Meditations for Queer Femmes — Still Here

A femme avoids looking in mirrors. When asked why, she says she doesn’t like to be reminded of how she’s aging. She doesn’t like to see how different she looks on the outside compared to how she feels on the inside.

As queer femmes, we have the valuable opportunity to reject standards of beauty that weigh so heavily on straight people. The physical signs of growing older are not signs of failure. Allowing young people to represent everything that is beautiful and healthy affects everyone negatively, including the young people, who will grow old themselves and who do not benefit from having free reign to dictate rules of appearance and health to the entire culture.

And why does feeling good mean that you can’t be old? Don’t we all aspire to growing older as healthily as possible? And what is beauty, anyway? Yes, dew on a bud is lovely, but so is the full blown flower, so is the wilting flower, and so is mulch, which is rich and filled with nutrients. All part of the cycle, no part of it better or more useful than another.

Femme sisters, let us honor our bodies. Our bodies have moved us through so much; our bodies carry our intentions of love and connection and peaceful living. Do not give up on your beautiful body just because you may not be able to trip the light fantastic as you once did, because you trip a different fantastic now: more weighty, with more complexity, depth and wisdom. You are polished, rugged, tough, and sexy exactly where you should be. Still alive. Still femme. Still vibrant, contributing, resplendent, and still here.

Every Monday, I offer a Meditation for Queer Femmes, in the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Mimi, who was fabulous, and from whom I inherited her Meditations for Women.

 

A Vision — Meditations for Queer Femmes

We were packing up yesterday, after our anniversary weekend in Provincetown. We were dawdling, in no hurry to begin the drive back to our dreary Boston suburb. As I tidied (our landlord waives the cleaner’s fee if we leave things nice), I heard Tex call up to me. I got to the window just in time to see: an old person in a reclining wheelchair being pushed by a long tall leatherman, also old, wearing leather shorts, a leatherman cap, handcuffs hanging from his belt.

Tex nodded to the pair, then came upstairs to sit with me as I lost it. Those two unclenched something in me, love, hope, admiration.

“Talk about persistence!” I sobbed, and Tex said, “And insistence!”

Fierce femme sisters, persist in living your lives as your full queer selves.

Flag femme in all stages of life.

It doesn’t matter if you’re completely decked out like those brave Sunday Strollers, or if you wear it on the inside and proud, you darlings, you lovers, but wear it queer and wear it every fucking minute.

Before the election, we queers were teetering on the dangerous brink of assimilation. Now we are in danger of so much more hate and violence.

Show yourselves as complex, layered, divine beings, my queer femme enchanters.

Cast spells of connection among queers of all flavors.

We must be able to see our own diversity and gain inspiration from each other’s strength.

“I will never forget those two,” said Tex over supper. We were back in the burbs. Surrounded by straights.

We must never forget our true and queer natures.

Femme sirens, you must not.

I insist: You must not.

 Every Monday, 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.