Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 4

Post the Sixtieth: Pride 2015, Part II

I was striding down Broadway at a great rate, Gentle Reader. I had just left the Trans Pride event; the evening was growing dark and colder, and I was eager to drop my parasol off at Mr. Darling’s apartment, and perhaps pre-game a little. I had no definite plans for the evening, but I was sure that I could find some bastion of community that would feel comfortable for the night. I was wrapped in rapt contemplation, and nearly stumbled over the dark-haired woman in the Hawaiian-print dress leaning on the bike rack. It was Brianna Herrera, who I knew a lifetime ago, and haven’t seen since.

Ms. Herrera can be seen to the lower right, and hasn’t changed an iota in the last decade.

Mutually surprised, we caught up briefly – a short synopsis of the years since we’d last seen one another. There was a pregnant pause – there often is, in such situations, where one wants to get on, but one also wants to reconnect – a deciding moment, where things can go one of two ways – but the moment passed. We were making our goodbyes, and then I asked her “Where do you think is going to be the best place to hit tonight for Pride?” Brianna suggested Purr, and then we split ways.

I had some options, and I had to think them through. I am not that stellar a navigatrix, even sober – unless I’m in a forest setting, you understand. My phone, Diogenes, also refuses to help – that is, any map app you care to name goes haywire if I attempt to actually use it. This will become important later. After regrouping and filling my charming gold beadwork clutch full of supplies for the evening, I set out, determined to just ask directions of the crowd around me. After all, it was Pride on Capitol Hill, and surely someone would know how to get me places, right? It’s always worked before.

You can *always* trust Family!

It did not work this time.

For three hours, I wandered the Hill – well, the residential areas that surround the main bit. I could always tell when I wandered out of the primary area, because by simply crossing the street the attitude of passers-by went from revelry to disapproval – I was wearing my trademark hat and divorce pants, you know. I just tried to keep the sound of the crowd in mind and head towards that, and I’d be amongst friends again; once there, I’d ask directions, and head off on another jaunt another wrong way. Quite late, I stumbled upon the Mercury, where I happen to be a member; at least I knew how to navigate from there, so I settled down inside.

The Merc, you know, is a private goth club. It’s not a LGBTQIA establishment, but they’re friendly, and they usually have Pride events. Nonetheless, it was dead as blazes that night. Still, I feel safe being there on my own, so I stayed until it was time to meet Darling’s roommate to grab the keys and go back home for the night. I’ll leave you here, Gentle Reader; as loathe as I am to extend this re-cap to three parts, it just can’t be avoided. Cheers, mes amis!

Tagged: big city pride, Darling, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride, pride 2015, Queer, QUILTBAG, Seattle, The Mercury, Three-Part episodes

Post the Sixtieth: Pride 2016, Part II

I was striding down Broadway at a great rate, Gentle Reader. I had just left the Trans Pride event; the evening was growing dark and colder, and I was eager to drop my parasol off at Mr. Darling’s apartment, and perhaps pre-game a little. I had no definite plans for the evening, but I was sure that I could find some bastion of community that would feel comfortable for the night. I was wrapped in rapt contemplation, and nearly stumbled over the dark-haired woman in the Hawaiian-print dress leaning on the bike rack. It was Brianna Herrera, who I knew a lifetime ago, and haven’t seen since.

Ms. Herrera can be seen to the lower right, and hasn’t changed an iota in the last decade.

Mutually surprised, we caught up briefly – a short synopsis of the years since we’d last seen one another. There was a pregnant pause – there often is, in such situations, where one wants to get on, but one also wants to reconnect – a deciding moment, where things can go one of two ways – but the moment passed. We were making our goodbyes, and then I asked her “Where do you think is going to be the best place to hit tonight for Pride?” Brianna suggested Purr, and then we split ways.

