Fridae

It was not the way she walked, talked or spoke to me. As a matter of fact, I did not see the way she moved, her actions were invisible and she definitely did not speak to me. The only thing I saw was the way her eyes peered through the glass wall and through the person she was speaking to, drilling holes into anything that would prevent her from seeing me.

Mind you, it wasn't a look of admiration - I rarely get that. I wanted to believe it was a look of plain and innocent curiosity but her gaze pierced through my comfort zone and I knew that to her, I was more than an object of plain curiosity, I was a freak.

I looked back at her with a slightly disturbed expression on my face mixed with an attempt to appear angry thinking it would make her look away. It did not work the way I wanted it to. Instead of looking elsewhere, I felt her gaze lock even tighter on me. It made me feel like a firing target. I was instantly taken down by the imaginary laser beams shooting out of her eyes when I tried to stare back and I felt myself shrinking from my own view. I imagined getting smaller to the point that I couldn't see my own feet when I looked down.

There was no revenge for me that day, it only made me start thinking about those of us who "look like men" or are more masculine than other womyn, getting stared at becomes an almost everyday experience.

Some of us get used to it, we don't mind, we just let them stare all they want 'till the gaze is broken. Others get very offended and hurt at the thought that our so-called "abnormalities" stand out and above who we really are, and they fold into a heavy emotional contemplation of "why's", I was part of the latter.

I must admit that I felt like a "half-human half-something else" that day. I was so disturbed that I was at a point of asking myself what I thought at that time were the silliest questions on earth.

For a politicised lesbian, it seemed crazy that I was questioning my own physical appearances. I asked myself why I liked wearing loose clothing, why I cut my hair short and why I walked with a slight swagger, and why did she have to stare so hard at me because of these things? These were questions that I asked myself a long time ago when I didn't know what was going on and it was disturbing that I was going back to those questions only because someone was rude.

I thought that just because I've come to terms with myself, accepted and embraced this life I know I'll be happy in, that it would be easy for me to comfortably mix in the mainstream of society - a society that is silently discriminating and reluctantly tolerant of people like me. But I was wrong. I was wrong to assume that just because I knew perfectly what I was, it would be easy for me to shrug off any adversities that may come my way because of my sexuality. I misunderstood the meaning of confidence; I misread the meaning of pride.

---

I've mentioned in my previous columns that coming out does not stop. I've said that everyday is a coming out experience for all of us. It was only on that day that I realised how different I must look and seem to many people and that the continuous process of coming out can become more difficult than I thought.

Majority of our society is afraid of us. They fear us because they do not understand our orientation, our identification. I agree that we must educate society, because who could explain the so-claimed "phenomena of gayness" but those who are gay? There are those of us who through adamant protest and display of sexuality (by way of dress or actions) attempt to force society into involuntary tolerance - somehow for and in some communities, it results in two things, an increased awareness and understanding and/or increased homophobia. I don't want to be careless in saying that loud protests have not worked in the past, of course they have, but how loud must we be?

For the person who stared at me that day, she must have thought I was loud. I was loudly proclaiming to the world that I was lesbian. The truth is, I only stood there in my casual khakis and button down shirt minding my own business, I didn't even notice her at first.

Now that I think about the events that transpired, I somehow believe that her staring could've been an unconscious curious but rude effort on her part triggered by my unconscious effort to flaunt my sexuality (because I looked butch).

Simply put, she couldn't help but look. And what followed after that? A comment? A raise of an eyebrow? Or maybe just a plain feeling of disgust? I don't' know but I did ask myself this: "must I change my appearances to be accepted as a worthy part of my society?"

It's an ongoing debate; must we sacrifice our right to freely express ourselves at the expense of self-identification and comfort to conform to a society so that they may eventually understand what we are all about? Or must we insist on exposing our way of living, appearance and mannerisms to force them into getting used to have us around with the goal of achieving acceptance?

Personally I just want the staring to stop. I've learned to tone-down my "butchyness" a bit. I now sport long hair, and as much as possible I try not to wear loose t-shirts.

As for the swagger, it's still there. But in the middle of my daily routine, I sometimes think about how much better it would be if I could just let go, do and wear what I want and still be treated like a real person with a personality other than being treated like a lesbian.

Fire is a twenty-something writer-entrepreneur who's also one of the founders of INDIGO Philippines. You can reach her thru firewomyn@iname.com