On Being Butch

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I used to think that I wasn’t pretty.
I felt that my hair was just too short, my nails jagged
in urgent need of a manicure, and my lips
and cheeks were not the right hue. 

But this was before I understood and accepted
what it means for me to be butch.
Let me tell you. This butch is a chillona Y QUE!
who often wipes away tears
on the very same sleeve on which she’s pinned her heart.

Being butch means that I’ll always get, “Excuse me, this is the ladies room,”
when my bladder and temper are about to burst.
It means slipping into a fresh pair of boxer briefs-
the kind that hug my butt giving it the roundness of a small mango. 
Or into a pair of chones- not the sexy lacy kind
but the cottony, sensible ones. 
And other times I don’t wear any underwear at all.
My lips rub against the seat of my jeans
and I feel the doughy softness of my inner thighs with every step I take. 

It means “give me a 3 on the sides, longer on top,
square the back and please, oh please…
don’t fuck up my sideburns.”
It’s been years since I’ve worn a dress
but my mom still wishes for the day when she’ll get to see me in one…
and I wish that one day she’ll start seeing me.

I’m the kind of butch that says to all you butchas out there-
the ones who give me and other butches 
the “bitch, what-you-looking-at- I’ll-drop-your- ass-in-a-minute” snarl-
please, lower your chin and relax your shoulders.
I ain’t sizing you up.  I’m checking you out.

Being butch means that I am definitely masculine
not to be confused with misogynist.  I’m not a man
nor do I need to be to be masculine. 
Women are never bitches and hoes.
Women are my hermanas, mis amores.
Women are another chamber
en mi corazón. 

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