A Prairie Homo Companion: 50 Things I’ll Miss if I Leave the Prairies
In anticipation of my future homesickness, I’ve compiled a list of 50 things (in no particular order) I’ll miss should I leave the prairies.
In anticipation of my future homesickness, I’ve compiled a list of 50 things (in no particular order) I’ll miss should I leave the prairies.
“Not only do I have to deal with the crippling dysphoria that comes from having a body that I often don’t even recognize as my own, I also have to deal with the cultural misogyny that tells me that a woman can’t be as big and fat as I am and still be desirable.”
This spring, as you shed all the layers of winter, it’s important to love your prairie homo skin and not feel bad about its colour, its stretch marks, or whom or what it responds to.
My teammates didn’t know that I was ending my run in this men’s league because I had to leave my male identity on the court.
Being bombarded by images of beautiful women with long hair while having male pattern baldness certainly made it easier to repress being transgender.
For anyone who’s ever wanted to say it in a letter.
As with the meaning of written text, our bodies float somewhere between the author (ourselves) and the reader (those we encounter).
“The questionnaire doesn’t ask: “How do you feel your voice fits your role as an artist?,” but for me, it’s an unavoidable question.”
“Our commitment was never in question. I just hadn’t faced the possibility that I could be, not someone’s boyfriend, but their girlfriend. That was the part I had to think about.”
The most important question I can ask is what do you want from Butch Please? What do you want to see in this space?
Since I easily dismissed the strange looks people gave my white mom and her three brown-skinned little kids and the questions about where I was from as just ignorant things people said, I grew up not very aware of racism and micro-aggressions. I didn’t think of myself as black or as white.
Hey there, Autostraddlers. I’m Claudia, and I’m intersex.
“My sobriety buddies warned me that if I violated the ban on dating before I was ready, I might be pushed into a relapse. Instead, I’ve just been pushed into never wanting to date again.”
“It’s on my twenty-fourth birthday that I realize something is wrong. I wake up crying and I don’t stop.”
If you’ve read this column, you’ve probably come to understand that I have a bit of an obsession with the written word. I find that self-expression through language is very powerful stuff, and in the right hands, it can be positively erotic.
“Isn’t this what Valentine’s Day had always been to me? A pageant? An opportunity to try on the idea of being in love, being traditional, being a couple you could fit into a envelope.”
Ten lessons I wish I’d known when I started hormones in February 2011, and why I’m taking an indefinite break from the internet.
Anxiety on a butch is no different than anxiety on anyone else, but somehow I feel an immense shame as a result of the two’s interactions.
Carly and Robin meander through the Great American West! “Look, I know you think you live here, but we don’t. You probably think we live nowhere, and in a way, that’s true.”
“As a queer who spends a lot of time with other queers, rallying around our queerness, am I isolating those who have a more troubled history with the word?”