Purging

“Experience is the name people give to their mistakes.” –Oscar Wilde

No offense, Oscar, but I beg to differ.

I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been through more in that time than most people have gone through in a lifetime. That wealth of experience is far from just a compilation of my mistakes.

I don’t really believe in any particular system of faith. I don’t believe in a savior, and I don’t believe that I’m going to hell (if there is such a place) for being in love with a woman. But I DO believe that there is something bigger than me, and that something puts things in my way to make me learn. Everything happens for a reason, and that reason is a lesson.

The last year of my life has been one giant obstacle. It seemed like I couldn’t catch a break. It was supposed to be my new life… my LAST new life. But here I am, starting over again, because the Universe had other plans.

My question was: what the fuck was I supposed to learn from that? What do you learn from someone Cybil-ing from caring about you, to strangling you on your front lawn less than 20 feet from where your children are sleeping? What was I supposed to learn from the daily struggle just to keep my head up, my feet grounded and surging forward in happiness, in spite of the hell that I was surrounded by? What was I supposed to learn from constantly having to defend myself and my actions against someone who didn’t even deserve an explanation in the first place?

I learned how to be completely, and unapologetically, myself. I’m loud, unabashed, and completely obnoxious when I’m in a particularly good mood. I like to play outside on a swing set. I like to sing LOUD in the car with the windows down. I like to make a fool out of myself in public- the more people watching, the better. I learned that it’s okay to feel things, and to feel them deeply. I learned that its okay to want more. Most importantly, I learned that I am so much better than I used to give myself credit for – and “sunshine” will now have to put up with my cockiness.

I gained a circle of incredible friends. Em, Pocket, Army Grade, Vroom-Vroom, Princess, Lauren… you all are bomb. I wish I could pack you all in a suitcase and bring you with me. You showed me what it is to care about someone without expecting something in return. The friendships you gave me are some of the purest I’ve ever experienced. I never felt so good as I did hanging out with you, and It had better not be too long before we can do it again. I’m holding you to that summer road trip!

I’m starting over again, but this time, I’m not walking away from the previous chapter. I’m taking a piece of it with me. To date, this has been the biggest, greatest, and most worthwhile life lesson.

Now to start the next…

Dear Senator

Dear Senator,

My name is Katrina Monroe, and I should not have to be writing this letter.
This week, your comrades in the capitol introduced an amendment to the Minnesota constitution that would permanently take away my future right to marry the woman that I love. I’m hurt and ashamed of those who would allow this amendment to pass.

I was in attendance at the capitol not three weeks ago, when the governor spoke so openly about his support for marriage equality. His speech gave me hope that maybe Minnesotans would count themselves among the few that see marriage is about love and partnership, regardless of gender. His promises mean nothing without your support.

I am a mother of two little girls, Abigail and Kaley, and they deserve a family unburdened by the prejudices that this amendment would force on us. Please, don’t be the person, the vote, that places them in that situation.

I’m counting on you to vote for equality, love, and family; and against this amendment.

Sincerely,
Katrina L. Monroe

So, Which One of You is the Dude?

I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked, or told, that I am “the girl” in a gay relationship, just because my hair was long, or I wore a dress once. Even after chopping my hair, the eyeliner and boots still categorize me as “the woman.”

If you’re a lesbian reading this, you’re nodding along with me. Maddening, isn’t it?

Don’t blame them. The concept of a lesbian relationship as a partnership is foreign to people outside the community.

Why? Gender roles that are a part of everyday life. Occupations are gender defined, domestic roles are gender defined. In every partnership, there is a man and a woman. Masculine and Feminine. Submissive and Dominant.

The lesbian community was once guilty of strictly adhering to the gender poles. The butch/femme community of the 1950s was cruel to those femme’s who were attracted to femmes and butch’s who were attracted to butch’s. There was no switching teams, either. Once a femme, always a femme, etc.

The 1970s saw a radical change in viewpoint with the rise of feminist theory and sexual politics. Women who saw themselves as butch, and committed to butch/femme relationships were seen as self-deprecating. Man was the enemy, and woman was the goddess.

