I think about being a butch all of the time. It’s true. The self-narrative in my head has softened around the subject, but there is still a running commentary. Every day, all day long, my brain notices things.
Take for example the very first time I put on a pair of boxer briefs. It felt like whoa. It felt perfect. It felt criminal. I could’ve sworn that people could see them through my pants, just by the way I walked or moved or breathed. These days, it’s not as dramatic as the first time I put them on – more like a one-alarm fire than a five-alarm – but it’s still there, that voice that tells me, this is different. Most women don’t do this.
It goes on like this throughout the day, too. I know I look and act differently than other women, and I like that. Everything in my bones, from the moment I get up in the morning until I go to bed at night feels butch. It’s felt this way my whole life, only now I have the language to describe it. The way I get dressed, drive, write, carry things in my arms, move … they may all seem like minor details, but they’re all pieces of me, anchored by my butch identity and masculine energy. They never go unnoticed in my mind’s eye. It used to make me feel self-conscious because I felt so naked to people; I felt vulnerable being so visible. People see me and know I color outside the lines.
Now all of that self-talk feels more like reading subtitles to my daily life. And you know what? I hope I never get rid of those observations I make about myself and the world around me. I feel like it keeps me honest. I wouldn’t be able to escape them long enough to pretend to be anything or anyone else, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
