The term ‘butch’ made me uneasy for a very long time; even as the internalised homophobia began to fade, it remained a source of discomfort for me. Butch culture and identity are key features of the LGBTQIA+ community, and yet our perception of them is often tainted by traditional lesbiphobia. Due to this continued fear of embracing butchness, or even just acknowledging it, it’s important to deconstruct the preconceived ideas we have around masculine identities in our society in order to overcome this hesitancy. A couple of things have prompted me to write this article, the first being the recent influx of lesbiphobia in social media, considered as stemming from masculine lesbians and their perceived misogyny. Secondly, as I hope you are aware, DUGES and QSoc recently hosted Butch Week in Trinity, highlighting the importance of this particular community. This resurgence in Butch as an identity is therefore an opportunity to discuss the joy, the struggles, and the taboo associated with such a term.
The exact time when the term was first coined isn’t known, but it’s generally understood that using ‘butch’ to refer to lesbians began in the 1940s, as more women began to join the blue collar workforce. Because of this, butches were specifically associated with the working-class and with a growing community of unmarried women working for their living. Butch-femme relationships have strong roots in the Black lesbian culture of 1920s Harlem, where the terms “bulldagger ” and “dyke” originated. The butch-femme relationship challenged the ideals of heterosexual relationships and reinvented them. These new forms of relationship became particularly prominent thanks to the growth in popularity of dedicated lesbian bars. Sadly, these bars are practically extinct at this point, but the US at one point housed hundreds of lesbian bars that allowed for queer relationships to flourish. An article on the structure of mid-twentieth century lesbian relationships, written by Natasha Kraus, focuses mainly on the rigidity in structure of the lesbian community. There were clear and distinct roles involved with being butch, and the way you presented yourself to the community was therefore key. Subcategories of lesbianism emerged, and sexual roles began to be communicated through dress and behaviour. Identity relied heavily on outside perception : Kraus has therefore stated that “…individual butches and fems were continuously engaged in the complex task of managing self-presentation.” Being butch goes beyond clothing; it is a form of performance which doesn’t end when you get undressed (if you choose to get undressed), even when you are alone. Clothes are a signifier, and can be crucial in breaking out of the shackles of femininity for many of us. However, identity is also determined by certain behaviours, emotions, language, movements, and sexual roles. Even though the defiance of patriarchal structures through both lifestyle and appearance choices is objectively liberating and feminist, the butch way of life was often viewed as quite the opposite. Assuming the masculine role in a relationship wasn’t seen as disrupting heteronormativity, but rather as submitting to it and masking as heterosexual. The people who saw these partnerships as particularly threatening were, ironically, other lesbians, particularly those from the upper classes. Butch culture dismantles idealised white femininity, and therefore the community saw itself excluded from the key feminist movements of the 60s and 70s.
When I first drastically changed my appearance, I in no way considered myself butch. I saw myself as masculine, but butch just seemed to be on a whole other level that didn’t apply to me. I think this hesitance to embrace the term was largely due to my early understanding of lesbianism. There has always been a link between butchness and aggression that was ingrained in me as a child; the idea that lesbians have naturally more abrasive characters. A couple of weeks after coming out to a select few people, a family member essentially said that they didn’t care, but didn’t want me to change my appearance to match my sexuality. Basically, she didn’t want me to look masculine. This was said in a very light-hearted way, and many years ago now ; I am positive that she does not remember saying it, but it has stayed in my head ever since. Being a lesbian was fine as long as you weren’t ‘the man’ in the relationship, meaning as long as it’s not obvious. I internalised this discomfort and distanced myself from the perceived binaries of lesbianism for years.
The shift in the way people treated me came instantly, but maybe this was just my own internalised homophobia overthinking the coldness I felt from strangers. This sense of judgement, however fabricated, still makes me overcompensate in order to try to change those preconceived ideas surrounding lesbians. I smile at everyone, often speak in a high-pitched, south Dublin voice, and use a ridiculous amount of self-deprecating humour to put people at ease. No matter how I behave, everything I do still feels too aggressive or flirtatious. Being butch has meant excluding myself from feminine spaces, due to worries about making women uncomfortable with my presence. I remember the joy of platonically chatting with women in a club bathroom, but that doesn’t seem to be a possibility for me now. Every compliment seems flirty, so I avoid them completely, keeping my head down and remaining detached. Dating has also changed alongside my appearance. As with my everyday interactions, my internalised fear of causing discomfort to others with my identity is rampant in romantic relationships. The way I behaved shifted when I altered my hyper feminine appearance, in both a positive and negative way. On the one hand, I was more genuine and enjoyed this new masculine role ; then again, it came with the crushing pressure of trying to fulfil it. It became a balancing act between adopting a laidback and stoic attitude, whilst also continuing to be giving, selfless and bashful so that I didn’t come off as the stereotyped toxic masc. Before a first date, someone I was texting made a joke about the misfortune of liking masculine lesbians. I am still unsure of what exactly was meant by that.
This internalised discomfort around butchness runs far deeper than just gender ideals, or even romanticised lesbianism: it occurs when we group butches with men. Masculinity in all forms is performative and incredibly fragile, but especially where AFAB people are concerned and therefore there can be constant pressure to counteract gender dysphoria. The qualities we present are in no way equal to those same qualities in AMAB men – our masculinity does not come with privilege. Though it’s common to behave in masculine ways, it doesn’t always mean butches want to be treated or seen as men. Yet, the media often presents masculine lesbians as predatory, hateful, and above all incredibly misogynistic. Obviously no one is excused from being misogynistic, but it’s important to note that masculinity, unrelated to men, is not its cause. Proximity to masculinity isn’t the same as proximity to maleness and the power that comes with that. Being butch, unless passing as a man, doesn’t grant you exemption from personally experiencing misogyny. Because of the negative connotations around butchness, the term has been disregarded, villainized, and completely whitewashed in modern media. TikTok specifically showcases this, with the constant mockery of masculine lesbians. It is usually those who would be seen as butch that ridicule the term, which just emphasises the shame it’s associated with.
Butch culture is on the rise, with a normalisation of masculine attire and far superior representation in media. Butch week put a spotlight on this particular identity, highlighting butch/trans literature (which there is a lot of) and promoting spaces that allow for these important discussions. But so much internal work needs to be done by the LGBTQ+ community to remove the contempt and discomfort surrounding the term. Butch isn’t a dirty word. The community has had so much importance in both the LGBTQ+ and feminist movements historically, so it shouldn’t be dismissed and replaced with substitutes simply to appease those with internalised lesbiphobia. For a sexuality that is so sexualised and controlled by society, it is crucial to challenge the white feminine ideals of lesbianism that have been idolised for decades.
WORDS: Bo Kilroy