And then we grew up. Kind of.

Androgyny is the new lesbian trend. Thank you, Shane McCutcheon.

Short hair, ambiguous wardrobes, and guy-liner have made it so that butch and femme have combined into today’s “Uber-lesbian” or “pretty boi.”

But still, the question persists.

Our response?

“Asking a lesbian which partner is the “man” is like asking which chopstick is the fork.”

I have a vagina. So does my girlfriend. We’re both women, thanks.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell - Short Story

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

It’s nearly impossible to fall for someone in Basic Training. You’re too busy getting your ass chewed and your mind fucked to notice that every muscle in your body is on fire, let alone that the trainee suffering next to you has amazing curves and eyes that pierce your soul if you let them.

But I did.

##

Danni’s top bunk was opposite mine. More than once I caught her looking in the middle of the night. Or she caught me. Soon it was hard to tell the difference.

Week Six, I woke up every hour in pain. I walked around the head to quell my muscle aches. One night, Danni followed me.

“BEAST got you down, Nonie?” she whispered.

I spun around, only her vague profile visible in the dark. “I’m fine,” I muttered, digging my fingers in my knotted thighs.

“Sit.”

“What?”

Danni pushed down on my shoulders until I was seated against the wall, legs out in front of me. She looked quickly to the doorway then straddled my shins.

“Wait – what are you doing?”

“Making sure I don’t kick your ass by default tomorrow.” Competitive. Determined. The military was in her blood.

She kneaded mercilessly, moving her hands up my thighs. The pain was unbelievable.

“You okay?”

I nodded. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the doorway, straining to hear any movement. If anyone sees this…

Her hands slowed; her breath steady on my cheek. I stopped breathing.

“Still okay?”

I said nothing.

“Please stop me if you don’t want me to…”

The warmth of her breath continued over my cheek and stopped at my lips.

Stop, I thought. But I said nothing; didn’t move. My mind swam. My temples pulsed.

Bracing herself on my thighs, she leaned forward, kissing me, and my resolve dissolved. My hands tangled in her hair and nothing else mattered.

##

Danni and I were the only two in our company to stay at Lackland AFB for tech school. During the week, she was Airman Cook and I was Airman Reckers – colleagues who spoke only when necessary.

Weekends, when we could take them, were ours.

##

When Danni looked at the water, I watched her. The hot breeze blew her hair in waves around her face. It was vacant.

I tucked her hair behind her ear. “Where are you?”

“What if…” She paused. “I’ve always wanted to be an MP. I can’t not be an MP.”

“It’ll be okay.” I touched her arm. “We’re being careful. No one knows.”

The thought lines in her forehead softened, but she didn’t look at me. “Do you love me?”

I didn’t have to think. “Yes.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

A week later, two officers knocked on my door. They told me they were there to search my room for proof of my illegal homosexual activity. If they found it, I would be dishonorably discharged. But, I knew it didn’t matter what they found. Someone had accused me. I was as good as gone.

##

I sit in the small courtroom next to my attorney as he addresses the board. Their faces scrunch into disfigured prunes as he speaks. They aren’t listening. Their opinions are already formed. I’m a dyke. A disgrace. Unworthy.

But this is the military, where formalities and policy are religion. They will listen to my accuser and give my attorney the opportunity to question them before they destroy my career.

I know it’s Danni before they call her name.

Tears fall through her entire speech. She swears that I pursued her. Followed her into the bathroom at basic and relentlessly pushed her through tech school until I forced myself on her. She is ashamed, she says. She is sorry that she didn’t come forward sooner. That she was afraid and begs for their lenience.

Dyke. Disgrace. Unworthy. Rapist, the faces above me say.

My attorney questions her motives. “Why now?”

I don’t hear her responses as the legs of my chair scrape against the wood floor.

I stand. At least now I'll have time to paint.

