Last night I was gathered with a wonderful group of queer friends around a kitchen table playing games, which is one of my favorite ways to spend a weekend evening. During one game I was asked to draw a picture of a dyke for my game partner (who also happens to be the woman I am currently fucking/dating). I started to draw a stick woman with a short hair cut and a giant strap-on, but could tell by the guesses I was receiving the that message wasn’t getting across. I then attempted to be clever and draw a dike. Yes, a concrete wall that holds back water. I even included a small stick figure child putting his finger in the hole via the story of the Little Dutch Boy. Laughter erupted and I ran out of time.
I surprised myself by my first drawing that I gave the stick woman a butch tone. I know and believe, that a dyke doesn’t have a built-in look. Despite what society may believe at times, the word “dyke” is a self-identifying word that not all in our community may choose to use. A woman in a pink dress and sling-back kitten heels has every right to call herself a dyke if that is what she chooses and a woman in black leather chaps and a binder may not choose to identify herself with the term. I refer to myself as a dyke quite often and I have neither short hair or a don a strap-on. I beat myself up a bit for being so stereotypical and then decided my punishment would be admitting out loud my sins to be judge by my readers.
Here I am. A feisty (and mouthy) femme who gets her corset strings in a knot over being told she doesn’t “look like a lesbian” and then I jump right into a cliche caricature during a board game of gay proportions. Fuck, I am such a hypocrite. A hypocrite who knows Dutch folk tales, which is like the worst of the worst.
So, please judge away. I deserve it.