I had some options, and I had to think them through. I am not that stellar a navigatrix, even sober – unless I’m in a forest setting, you understand. My phone, Diogenes, also refuses to help – that is, any map app you care to name goes haywire if I attempt to actually use it. This will become important later. After regrouping and filling my charming gold beadwork clutch full of supplies for the evening, I set out, determined to just ask directions of the crowd around me. After all, it was Pride on Capitol Hill, and surely someone would know how to get me places, right? It’s always worked before.

You can *always* trust Family!

It did not work this time.

For three hours, I wandered the Hill – well, the residential areas that surround the main bit. I could always tell when I wandered out of the primary area, because by simply crossing the street the attitude of passers-by went from revelry to disapproval – I was wearing my trademark hat and divorce pants, you know. I just tried to keep the sound of the crowd in mind and head towards that, and I’d be amongst friends again; once there, I’d ask directions, and head off on another jaunt another wrong way. Quite late, I stumbled upon the Mercury, where I happen to be a member; at least I knew how to navigate from there, so I settled down inside.

The Merc, you know, is a private goth club. It’s not a LGBTQIA establishment, but they’re friendly, and they usually have Pride events. Nonetheless, it was dead as blazes that night. Still, I feel safe being there on my own, so I stayed until it was time to meet Darling’s roommate to grab the keys and go back home for the night. I’ll leave you here, Gentle Reader; as loathe as I am to extend this re-cap to three parts, it just can’t be avoided. Cheers, mes amis!

Tagged: big city pride, Darling, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride, pride 2015, Queer, QUILTBAG, Seattle, The Mercury, Three-Part episodes

Post the Fifty-Ninth: Pride 2015, Part I

Thank the Stars that June is over, Gentle Reader. Now that Pride month is over, we can resume our regularly scheduled adventures, right?

Wrong. It’s customary for me to recap my own Pride shenanigans early in July around these parts – and Tacoma Pride hasn’t even happened yet. Some aging queen must have seen her shadow, because you’re getting three more weeks of Pride.

This year’s event was rather more independent for me than hitherto. I was staying with Darling, of course, and Capere was supposed to as well; very understandably, she changed her plans. And of course Pride is always a work-weekend for the ever-popular Mr. Darling, and while I am monstrous fond of his beau, his roommate, and his roommate’s beau, I expected them all to be completely booked for the duration. I was very vague about when I was coming up, or if I was coming up at all – finally that Friday arrived, and I packed a bag or two and went up to Seattle.

I honestly had to be told, during Seattle’s heat wave, to leave my furs behind. I didn’t pack them all – I’d only brought four! – but it was probably good advice.

While I prefer to be spontaneous, and let plans shift and slide and just live in the moment – at the same time, I am perfectly wretched if my arrangements aren’t rock-solid. This goes double when I’m taking buses whose schedules I haven’t got memorized. Darling and Company have recently moved; while I’m sure as blazes on navigating to his last two abodes, I’m still a little shaky on the current one. When he didn’t answer his phone as I got closer to the destination and appointed time, I chose to focus on the heat, instead. I knew the address, I know the area a little; everything would turn out alright. And when I got to the door, and there was still no answer, did I let it phase me? No, I did not.

I texted, presuming he was taking a disco nap or in flagrante delicto, so to speak, and took myself to a little Greek place on the corner to wait. Sure enough, by the time I’d finished my strange lemon-cream-based soup he phoned; I went back to his place, where he was enduring an unending case of the hiccoughs*. We all visited, a little, between hics – and, knowing that Darling et al. would be pretty busy all weekend, reassured him that he didn’t need to worry about entertaining me. I am an independent lady, after all.

