Fem fem fem fem femmy...

from "Gendercide #5" regarding a zine-making event at the 2008 Femme Conference

The fact that queen as queer slang dates back to the 18th century is wild to me

[“People who dismiss femininity—who consider it frivolous, or vain, or a patriarchal trap, or a product of socialization, or an artifact of the gender binary, or whatever—have been fucking with femmes for far too long. Their attempts to try to artificialize or artifactualize our feminine gender expression (rather than accepting it as natural and legitimate) is the same sort of tactic that occurs when homophobes assume gay people are looking for an “alternative lifestyle,” or just haven’t met the “right person” yet. It’s the same bullshit that occurs when bisexuals are accused of being “confused” or of “still having one foot in the closet,” or when people assume that trans men transition to obtain male privilege, or assume that trans women transition in order to fulfill some sort of bizarre sex fantasy.

We shouldn’t have to explain why we are trans or why we are queer, and by the same reasoning, we shouldn’t have to explain why we are feminine! Once we accept that on some level feminine expression is natural, that for some of us—whether female, male, both, or neither—it resonates with us on a deep profound level . . . once we accept this, then we can tackle the real problem: the fact that femininity is seen as inferior to masculinity, both in straight settings and in queer and feminist circles. Once we accept the fact that femininity exists and it needs no explanation, then we can focus on debunking the countless double standards, like that masculinity is strong while femininity is weak, that masculinity is tough while femininity is fragile, that masculinity is practical while femininity is frivolous, that masculinity is active while femininity is passive, that masculinity is rational while femininity is overly emotional, and of course, that masculinity is natural while femininity is artificial. Once we get beyond having to account for why we are feminine, then we can finally make the case that all of the dismissive connotations and meanings that other people associate with feminine expression are merely misogynistic presumptions on their part.”]

julia serano, from excluded: making feminist and queer movements more inclusive, 2013

"Yes, it's true: I was the type of young femme who managed the girls basketball team in high school, just to be able to take in the sight of all those butches parading their muscles up and down the court. I found Girl Scout camp to be femme heaven and reveled in being able to explore my athletic self and still maintain my femmeness. And, to my horror, I have to admit pushing Tina away from my breasts in the back seat of a Buick while attending Mount Saint Mary Seminary.

And then there was feminism... Although I came out as a "gay" woman before reading The Feminine Mystique, the seventies brand of white feminism had me trimming my nails and cutting off my hair. Soon I was outfitted in farmer jeans and high tops. And still I was told by my "sisters" that I didn't "look like a dyke" (read: I didn't look butch).
I began to lead two lives- one as an outrageous, skirted, lipsticked femme while I worked in and traveled with carnivals, and another as an imitation butch back home in the women's community. Eventually, I pulled the pieces of my being back together and proclaimed boldly, "I am a working-class lesbian femme."
So I had maybe six years reveling in unleashing my seductive femme self when, as lives go, mine changed: slowly at first and then more dramatically.
Recurring back pain and limited range of mobility were finally diagnosed. Soon after came decreased mobility. No more mountain climbing. No long mall walks in search of the perfect piece of sleaze. No more standing against kitchen walls being gloriously fucked by some handsome butch. I stopped using alcohol and drugs, became ill with what is now known as CFIDS (Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome), and began to use a three-wheeled power chair.
The more disabled I became, the more I mourned the ways my sexual femme self had manifested through the nondisabled me: cruising at the local lezzie bar, picking up a dyke whose eyes refuse to stray from mine, dancing seductively, moving all of me for all of her. Cooking: love and suggestion neatly tucked into the folds of a broccoli quiche. Serving my date in varying, sleazy clothing, removing layers as the meal and our passion progressed. And making love... feeling only pleasure as my hips rose and fell under the weight of her. Accomplishment and pride smirked across my face as her wrists finally submitted to the pressure of strong persistent hands. There are the ways I knew to be femme, to be the essence of me.

It's been five years now since I began using my wheelchair. I am just awakening to a new reclamation of femme. Yes. I still grieve the way I was, am still often unsure how this femme with disabilities will act out her seduction scenes. I still marvel when women find passion amidst the chrome and rubber that is now a part of me.

There have been numerous dates, lovers, relationships, sexual partners, and fliterations along the way. Cindy, Jenny, Ellie, Emma, Diane, Dorothy, Gail, June, Clove, Lenny, Cherry, Diana, Sarah I, and Sarah II. You have all reminded me in your own subtle or overt, quit or wild ways that I am desirable, passionate, exciting, wanted.

