PoMoSexual Pioneer

I don't look like a lesbian. Maybe this statement is politically incorrect, but it's honest. It seems to me that the more emphasis queer theory and politics place on the endless multiplicity of sexual personae, and the more postmodernists dissect what exactly a gay man, lesbian, or bisexual "is," the easier it gets to describe what one looks like. At least in New York City, where I live, there is a clearly defined gay community with very explicit ways to declare that you are included or excluded.

In college I called them the "short-hair fascists." I just don't look good with short hair, and from the age of 6, I rebelled against my crunchy feminist mom by preferring frilly dresses and Mary Janes to cords and sensible shoes. (I've since come around to cords, but I bought my last pair of shoes solely to match my nails.) I know that queer theorists insist that you can't have the "butch" without the "femme." But the fact remains that if I try to make flirtatious eye contact with a butch woman on the street, she looks right through me—or worse, averts her eyes with a pained look that says "Why is that straight girl staring at me?"

Many people I know count queerness as a definitive part of their identity. For those who grew up in heterosexual families, coming out must have been a declaration of having found themselves, of discovering their true identity. Queerness didn't play such a role in my development, because I grew up with a lesbian mom. In my hometown, Quincy, Massachusetts, a predominantly Irish Catholic suburb of Boston, homophobia was rampant, and my mother's complete openness about her sexuality often made me uncomfortable. It took a while for me to feel OK about the fact that I didn't have a "normal" family: In high school, my form of rebellion was sleeping with boys and being as reactionary as I possibly could. For me, being different from my mother meant being antifeminist.