However, since I was headed to Trans Pride, which takes place on Friday, hoping to see my Cousin Mary – well, rather than dispersing into the night, the fellas walked me down to the event. We took a turn around the park – it’s rather smaller, you know; more in keeping with, say, Kitsap Pride or Tacoma Pride than the big city – and before the gentlemen ghosted, I met up with Mary. We had a nice visit – I was glad I’d come up on Friday; it was the only chance I’d have to see her before she flew out for surgery later that week. After Mary took her kids back home – past their bedtime, I should add – I was free to try to meet with other friends. I ran into some folks that I’m trying to get to know better, including Jarel, who I ran into approximately 6000 times over the course of the weekend. Some friends that I was hoping to see I just missed – but they saw my enormous cartwheel hat across the field. Others, that I wasn’t expecting, lurched out of the past to say hello. It was a lovely afternoon. Eventually, however, it was time to gird my loins for the evening, and I think perhaps I shall leave you here, shivering in the park, wondering what the night might bring.

*********

*While he was in the other room, suffering from hiccough, Darling’s beau and I were looking up possible cures on our phones. Apparently, “digital manipulation of the anus” is a legitimate strategy to try, Gentle Reader. You’re welcome.

Tagged: Darling and Capere, Gay Pride, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride, Seattle, Trans Pride Seattle, Two-part Episodes

Post the Fifty-Ninth: Pride 2016, Part I

Thank the Stars that June is over, Gentle Reader. Now that Pride month is over, we can resume our regularly scheduled adventures, right?

Wrong. It’s customary for me to recap my own Pride shenanigans early in July around these parts – and Tacoma Pride hasn’t even happened yet. Some aging queen must have seen her shadow, because you’re getting three more weeks of Pride.

This year’s event was rather more independent for me than hitherto. I was staying with Darling, of course, and Capere was supposed to as well; very understandably, she changed her plans. And of course Pride is always a work-weekend for the ever-popular Mr. Darling, and while I am monstrous fond of his beau, his roommate, and his roommate’s beau, I expected them all to be completely booked for the duration. I was very vague about when I was coming up, or if I was coming up at all – finally that Friday arrived, and I packed a bag or two and went up to Seattle.

I honestly had to be told, during Seattle’s heat wave, to leave my furs behind. I didn’t pack them all – I’d only brought four! – but it was probably good advice.

While I prefer to be spontaneous, and let plans shift and slide and just live in the moment – at the same time, I am perfectly wretched if my arrangements aren’t rock-solid. This goes double when I’m taking buses whose schedules I haven’t got memorized. Darling and Company have recently moved; while I’m sure as blazes on navigating to his last two abodes, I’m still a little shaky on the current one. When he didn’t answer his phone as I got closer to the destination and appointed time, I chose to focus on the heat, instead. I knew the address, I know the area a little; everything would turn out alright. And when I got to the door, and there was still no answer, did I let it phase me? No, I did not.

I texted, presuming he was taking a disco nap or in flagrante delicto, so to speak, and took myself to a little Greek place on the corner to wait. Sure enough, by the time I’d finished my strange lemon-cream-based soup he phoned; I went back to his place, where he was enduring an unending case of the hiccoughs*. We all visited, a little, between hics – and, knowing that Darling et al. would be pretty busy all weekend, reassured him that he didn’t need to worry about entertaining me. I am an independent lady, after all.

However, since I was headed to Trans Pride, which takes place on Friday, hoping to see my Cousin Mary – well, rather than dispersing into the night, the fellas walked me down to the event. We took a turn around the park – it’s rather smaller, you know; more in keeping with, say, Kitsap Pride or Tacoma Pride than the big city – and before the gentlemen ghosted, I met up with Mary. We had a nice visit – I was glad I’d come up on Friday; it was the only chance I’d have to see her before she flew out for surgery later that week. After Mary took her kids back home – past their bedtime, I should add – I was free to try to meet with other friends. I ran into some folks that I’m trying to get to know better, including Jarel, who I ran into approximately 6000 times over the course of the weekend. Some friends that I was hoping to see I just missed – but they saw my enormous cartwheel hat across the field. Others, that I wasn’t expecting, lurched out of the past to say hello. It was a lovely afternoon. Eventually, however, it was time to gird my loins for the evening, and I think perhaps I shall leave you here, shivering in the park, wondering what the night might bring.