Label-Maker

Gender is defined three ways: biologically (regarding outer/inner genitalia), chromosomally (XX or XY), and psychologically (how a person identifies). Sexuality is defined, traditionally, as heterosexual, homosexual, asexual, pomosexual, and bisexual; the list only continues to grow.

These two label categories are only the core of what is asked of a person, “How do you identify?” Each label implies certain criteria and expectations of the person claiming said label. However, more often than not, the label doesn’t “technically” fit the labeler. It is my experience that each person molds themselves to fit their chosen label, or vice versa. In some cases, the label is chosen by default… a process of elimination.

I was never asked to label myself until a few months ago. I was approached at a bar and asked “How do you identify?” My response was immediate: A lesbian.

Sure. It fits. Kind of.

What does it mean to be a lesbian? In simple terms: a person who identifies as female who is attracted to others who identify as female.

The problem being: I don’t necessarily identify as the societally accepted “girl.” I don’t feel male, either. So, what does that make me?

This thought process brought me to question what my identity truly was, if I needed to label it at all, and if others were having the same issues identifying themselves.

So, in order to aid in my process, I posed a request to a diverse group of people and gathered their responses below:

“Write a statement, honestly and thoroughly, along the lines of ‘I identify as (…) and what that means to me is (…)’ in regard to sexuality and gender identity.”

A.L.N.
I identify as a person who is constantly changing but I guess most of the time I just identify as a queer trans man, although I enjoy confusing people immensely. I’ve never really felt ‘female’ and I don’t feel ‘male’. To me that means that I’m able to just be myself. I don’t feel the need to hide my feminine side or my masculine side for anyone. I am attracted to people who were born with “female” as their assigned gender.

H.L.
I identify as a "straight" man. To me, that means that I am physically, and equally important, emotionally, attracted to females. Other than that, it bears no weight whatsoever in my life. I don't think my interests, hobbies, the way I dress or, specially, who I am friends with, should in any way have anything to do with my sexuality.

J.L.A.
I identify as Jessica, a 23 year old lesbian who is on the brink of having a mid-life crisis. To me, that means that I am solely comfortable with sexuality and being gay, but sometimes other shit just gets in the way, somehow. My sexuality is only a portion of what I really am. I identify as ME.

E.R.A.
I am a queer, multi-dimensional , person of color who has been “out of the closet” since the age of 5.
I am fierce and frightening depending on one’s perception and personal experience.
My gender is fluid, allowing me to ebb and flow through the dominant paradigm. By not having to adhere to patriarchal gender roles, I incite anger in some while titillating others. I identify as a monogamous yet flirtatious, queer, submissive, kinky switch.

Notice how none of these responses are a line or less? Identity means more than labels. It’s a combination of how a person looks at themself and how they are perceived by others. I’m still working on mine, but let me pose the question to you…

How do you identify?

Queer Call for Submissions

If you're wondering why you haven't seen me since my first post for this blog, this is why... (I told you, writing is my first love.)

Topside Press is calling for submissions for a short story anthology with a Transgender/Queer theme.

Submission guidelines are:
- submissions must be either written by a transgender person or feature a transgender protagonist
- 10,000 words or less
- submit to www.topsidepress.com

I encourage you to either submit your own work, or pass this along to friends, family who would like to submit. Use this as a creative outlet for feeling, have fun, or both.

I would be happy to post any submissions for critique in this blog. Email me your submissions.

Happy Writing.

Homo, Pomo, Queer, oh my....

When I was thirteen and first learning what "gay" was and that I just might be it, there were only two options: gay or straight. Bisexual was a myth akin to the Easter Bunny, and "queer" was something that was "strange." That was 1999. Y2K. The new millenium on the horizon bringing big changes. Understatement of the century. The posts that follow will be a kind of compendium of everything I learn and some of my own lessons to teach, as well. Influences and opinions will vary, and most likely offend. That was your only warning. That said, this is also meant to be fun. My first love is and always will be, writing. I will be incorporating literature, LGBT and non, as well as my own writing and the writing of others. Oh, and sex. Can't forget that. Happy reading.