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.
The Total Femme 