*********

*While he was in the other room, suffering from hiccough, Darling’s beau and I were looking up possible cures on our phones. Apparently, “digital manipulation of the anus” is a legitimate strategy to try, Gentle Reader. You’re welcome.

Tagged: Darling and Capere, Gay Pride, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride, Seattle, Trans Pride Seattle, Two-part Episodes

Post the Fifty-Eighth: In Which Madame DeLyte Joins Grindr

Gentle Reader, I’m sure by now you’re familiar with the “dating” app that launched a thousand ships. If you hadn’t guessed from the title, I’m talking about Grindr – a mobile application which allows gay and bisexual men to show one another pictures of their torsos and discover how many feet away they are from one another and who can host their date.

Typical.

Rather than trying Scruff or Hornet, I was determined to try the original – or at least most notorious – phone-based hookup device for my kind. Of course, as I’m constantly reminding people, I refuse to apologize for who I am; in a sea of faceless ripped gym-bodies, I readied my profile picture:

Just a casual afternoon look, y’all.

Grindr is notorious for being a little sleazy, Gentle Reader, and I’m as delicate as the flowers I wear at my throat. But how bad could it be? I was sure I’d get a few inquiries, and I planned to send out a few messages to likely looking boys, and maybe I’d make some new friends. My profile in full, Gentlefolk:

Within five minutes of joining the site, someone offered to pay me – me – to come and top him. Me, the High Femme. Excuse me? But I was bound to respond naturally, as myself, you know – so I audibly said “Golly!” and sent this back:

Strangely enough, there was no response. Not all my encounters were so forward, or so bleak, though! One fella seemed to love my outfit, and was wondering what the occasion had been:

Another, who has been an absolute doll and who I’m still talking to, has seen me around town. Not that I’m hard to miss.

Long story short, Gentle Reader, I’ve been enjoying the hell out of this app, have not hooked up with anyone once because I am a lady, and have been making some actual friends. I mean, the sleaze factor is there. Definitely. And there has been a lot of the whole “No Femmes” thing, which was kind of the point of me joining. But still. All in all, this has been a rather positive experience. I was surprised.

Some fellas were rather more insistent than others, and some I was frankly alarmed by. Some were very sweet, and some I’m glad not to know. The big question – will I be keeping Grindr on my phone, though? – the answer is surprisingly yes. Though joining Grindr and behaving as I always do was less hilarious than anticipated, I find that the gents who message me have been almost universally worth chatting with. Cheers, Gentle Reader.

Tagged: Gay and Bisexual Men, Grindr, Headless Torsos, Hot Dang - Fellas!, LGBTQIA, Madame Delyte, Pride

Post the Fifty-Seventh: Identity Issues

Identities are complex, Gentle Reader. How do we ever learn who we are, or how to accept who we are? It’s a cultural necessity to wear a mask, and sometimes, we lose track of the face underneath that mask. Personally, having viewed my father’s journey, I’ve always refused to wear one – and have accepted a respectable amount of flak for my non-performance. I often invoke the ghosts of June and Ward Cleaver, Gentlefolk, but we are called to behave like their descendants. Despite selfies and new slang, despite the feminist revolution and the Summer of Love, despite Stonewall and all that came after, we fall into old patterns. And that’s alright – if it’s authentic.

Pictured: Fiction.

Recently, a local community figure, Little Bear Schwarz, came out again as Cis, and previously she had identified as genderqueer. Ms. Capere and I got into a bit of a conversation about it, both of us taking different positions as the night went on. What I took away from the evening – and what I’ve felt for quite some time – is that identity is fluid. As we learn, as we grow, what fit at one time in our lives might be utter anathema later on.

I grew out of being a racist fuckhead, and I utterly regret the episode. I’ve grown into a true Bohemian – a penniless writer who paints in parks at the weekend, has grown more comfortable with casual relationships, and whose manuscripts drive him mad. I’ve recently come out as Genderqueer, or maybe Genderfluid – I’m not entirely sure.

