How I Wave the Finger at Femininity

So, I’m new here. *cue chorus of hellos* And for the past couple of days, I’ve been racking my brain – and even the posts of this very blog – for any kind of inspiration. Naturally, now that I’m here, I don’t have a clue in hell what to write. Except that again and again, I find myself contemplating Scarlet’s definition of femme/femmeininity as “a conscious genderfuck in the rouse of traditional femininity.” That didn’t just strike a chord with me – it struck a freaking GONG, leaving my bones – and brain – positively resonating in its wake.  

So, that raises the question: how do I consciously fuck with gender in the rouse of traditional femininity? How do I, in essence, wave the finger at traditional gender roles? 

Well, does it help that my life partner is a genderqueer, butch female? That should be a biggie, right there. Not many traditional feminine cis-women date other chicks, particularly other chicks of a more masculine sort. However, I generally try not to let other people define me, so in the spirit of sticking to that credo, I move on. 

Well shit, then how do I fuck with gender? How am I a femme, besides in heart? What exactly makes me femme? Sometimes I wish it were a list easily ticked off on my fingers. Thisandthisandthisandthis. 

I guess I could start with outward appearance. My hair is long. “Yes, so what?” you ask. Well, it doesn’t tend to stay long for… well, long. Every couple of years, after I’m sick of letting it grow out, I chop it off and rock the boyish pixie or quasi-punk look. My clothes, too, are an interesting blend of tomboy and girly. 

Oh, yes, yes, that beautiful term, “tomboy!” Let’s go back to that one. I identify as a tomboy femme. Aside from the hilarious, somewhat oxymoronic irony of the term, it fits me like a glove. I am most definitely not one of the high femme variety. I own exactly two dresses, both of which I have worn exactly zero times. They even still have the tags on. The only skirt I wear is long, black and flowy a la hippie-style. (Even then I wear it over shorts – thigh chafing, anyone?)  

Oh, but the heels. And the pretty flats. The strappy sandals. The cute little polka dots on my favorite pair of round-toed stilettos. Oh, oh, oh. 

There. You have found my point of femmeninity. It’s all in the shoes. 

Okay, not really. I keed, I keed.  

Honestly, I really can’t put my finger on what precisely makes me a femme. Maybe it is all in the heart after all, and the rest is what Sinclair Sexsmith wrote about: markers. Come to think of it, I couldn’t really respond to that question, either. I have no idea what my femme markers are. Or even if I have any.  

All I can tell you is, I belong here, I am a femme. I couldn’t really tell you how, but despite that lack of clarity, I still hear a soft but distinct click every time I see, hear, speak or write the word “femme.” (And no, I swear it’s not the verbiage; “femme” is nowhere near palatal. Just sayin’.) 

Maybe I’ll figure it out in the future. I’ll get back to you on that.

Other posts by Amber

Amber

Amber, Musings

September 10, 2008

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