I would often travel up to 60 miles (in the snow -- up hill, both ways) to attend these banquets. I pretty much had his whole program down pat, and around seven years old, I became his biggest fan. I knew all the songs he would sing by heart. Knew all of his jokes, and sometimes would ruin the punchline by screaming it out before he or Soren had a chance. While other children might be a bit frightened by Soren (my dad was a pretty awesome ventriloquist), I was fearless. I loved my other brother. I would sometimes speak directly to him like he was speaking and not my father whose lips barely moved. Hell, Soren even played the trumpet.

My father could have been famous.

My father built our very first lake home. At first we would just stay every other week or so during the summers since my father was a full time pastor at a church an hour away. But during vacations, usually around this time of the year, we would escape. I can't even describe our other home there on the lake. It was full of decks and exposed wood and a fireplace covered in rock with pieces of mica the kids would peel off layer by layer.  I loved that house, spiders and all. After we moved to the lake all year round, my father started building houses for other people and preaching less. Instead of making Soren talk, he made homes ... carved into wood and positioned beams to create lake homes for other lucky families. It was uncommon to travel to any friend's homes and not see some of my father's work. There was always a hardwood floor he had installed, cabinets he had created and hung, bathrooms he had refinished, log homes he had pieced together.

And then he got older.

I suppose why I'm my father's daughter is that I love to create. Sometimes I sit down in front of the computer to write these little blogs every day, and I just see a blank screen staring at me. And then, the words start to come. Today it started with the table at which I sit (working on not ending my sentences with prepositions ... did that work?)  My father built this table. He's sticking to smaller projects now, although this table weighs at least five hundred pounds. There are fourteen chairs around this table -- a few are keeping the corners of the room comfortable. He found the chairs at garage sales throughout Minnesota, brought them home, stripped them, sanded and stained them all the same honey brown color of the table. They all look related, with slight variances and personalities and stories. He carved ladyslippers and sunflowers and these Norwegian type floral design thingees he learned how to do a few summers ago into the sides of the table. Every now and then I look down to trace a few curves and dips. It's like candy braille for my fingers.

My father has made wood talk all his life. He can pick up a piece of wood, hold it to his ear, and find out what it wants to be. Once he hears their story, he will get lost for hours breathing life into it, making it speak again.

So here I am -- listening. Writing my words onto "paper" and breathing life into them.

Just like my father taught me.

Meet the Parents -- (Behind the Scenes)

My parents were married on August 9, 1959. They are still together -- much to our (their children's) surprise. My parent's argue like .. well.. like an old married couple.

As a child, the way they fought used to worry me. My best friend and I would plot who we would spend time with should our parent's divorce. No idea why we thought the fate of my parents would affect the fate of her parents marital bliss, but ...

Now that I'm older, I see my parent's arguments as slightly entertaining and only occasionally disturbing. My mother has always had a propensity towards nagging. It comes from having a mate who is very outgoing and slightly attention deficit disordered; She's often left to handle things while he goes off and "plays." When he does finally get inside, she has lists of things for him to do -- often carried over from uh ... I'd say 1959. Lol. She nags, he shuts down. She nags some more. Then my dad will yell like he just heard the news. It's a crazy routine, but somehow they have adapted to it and I think, grown fond of their peculiar way of communicating.

In between the nagging that sometimes turns into arguments -- "I told you last week that there were ants." "I told you last week I sprayed for them." "Well, there are still ants." "I suppose there are new ants." "Well, isn't the spray suppose to prevent new ants from reappearing?" "Maybe they are strong ants and are immune to the spray. I dunno.' "Do you actually remember spraying, or are you thinking you sprayed?""I told you I sprayed." Etc. Etc. Etc. -- there are moments where I just laugh. And, thankfully, they join in, momentarily jostled from their unbearably tedious routine.

Mom: How long were you planning on driving on empty?
Dad:   We should make it home.
Mom:  You've been driving on empty for several miles now.
Dad:   We should make it home, Aud(rey).
Mom:  So you make it home, what then? You'll still be on empty.
Dad:  Look, there's a gas station.
Mom:  Good decision.

And so they continue.

Dad:  Ruthie is going to be 71 this year!
Mom:  No!  She's younger than us.
Me:  Mama, You're 76 years old. She IS younger than you.
Mom:  Oh. Okay then.

My parents have been married for 55 years. If I were to get married today, I will never be married the amount of time they have, so I have to assume they are doing something right. Maybe my dad checking out every now and again has saved them -- it's like a mini vacation for my mother. I'm not a nagger like my mother, but I will spin stories in my mind over and over again and drive myself to the same aggravated point that my father is driven to on the regular. Jay tunes me out, taking a tip from my father, I can only assume. I hope that I can be as forgiving or as forgetful of the things that are hardest to forgive. And I hope that I can maintain a healthy sense of humor when all else fails.