Whatever this is.

It’s alright, when you come out, to not know exactly what your identity is. It’s okay to boldly, defiantely, proclaim your identity and then later modify who or how you are. It really is! These things are fluid and do change; my ex-husband used to be bi, after all. It’s perfectly acceptable to say “Well, I might be this” or to say ” I AM this!” and then later completely turn about face. We learn about ourselves. We grow. We experiment, and we experience new things that wake us to new horizons. And if we support people exploring their identities to experiment, to come out as gay or lesbian or bi or trans, as unsure, as possibly bi or pan or agender or genderqueer or genderfluid – if they later change, modify, or elaborate on how they identify, we wouldn’t censure them.

So why should we if someone who was questioning decides that they’re cis, or straight? That is to say, if we as a community support those who explore, who question – when they decide that they don’t identify with us, that they identify as straight or cis, should we censure them for that? After all, we support them when they don’t know where they’ll fall. If one winds up being wrong, or if one feels like a particular identity no longer applies, why should we judge? If we accept that gender and sexuality are fluid, and encourage people to explore who they are, we must also accept that sometimes people swing back across that white picket fence. Right? Ms. Capere and I were unable to settle the matter that night – perhaps you can help us, in the comments.

Tagged: fluid, How Do You Identify, Identity Issues, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride, Queer, QUILTBAG, Shifting Identities

Poetic Interlude CXV

Like the Very Gods

by Sappho

Like the very gods in my sight is he who

sits where he can look in your eyes, who listens

close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness

murmur in love and

laughter, all for him. But it breaks my spirit;

underneath my breast all the heart is shaken.

Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies,

I can say nothing,

but my lips are stricken to silence, under-

neath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;

nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are

muted in thunder.

And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever

Shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is;

I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that

death has come near me.

Tagged: LGBT Poetry, LGBTQIA, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Pride, Sappho

Post the Fifty-Sixth: In Which We Pass

These days, Gentle Reader, I wear my identity on my sleeve. Even the most severely restrained outfit is – at the very least – adorned by a modest brooch. I take my wardrobe very seriously, and though my unique sense of style isn’t to everyone’s taste, it leaves no doubt in anyone’s mind that I am very, very gay.

This has not always been the case.

There’s a concept known as “passing privilege” – it’s when a member of a disadvantaged or marginalized group “passes” as one of the dominant majority, and uses this protective camouflage to conceal themselves. This can be a problem – it’s one of the many reasons that bisexual erasure’s a thing – but it can be a distinct advantage. It can save lives.

I worked in concrete for a number of years. Unsurprisingly, construction sites are a super-butch environment. On the job, I had to completely bury myself – erase my identity, be one of the boys. I had to pretend to like beer, boobs, and ballgames, and try to out-macho any cocksucker I came across.

I wasn’t very good at it. I gave it my best shot – I swaggered, I swore, I studied straight boys in the wild, and aped their behavior to no avail. Something would always give me away – I wouldn’t notice the hot chick walking by, or I’d use the wrong word – something like lavender or splendid. I’d forget details about my made-up girlfriend. In short, I was back in the closet at work, and no one was even fooled. I like to think they appreciated the effort.

Why would I do something like that – why would I try to pass as straight? Safety.  Straight guys – straight-acting guys – don’t get killed in the men’s room for, um, being in the men’s room. Straight guys don’t have to constantly analyze their speech, their unconscious manners and mannerisms, to try to figure out why that dude is sneering and oh god he’s coming over and – 

There are all different sorts of passing, though, and most confer a certain security – we just can’t all attain that imagined ideal.

I, for one, am glad I can’t pass. I spent far too long making far too much effort to fail at something I’m not particularly interested in. I’d far rather be exactly who I am, at all times, and if anybody tries anything, whip out my inner irate duchess.

No, I don’t pass, Gentle Reader – and I don’t want to.