Yes I am an incredibly sexual being. An outrageous, loud mouthed femme who's learning to dress, dance, cook, and seduce on wheels; finding new ways to be gloriously fucked by handsome butches and aggressive femmes. I hang out with more sexual outlaws now- you know, the motorcycle lesbians who see wheels and chrome between your legs as something exciting, the leather women whose vision of passion and sexuality doesn't exclude fat, disabled me.

Ableism tells us that lesbians with disability are asexual. (When was the last time you dated a dyke who uses a wheelchair?) Fat oppression insists that thin is in and round is repulsive. At times, these voices become very loud, and my femme, she hid quietly amidts the lists.

Now my femme is rising again. The time of doubt, fear, and retreat has passed. I have found my way out of the lies and oppression and have moved into a space of loving and honoring the new femme who has emerged. This lesbian femme with disabilities is wise, wild, wet, and wanting. Watch out.

-"Reclaiming femme... Yet again" Mary Francis Platt, The Persistent Desire (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

it helps to think of femme identity as a role you take on in your environment rather than a category you’re designed by virtue of the genital arrangement or the clothes you wear.

joan nestle once talked about the role she habitually took on when the cops would come into bars to collect their bribes and harass the patrons. It was her job, she explained, to keep her partner, a butch, from going completely berserk and attacking the cops who were trying to bait them into that exact thing. it was joan’s job to keep her partner’s attention focused on her, to calm them down, and to prevent her lover from being beaten, assaulted, raped, or imprisoned. that was the context of femme, for that person, in that time, in that place.

and that’s the thing about a lot of these old labels and the roles that went with them— they were one word descriptions for parts in a play that would take place every time a cop invaded our spaces.

some roles were about keeping one’s loved ones focused and distracted so as to avoid drawing violence from the police. some roles were about distracting the police— mocking them or physically attacking them or simply drawing their attention so that other people could escape physically or escape notice completely. some roles were about taking care of people after they drew attention from the police; physically and emotionally and psychically. this could be done by being extremely funny. this could be done by administering medical care. this could be done by involving lawyers, and paying for the lawyers.

the list goes on. so much culture stems from the defensive archetypes and power/healing fantasies that rose from a period of heavy policing. and they’d trade labels all the time, especially as the labels evolved along with the roles and more and more spaces with much lighter police presence opened up. the language disintegrated and coalesced around new archetypes and new fantasies.

but it always goes back to that— who’s who when the police walk into the room.

im a big fan of like. messy femmes (bc i am one myself) like. femmes who are a bit sloppy and sometimes have stains on their dresses or smudged makeup and sometimes have the worst fits ever because the rest of their clothes are on the floor unwashed. like femininity equaling perfection is such a stupid concept i love when we’re just a little dishelved but still femme yknow

Anyway here is your reminder that poor effeminate men existed in the 18th century and any reading of class that acts as tho every poor man was a hyper masculine rugged labourer and every rich man was a effeminate fop is an inherently flawed reading of class 🙃

I think an under-discussed component of "Twink Death" is that whatever allowance we are awarded to express femininity and androgyny is tied to youth. It can be charming in a "boyish" way, but it's a phase we're supposed to grow out of when we reach a certain age and revert to the generic category of men. Are many afraid to age because we live in a youth-obsessed culture and want to remain fuckable? Well yes, but I see a real fear that suddenly our gender expression will be seen as embarrassing or perverted. It's also of course fucked up that gender expression should be tied to body type to begin with!

being trans & gender nonconforming is so hard. to Me my long nails are gender in a nosferatu way. to Me my long hair is gender in a metal dude way. to Me my height is gender in a columbo way. to the walmart cashier? to my coworkers, to aunt joan? to some guy at the store? i am some unkempt lady

Winter transitions into Spring 🌷 The text reads:

He wakes, melting snow reveals a robin blushed chest, in his arms he bears a bouquet of sleepy tulips, healing from Winter’s last icy kiss. He forgives his thawed chamber, now nothing more than a pool at the edge of his memory, for its guiding hibernation taught him the true warmth of the sun. (MMXXIII) Hail Spring; his radiance in full bloom.

Prints on pressed flower paper are available in my shop (there’s a green option that is limited ^^) as well as lustre. If you’d like to take a look…