They suck all the air out of the room. They’re our best friend and we are both committed to keeping it real. They want to come to our gay parties. They want to kill us. Fuck us. Be us. Help us. Fuck us up. They think they get it. They exhibit great interest in our queer femme lives and in moments of loneliness we reveal our secrets. They run hot and cold. We can’t trust them. They want what we have even though they already have everything. They’re our sister, who has known us all our lives. They assume we want what they have. They’re casually prurient with our most intimate secrets. They’re our brother, and he’ll come around, we’re sure of it, once he just matures a little more. They’re ok with us. They believe in us. They’re not bigots! When we’re out in public, they assume we’re straight. We sometimes let them or we use too much energy proving to them we’re not. Intersectionality gives them hives. They’re in our way. They’re our mom, and she’s so great. They exhibit tremendous ill breeding. They don’t have the imagination or the inclination to see us in all our queer femme richness and variety. They’re our dad, and that’s just the way he is. Our relationships with them are always so precarious. They don’t need us and can go years without us. We need them for so many complicated reasons. We hate having to need them. They break our hearts. They show up when we least expect it and we are inordinately grateful. We have to protect them from the pain of our queer femme lives. They’re everywhere.
Every Monday (or Tuesday, Wednesday, even), I offer a Meditation for Queer Femmes, in the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Mimi, who was a fabulous straight femme, and from whom I inherited her Meditations for Women.
The Total Femme 