dyke marching

Nothing brings me more joy than seeing lesbians in public. I instantly stand up straighter and pray pray pray that they see me and feel the same. I do everything I can think of to signal to them that I am one of them; that I am them.

I try to exchange knowing smiles, but I don’t know how to play it cool. I’m sure they can smell my excitement; every time without fail, I immediately have to text my girlfriend to tell her about the cool butches I saw on the train. I study them. I study how they dress, how they walk, how they talk. I study their crisp short haircuts and their carabiners. Their crows feet and their smile lines. The way they hold bags and push strollers for their wives and give up their seats for other women. I study the confidence and the slight glimmers of vulnerability that shine in their eyes. Glimmers that only I can see.

I know they’ve lived so much life. I see the long nights, the parties, the promotions, the breakups, the fights, the weddings, the nights spent in hospitals. I see the fear and I see the perseverance. How can I not put them on pedestals? How can I not be thrilled to see someone who, like me, makes the conscious choice every morning to proudly wear who they are in front of the world? How can I not respect the ways in which they have grown old and have everything to show for it? How can I not crave their approval?

I love the lesbians my age, too. I love the feeling of looking around a rugby tournament and seeing all the flowing mullets and the buzzcuts. I love seeing the piercings and the locs, the wolf cuts and the necklaces. I love hearing about the girlfriends who’ll be watching the game from afar. Or going to Pride and seeing 1,000 mirror images of me and my friends walking aimlessly through Washington Square Park. I love looking at my friends and knowing that our experiences are sacred and mutually understood. I love the book recs we give, the crazy dating stories we tell, the dreams of adult life that we share. I love the jokes we tell and the outings we plan and the ramblings about love we can’t quite seem to keep in.

I love the fact that one day, we will be the old lesbians that I try to emulate. Our jokes and dating fails will turn into wrinkles and forehead lines, and our stories will be passed along to everyone who sees us. We’ll carry shopping bags for our wives and house sit for each other while we travel and be a little too invested in our kids’ soccer games. Maybe we’ll become WNBA season ticket holders together and joke about how we could’ve made the league if we really tried. Or sit at the bar with football jerseys on and complain about the refs and insist they got paid off. Or maybe we’ll join Dykes on Bikes and ride around in leather vests smoking cigars.

I imagine myself being the cool lesbian on the street for some kid in the future. I imagine them looking at me; the rough tenderness of my hands, my unwavering smile, my glimmer. I hope they smile at me, so I can smile back.