Tagged: all that rot, LGBTQIA, Pride, QUILTBAG, ReRuns, Tyler J. Yoder

Post the Fifty-Fifth: In Which We Go Over the Rainbow

It’s commonly known that we filthy queers stole the Rainbow from Noah and made it serve our nefarious purposes.  That is, it’s used internationally as a symbol indicating safe LGBTQIA spaces, QUILTBAG pride, etc. etc. But why a rainbow? What do the colors stand for? What are all these other flags that one sometimes sees during pride and in sex shops?

I’m so glad you asked, Gentle Reader.

 

We’ll begin with the grand old rainbow flag, go over the colors, and then hit the more common flags you might see this pride season.

This is going to be a LONG post, kids. Strap in tight!

The RAINBOW Flag

A quick history: In 1978, Gilbert Baker designed the first rainbow flag for an early version of San Francisco’s pride parade. Sources differ as to his inspiration; some claim it’s a Judy Garland reference, closely tied to the Stonewall Riots† which were a few days after her death. It’s also been tied to the Hippie movement, a Flag Of All Races, and Allen Ginsburg. What is firmly known is that the rainbow itself shows the spectrum of colors, and therefore represents the spectra of sexuality and gender. Also? Baker attributed each color a specific meaning. Also also? His flag had eight stripes.

Hot Pink stood for Sexuality.

Red stood for Life.

Orange was for Healing.

Yellow was for Sunlight.

Green represented Nature.

Turquoise symbolized Magic, and Art.

Indigo/Blue was for Serenity and Harmony, and

Violet stood for Spirit.

Hot Pink was dropped late in ’78 because hot pink fabric was apparently hard to come by, and Turquoise was dropped in ’79 because when the flags were hung from street lamps, it was hidden by the posts or something.  But the common six-stripe flag is still with us today! Mile-Long-Flags are passed from Pride Event to Pride Event, and usually commemorate something important when they show up. And the Rainbow flag is seen everywhere! So what about all those other flags? What do they mean?

Hours of research went into this, and as ever, if I get something wrong, please don’t hesitate to correct me, to educate me. That’s what the comments are for, darlings.

The Labrys Flag

I’ve never actually seen this one in the wild, but I’ve read about it. It’s for Lesbians! Because they’ll cut a bitch. It originates in the matriarchal societies of ancient Crete, I guess. The black triangle refers to the symbol the Nazis would tattoo on Lesbians and other “Work-Shy” individuals, like the Romani, much like the pink triangle they’d tattoo on gay men. The purple field is there because it’s mandated that all queers like purplepurple is a royal color and queers are royalty because purple and lavender are commonly accepted queer colors, from mixing masculine red and feminine blue.

The Bisexual Flag

The Bisexual Pride Flag was designed in ’98, as a way of raising bisexual awareness, as bisexuals in committed relationships fade into the gay world or the straight world. The colors came from an existing bisexual symbol –

– and the pink represents same-sex attraction, the blue represents opposite-sex attraction, while the lavender represents the overlap/gradation between them.

The Pansexual Flag

This one’s of relatively recent vintage. Pansexuality is distinct from bisexuality in that it acknowledges attraction to non-binary genders, and, from what I understand‡, is more about attraction to people based on who they are than what they are. The rundown: The flag dates to 2010; pink refers to those who identify as female, regardless of the plumbing, blue refers to those who identify as male, with the same caveat, and yellow is for those outside the binary.

The Asexual Flag

Asexuality gets a little complicated, kids, and I can’t explain the colors without giving you a lot of extra vocabulary terms. This post is already overlong, and we still have a lot to get through. Asexuality brings up the excellent point of romantic spectra being different from sexual spectra, though, which I have intimate, long-standing, first-hand experience with. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had a relationship where the sexual and romantic spectrums were aligned. At any rate, I’m going to give you a link to AVEN, the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network, because otherwise I’ll be in way over my head.  They should also be able to explain the separate Demisexual Flag. Demisexuals only experience sexual attraction after a strong emotional connection has been established, and there is very littleinformation on their flag. I can only surmise that the colors are taken from the Asexual flag.

