I want to write more on passing because it’s a hot topic around here lately and there are some in depth and thoughtful comments.

Freedomgirl said: If I have to go through that just like every other lesbian, do I really have to take crap from said lesbians because I don’t look right???

I have had similar thoughts, especially since I’ve been an activist for queer rights for years and years.  There are other ways to contribute besides walking down the street being by yourself being visibly queer.

The assumption that femmes are selling out makes me angry! But so does the competition between femmes to be the queerest.  I hate when people say to me, oh, I don’t pass because my femininity is queer.  Maybe they’re really just telling their truth, but my insecurity gets the better of me and I feel that I’m being judged or blamed for my passing, that if I could somehow queer my appearance more I’d be a better femme.  I think my appearance is plenty queer, thank you very much.

Citrus said that when being read as queer:

Gay people treat you as one of them, straight people don’t. Both things are potentially liberating.

I wonder which I want more.  To be not seen or treated like a straight person is such a defining part of queer experience.  And it is something I get to experience often enough, whether because I out myself or because of the context or because of who I’m with, whether it’s someone I’m dating or my best friend’s softball team.

Passing for straight because I’m being read as part of a heterosexual couple is rare enough for me to feel novel and entertaining. I’m always more concerned about how the other half of the supposed hetero couple feels, because it doesn’t really bother me. The guy selling spare change who told my butch friend, “you’ve got a beautiful woman there.” as we walked through Harvard Square, her on crutches, me carrying both of our messenger bags.  Playing Scrabble with a friend at the local Irish bar on a Sunday afternoon, finishing the game and realizing that people had been watching us instead of the golf championship that was on TV.  “Who won?” an older white woman asked.  “I did,” looking at him, trying not to gloat.  It was one of the best games I’ve ever played.  “That’s good,” she said.  I always root for the female.”  I looked at him, this boy who is not female but also not not female, trying to gauge my response by his, not wanting to laugh if he didn’t.

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