No one can tell my girlfriend is gay.
An example: About two years ago, Jenny and a gay male friend
went to San Francisco in June. They were excited to celebrate
Pride.
But first they were hungry, so they approached a short gay guy
wearing leather. "Anyplace around here we can get Mexican food?"
Jenny asked.
The man looked them up and down and then said with a
condescending sigh, "The Mexican neighborhood is a few blocks over.
This is the Castro. I just want to let you know that there will be
a lot of people here, because there's a thing happening called Gay
Pride, so if you really want to stay in the neighborhood, there
will be long waits." Jenny and her friend stared at him in
disbelief.
"I am a lesbian standing with a gay guy in the Castro," Jenny
said to me later. "And even then, no one knows I'm gay."
I think this is funny, because to me Jenny is obviously gay.
Sure, she keeps her curly hair long. She wears makeup. But she
tends to gesture like a boy, she talks low in her throat and her
nails are short. In these post-'L' Word glamour lesbian days, those
should be all the cues another gay person needs.
But no.
Not even gay people can tell that Jenny is gay, and it makes her
sad.
"How can you be part of a community if no one can see you?" she
asks.
Humans are a tribal animal, and if you're gay, the LGBTcommunity
is your tribe. We want other gay people to recognize us, because it
makes us feel less alone. It makes us feel like part of
something.
"Also, being gay is more fun," Jenny says.
Back in the early '90s era of identity politics, recognition was
easy. We wore rainbow rings around our necks, pink and black
triangles in our ears, shirts with slogans like "No one knows I'm a
lesbian" on our torsos.
When we came out, lesbians automatically cut their hair and
stopped wearing makeup completely.
But as the movement has gotten older, lesbians - and gay men,
too - have stopped conforming to a narrow (if highly recognizable)
stereotype and instead have found ways to be both gay and deeply
ourselves. We now know that if we like the feeling of long hair
against our shoulders, if we like the way our eyes look when rimmed
with mascara, if we like the swish of skirts against our knees or
the brisk click of heels, then that's OK.
We can be butch all the time, sometimes or never. Whatever we
choose to wear, we're still lesbians.
But while society has gradually grown more accustomed to the
idea that gay people can be flamboyant or perfectly ordinary, we in
the gay community don't always recognize our more subtle brothers
and sisters on the street. We assume heterosexuality. Even in our
own neighborhoods and our own shops.
Yesterday, Jenny walked into a cafe. "Feminist Salads" was
chalked on the menu board. Ani DiFranco growled over the sound
system. And the woman behind the counter, pierced and short-haired,
was so clearly lesbian she could have been wearing a name-tag.
"I kept joking with her and talking to her, wanting her to know
I was gay without actually saying, 'Hey, I'm gay!' or 'Hey, I have
a girlfriend at home!'" Jenny told me later.
"I looked at her and felt a sense of connection - and I wanted
her to have that sense of connection, too. But of course she
didn't."
So Jenny left, feeling more isolated than if the barista had
been straight. Because the woman didn't see her.