There’s also Aromanticism, Lithromanticism, and a slew of others which seem to be under the Asexual banner.

The Transgender Flag

This is also the Transsexual flag, because there are still folks who identify as Transsexuals. The term, while outdated, refers to Trans individuals who have gone through gender-reassignment surgery.

AT ANY RATE, this is only the most prominent of the Trans flags; there are evidently several designs extant. This one was designed back in ’99 by Monica Helms, a transgender woman.  She says “The stripes at the top and bottom are light blue, the traditional color for baby boys. The stripes next to them are pink, the traditional color for baby girls. The stripe in the middle is white, for those who are intersex, transitioning or consider themselves having a neutral or undefined gender. The pattern is such that no matter which way you fly it, it is always correct, signifying us finding correctness in our lives.” So there’s that. It has also been suggested that white is strictly for those who are transitioning.

The InterSex Flag

This flag is woefully late to the party, Gentle Reader. It was designed by the Organisation Intersex International Australia and they endeavoured to create a flag “that is not derivative, but is yet firmly grounded in meaning”. The colors were chosen specifically because they are not traditionally gendered, and the organisation describes yellow and purple as the “hermaphrodite” colors. I am absolutely certain that intersex individuals of my acquaintance would take offence to the language they use, which is why I made doubly certain to use quotation marks.

The Genderqueer and Genderfluid Flags

Genderqueer’s a bit of a blanket term, I’m afraid. It covers, basically, anyone who doesn’t strictly identify as a man or as a woman – and there are a lot of identities out there, so Genderqueer graciously welcomes them all. Lavender is a mix of the traditional gendered colors, as well as representing queerness itself. The white stripe is for those who find themselves tumbling outside the gender binary entirely into the white space outside it. The green, which is officially described as chartreuse, is the inversion of lavender in the color wheel, and is meant to represent those who identify as NEITHER male nor female – where lavender indicates those who identify as BOTH. Or a mix. YMMV, essentially. Here is an excellent glossary regarding genderqueer terms.

Genderfluid is exactly what it says on the tin. Some days a genderfluid individual will identify as male, other days as female, other days as neither or both. The flag, though, means this: The pink at top represents femininity, the blue at bottom represents masculinity, and the blurred lines between represent the blurred lines between.

The Bear Flag and the Lipstick Lesbian Flag

Bears are those gay men who are a little bit heavier, little bit older, and especially a little bit hairier. There are variations, like cubs, who are hairy, heavy, and young, and otters, who are hairy, slim, and young, ad infinitum. They’re all bears, as far as I’m concerned. Here is their flag:

It refers to the colors of bear fur world wide. And also apparently to the range of human skin/hair tones. Hooray! Bears are mostly harmless, though, unless you’re a twink or at the wrong bar.

Lipstick lesbians are traditionally the ones that your mother is confused by. “She’s so pretty,” Ma will say, “And she’s so delicate!” Just because a lady enjoys being a girly-girl doesn’t mean she’s not attracted to other women. Their flag invokes traditional feminine colors and a great big kiss.

The Fetish Ones

Oh, dear. I’m not even going to go here. There’s a lot of them? And I can’t keep up? They all have their own subculture, and usually a float in the big-city Pride Parade, and you’ll definitely see their various flags in sex-shops. We all have our kinks, you know? And for some, they’re a huge part of their identity. Here are some, but there are a lot of others out there. I’m not even going to try to provide a context, because I am way out of my depth.

*********

†You don’t know the Stonewall Riots? For Heaven’s Sake, Gentle Reader! Don’t worry, child. I will educate you. 

