The Lesbian Stereotypes We Keep
Why are older lesbians so hell-bent on choosing a side?
At fifty, I’m an older lesbian.
I’ve passed through many transformations during my life, mainly due to the stereotypes my generation is so avidly attached to.
When I first came out at the tender age of twenty-one, there were basically two models: butch and femme, with a gray area of androgynous somewhere in between — this group leaned towards the butch side. As I had never been a very feminine child, I morphed into the butch-leaning androgynous stereotype and with that, my journey began.
I found myself in relationships with women who liked the “baby butch” look, graduating to “soft butch” as I got a little older. I never felt comfortable in that role and took the opportunity to grow my hair shortly after one of these relationships ended. I’d had short-cropped hair from the age of twenty-one and was now thirty-six.
Although it seems such a simple thing to me now, it was a big step for me back then.
As my hair grew, so did my confidence in allowing myself to be who I wanted to be. I bought a few slightly more feminine shirts, experimented with colour, and traded in my comfortable shoes for some strappy sandals — not too “girlie” though, as I still had to inch my way towards femme.
I’ll never forget the first time I had an encounter with a dress after decades of not wearing one.
I worked for a sporting organization and every year they held an awards banquet. It was a black-tie event and the staff were required to dress to the nines. In the previous year, I had worn pants, a long white top, a gray waistcoat — or vest for my American readers — and a nice pair of closed (and comfortable) shoes. The women always wore dresses.
My straight friends (God bless them) decided that it was time for me to don a dress for the evening and whipped me out into the wilds of boutique stores to find one. My hair had grown below shoulder length and I was slowly embracing a more feminine look, but a dress was still out of my comfort zone. Nonetheless, I took a deep breath and decided to open myself to the new experience as they handed me a black and teal floor-length number from the rack.
It didn’t look like me but I strengthened my open-minded resolve and indulged them. I shimmied into the dress in the fitting room and walked out to delighted gasps. The gaggle of girls surrounded me, crooning at the loveliness of me in the shimmering ensemble.
“Maybe, they’re right,” I thought, as I dared to look at myself in the mirror.
Without too much hesitation and a good dose of trust in their collective taste, I bought the dress before my mind could lead me down the fear track.
The big night came.
The night of the gala came and as I dressed, did my hair, and donned my first pair of heels — ever — I felt good. I didn’t have one stitch of makeup in my house and had to drive to a friend’s place around the corner so she could apply some for me.
I watched her like a hawk, saying no to eyeliner, allowing a little eyeshadow and blush, a touch of lipstick and a little mascara. I was still nervous about embracing too much of the “feminine” in me, the stereotype of what I had been expected to be still running through my veins.
With a little trepidation, I walked into the events hall at the convention center in Perth’s downtown area, nervous about what my colleagues would say. After all, the pant-wearing lesbian in comfortable shoes was all they had known to this point. My boss was the first person to lay eyes on my new look and responded with “Va-va-va-voom!”
I smiled, wider than I had in a long time and felt beautiful for the first time in my life.
I need to interject a caveat here. I don’t believe that looks are the measure of a person. I value intellect, kindness, and tolerance far more highly, but at that moment, on that day in May, I felt beautiful and it felt good.
After that night I embraced this buried side of me more quickly, the strong feminine that I had denied for most of my life. In fact, I became quite the femme, dressing up whenever I could, wearing makeup when I went out, and learning how to walk in heels.
I had moved from one lesbian stereotype into another without realizing it.
The reaction to me changed as well. Despite my generation’s love of the butch-femme dynamic, we have mostly presented ourselves as more “masculine” and it showed when I went to events comprised of an older lesbian crowd.
I was eyed suspiciously as I came into the room, silently being judged for my choice to deviate from the lumberjack shirt, comfortable shoes, trucker jeans, belt chain, and standard lesbian haircut that filled these spaces, yet strangely at the same time, lusted after as I strolled in wearing my girlie garb.
This complete contradiction made me laugh — inwardly, not externally — angry butched-up lesbians are not a crowd you wish to insult!
When I look back on this time in my life it amazes me what I had to go through, both mentally and emotionally, just to become “me” physically.
I was a strong child, brave and a little crazy as our beloved Melissa croons, and developing my personality and self-confidence was never a concern so why was my physical expression?
These stereotypes were drilled into us almost as a silent agreement and deviation from the lesbian norm was not permitted.
We held on to our stereotypes to keep ourselves alive, to make statements to the general public about who we were — prepared to protect ourselves in an instance should someone try to mess with us. We fit ourselves into the masses; the masculine and feminine, in an attempt to reduce the discrimination we faced.
We felt safer in these roles, closer to the norm that pervaded.
But we don’t need them anymore; the world has changed. Of course, I’m referring to city dwellers in countries where human rights are paramount. I am very aware that there are a myriad of places where we still need to tread with caution.
I admire the younger generation, unencumbered with the duality we held on to for dear life. They are who they are, wear what they want to wear, and just do them. And yes, I am very aware that my generation and the ones that came before paved the way for the freedom that the millennials have right now.
Every generation has to fight to improve the world for those that follow, and the millennials are involved in a grand fight of their own — that of gender fluidity.
Over the last few years as my life has descended into a series of visas and instability, I haven’t had much opportunity to embrace the feminine beauty within me. I have become older, haven’t dated in a very long time, and have lost that feeling of being desired.
I sit somewhere in the middle now and can be found more often in a t-shirt and jeans than in a dress and heels, but oh Lord do I miss it.
I guess my conclusion is this: whilst the stereotypes we kept and the roles we played protected us in the face of a larger dynamic, we don’t need them anymore. The time has come to lay them to rest.
Let us just do us — whatever that may be. If it doesn’t feel right, don’t do it, don’t be it, set yourself free.
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