A Letter to Femmes Feeling Invisible:

Dear dykes, wombyn, women, witches and mamas;

Dear sweethearts and sisters,

Gender-bending babes and saccharine gender twisters,

All you femme identifying folx:

Dear high heeled mountain climbers

Dear painted-nail mud runners

Dear blushed cheek early morning bakers

Dear ruby red lipped booty shakers

I see you.

I see you on the streets

Holding hands with other magical femmes,

Holding hands with butch baddies, zaddy’s, and daddy’s.

I see you at the bar with your masculine of center partners,

Being eyed by every queen and butch dream

Wondering why you are here,

Wondering if you know exactly where you are,

Or if you saw the rainbow flag above the door.

I see your eyes glimmer hopefully at the sight of other femmes

Only to see those same eyes fall as they question you.

I see the bois in the back doubt you

I see them attempt to diminish your light

Because you don’t align

I see you.

I see you dressed up for a night on the town

I see you dressed up and ready to just chill out.

I promise when you show up at my door,

I will welcome you in

As kin,

You are.

I promise not to police you.

I promise not to assume your identity.

I promise that when we cross paths,

I will give you my biggest smile.

I will invite you to stay for a while

And tell me your story

Tell me the ways you have climbed corporate ladders without ever putting on a pant suit,

Or working your ass off in the social justice scene, but never being seen, as radical enough in that skirt, or in those shoes, or with that smile, or that skin…

Tell me stories of being shamed for the long curls of your hair, the way you flawlessly gloss your lips…

Tell me about being the only woman with your job title and it’s 2017.

Tell me about the time you were at a political action and the fire started, and how your hoop earring got you out of handcuffs.

Tell me the story of men who accost you every single day, insisting that you can’t love women because you’re too pretty, and damn right you are pretty and you like your partners to be damn pretty too.

Tell me the story of sitting beside your partner at the clinic as they take their first shot of hormones, tell me about the days you give them their injections because their hands are shaking and it’s just too much.

Tell me the story of moving your friend out safely after her relationship got violent. Tell me how you showed up with a bat ready to kick the ass of anyone who came near her.

Tell me how you showed up at the bar with a woman last Friday and they let you in without a cover, and when you showed up this Friday with your male presenting friend they charged you both.

Tell me what it’s like for you to not be seen,

I will listen.

Tell me what you’ve accomplished

You, powerful dream.

I know our community does not see you

Tries to unearth the dirt beneath your feet

I know your first words are always an explanation

I need no explanation

Walk by me and I will see you.

I will listen.

I will hear you even in a whisper.

I do not know that you will see me,

As I too am questioned.

But I promise you this,

I will never doubt you.

While I will never know what your path feels like to walk,

I know what it is like to not be seen

To not be read correctly by your own community

To be marked and labeled

And to know more of yourself than will ever be believed.

I know what this feels like

And I refuse to perpetuate a system that qualifies you by a stereotype you don’t subscribe to.

The world attempts to put you into boxes in order to live, in order to be human

And you look right at the boxes and say, “Fuck being human, I am magic.”

You are the most radical kind of magic I know.

You are unleashing fierceness with every clink of yours heels, every brush stroke of mascara, every flake of glitter you leave behind.

You are covering the world in questions

While everyone around you is assuming the answers.

Tell me your story, I will listen.

Walk by me and I will see you.