‡I’m a cisgender white gay man. My understanding is moving along, but I don’t know everything. I figure that if we all help educate one another we’ll all be better people. Also? There aren’t a lot of resources out there to help educate oneself. I’m hoping to help with that, but I need to be educated myself in order, you know, to not be a dick about things.

 

Tagged: aromantic, Asexual, Bisexual, demisexual, Gay, genderfludi, Genderqueer, lesbian, LGBT flags, LGBTQIA, pansexual, Pride, QUILTBAG, Transgender

Post the Fifty-Fourth: To Thine Own Self, And All That Rot

Gentle Reader, a week ago today I was out at the Mix with The-Fella-I’m-Not-Dating*, and it was a typical evening for me since moving to town. I was to meet a friend for coffee; I knew for a fact that karaoke would transpire later on. I slapped on a look in twenty minutes, and was suddenly in a lavender fantasy with flowers at my throat. Nothing particularly remarkable about that, n’est-ce pas?

When we toddled toward the pub, I was awash in adulation. I’m developing quite a reputation – the Quentin Crisp of Tacoma; the Oscar Wilde of the Northwest – that sort of thing. People tend to be either complimentary or avoid me entirely, you understand. When we walked in, I noticed a small knot of twinks by the bar; they were having a good time, no doubt rolling their eyes at this old queen and calling for another round of shots. Perfectly typical, as I said – I carried on and worked the room. It wasn’t until I stepped outside for a brief cigarette between showtunes that one of those fit young men approached me.

Twinks, Gentlefolk

“How do you do it?”

I glanced askance, not quite sure what he meant. “How do you do it? How do you walk the streets of Tacoma looking like that without being scared? I’ve seen you, you know” – he started getting a little teary – “it’s not like it was back in L.A. This is home, this will always be home, but I miss my red lipstick.” He was crying in earnest at this point, and I reached out to grip his arm in comfort; his friends glared and whisked him away.

I’ll admit, in the heat of the moment, I’m a little grateful that I didn’t have to answer in full. What I said before he was dragged away was that “Humor helps. When someone shouts ‘Faggot!’ at me, I clutch my pearls, look around all frightened, and exclaim ‘What!? Where?'” If I’d had the luxury of getting into a real answer, I know I would have trotted out a few pet phrases that longtime Gentle Readers will be familiar with – “Never apologize for who you are” and “Don’t let anyone erase your identity.” While fine in and of themselves, they don’t actually answer the poor boy’s question. So, my poor lost child – this is how I do it, honey.

I eschew masks, but without one, how will society know how to treat you?

First of all, one must know the rules before one knows how to break them. Gender’s performative and ridiculous and bullshit, you know, but you have to know how society views such things and the roles both established genders are bound by and then step outside that space and transgress. Unless you know what’s expected, you can’t do something surprising or new. And, uh, you don’t know which spaces are safe. It’s up to you how you present in broadly unsafe spaces, of course, but there are drawbacks and benefits to many approaches. Me? I avoid public bathrooms like the plague, but find city streets to be broadly safe – so long as I know where I’m going and in which part of town. I don’t mind walking a few blocks through a neighborhood that’s a little iffy to get to my destination, but I do hustle through as quickly as possible.

How quaint.

The most important thing, though – you have to let go of your fear, child. You can’t be ruled by it; it’ll destroy you. If the history of the QUILTBAG community teaches us anything, it teaches that being true to yourself trumps everything else. It trumps safety in public spaces, it trumps our ambitions and livelihoods – it trumps the important relationships in our lives – with our parents, spouses, or mates. Living a lie will kill you – that’s why the suicide rate is so high in the community. How do I do it, honey? I do it because I must – I have no option. I do it because lying to everyone around me is a terrible way to live. I do it because otherwise there is no I. That’s how I do it, child – and I hope that you find the strength to do it, too.

**********

*More about the Fella later. After the Pride Month Bonanza and so on, which should end in mid-to-late-July. Stay tuned!

Tagged: Bless, Identity, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride, Queer, QUILTBAG, Twinks, Who Even Knows