When I first began thinking about who I would write about as a femme role model or inspiration I immediately thought of the great femme authors: Dorothy Allison, Joan Nestle, Amber Hollibaugh who gave words and truth and metaphor to my femme gender, to my femme desires. I was going to write about how finding those books and those stories really helped to sculpt the nuance and voice of my femme identity. I paused though because I know I’ve written about the importance of these authors in my life before, and I thought this time I’d look a bit deeper.

There is no denying that the first femme I met, who then in her own way became an inspiration and role model for the ways I would build my own gender, hated me.

I was eighteen and had just moved to the South. It was a week after graduating high school, nine months after being kicked out of my family, and three weeks after meeting my first butch lover at a queer conference in DC. L. was fierce and strong, and she knew it. She knew how to fuck, and fight, and make a home. In so many ways se was who I hoped to emulate (minus the drama that seemed to always swirl under her scuffed pumps and combat boots) when years later I came out a femme.

L. was the ex-wife of the butch I moved there for. It was one of those dramatic situations that seemed romantic and intoxicating at the time, but that drama is not the point of this story.

L. existed flawlessly in a world of bois and drag queens. She’d lost more minimum wage jobs than she could count when a lover would pick her up. Still she kept her head up, kept strong and unwilling to compromise or be closeted in any way. She wore out riot grrrl cassettes in the beat up stereo of her car, and tattooed stars all over her body. L was no saint. She had a train wreck of a temper and you didn’t want to cross that grrl when she was mad. But she’d also fight with words or fists for any one of her people if the moment necessitated.

Once we were at the mall and J- her ex husband, my boifriend (see I told you dramatic) lost his packer right in the middle of the Jacksonville Mall’s food court. It somehow slipped out of his briefs and down the leg of his pants. We stood there for seconds that felt like hours unsure what to do, when she reached down her manicured fingers picked it up and tucked it safely into her purse. She didn’t look down, didn’t turn red. L stared every one of those teenagers, good old boys, and Southern Baptist housewives in the eye daring them to say a word as she steered us out of the food court and into Victoria Secret so she could try on lingerie.

I have no idea what happened to L. After three months in Jacksonville I moved back to Oregon, started testosterone and began living as a tranny fag. I remember hearing rumors that she’d planned on moving back to Tallahassee.

Wherever she is, I hope she’s happy. I hope she’s still fighting and I hope she has a butch who really deserves and cherishes her. For years when I thought of “femme” I immediately thought of her. We obviously hadn’t been close, yet when I came out as femme she was where I took my inspiration. Those flickering memories of her southern punk, riot grrrl, rebel girl, princess style of femme that became a role model for me.

Latest posts by Sassafras

• Farewell - May 1st, 2011
• Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme - April 16th, 2011
• Little Red Writing Dress - March 27th, 2011
• Unexpected Butch/Femme Poetry - March 22nd, 2011
• Tell-tale Signs a Queer Femme is Queer - March 4th, 2011