Author’s Note: ‘Dyke’ is a reclaimed pejorative term for lesbian women. Many have repurposed and embraced this term, but others have not. This is a term of endearment for the author and is meant with great love. Please use it mindfully and know that, in many spaces, it can still be offensive.
By Dr. Laura McGuire
Dear Baby Dyke,
Hey girl, I see you over there. I see you in the ways that others can’t—both the ways that render you invisible to the majority of society and the ways that make you stand out. You want to be yourself and yet, you want to disappear. That’s normal. Don’t concern yourself with what this all means right now. You are a chrysalis, a green slinking caterpillar of a queer kid, still needing the safety of your cocoon before you let your colors blossom and your wings expand so wide that you’ll lift off and fly. Eat your leaves, rest for hours in the summer sun—your moment will come, my precious baby dyke.
I saw you that day when I ordered shaved ice. Your cropped hair and shy side smile could have lit the world on fire. To everyone else in that line, you were just another teen girl taking orders—nothing to see, no story to be told. I turned my wrist up as I handed you the money, and you paused at the sight of the double Venus symbol tattoo on my wrist. I watched how—in a quarter of a second—your face transformed and your smile relaxed into a sense of safety, recognizing and feeling confirmed in our shared identity. You said, “Oh, I really like your tattoo.” All I said was “Thanks,” and then we talked for three short minutes about high school, how I was a teacher, and how your health was holding you back from graduating. In that brief moment, so quick that anyone else would have blinked and missed it, so many secret whispers were exchanged between our hearts. Our souls spoke to the power of visibility, of knowing that comrades in the battle for self actualization are hidden all around you. Of knowing that—if you spot one—there must be others.
My sweet baby dyke, I remember you in line at the DMV. You were there with your mom sporting your favorite Tegan and Sara shirt, your eyes bright and excited. You were there for your permit exam, freedom on the road and within your own being lay ahead of you—like that of the endless Texas sky. I talked to your mom about the long line, and I shared that I had moved to the state for work. You asked what I did, and when I told you I worked in sexual violence prevention at the University of Houston, I saw the spark of a dozen sunrises radiate in your warm, round face. A future you never imaged crashed over you in a wave of possibility. I hope you are still riding that wave, and I hope you remember that day the way I do.
I see you, little one. I see you out of the corner of my eye. Remember the National Day of Silence? How I helped those straight girls organize the event, and you were too uncomfortable to join them? Remember that boy sitting next to you in English? How he said he had never talked to a gay person in his life and I told him he was wrong, because he talked to me everyday? Wasn’t that hilarious? I know it appeared as if I was looking at him, but really, I was watching your reaction as you turned around at my comment and listened with an open mouth and wide eyes as I said, “Yes, I’m gay.” I’m sorry, too. Sorry that, when you asked if you could bring your gay guy friend from another school to meet me, I reacted in fear. I know now that my reply of “No,” and that, “It could look like you were bringing someone to see how weird your new teacher was,” stemmed solely from my own insecurities. I’m sorry, it came out wrong. The day after I left my teaching position, I saw that you liked my professional Facebook page. That touched my heart. I see you, whether it’s out of the corner of my eye, or as a fan online. I see you, baby dyke. I get it, and I appreciate you.
Dear baby dykes everywhere, I am so proud of you. I know that people think coming out in 2018 is oh so easy. It has gotten better, but I know the struggle is still all too real. I know that being 12, or 15, or 17 is already the definition of tumultuous—everything is uncertain and unclear. I know what it’s like to stare out the window every single day, trying so hard to get to that elusive finish line, to finally being able to define and understand yourself. That end never seems to be within sight—somehow always eluding you, just when you think you have finally gotten close. Being a dyke, baby or elder, is never easy. We are a small community. Sometimes, it feels like we’re an endangered species, only flourishing in coastal liberal cities. But that’s not true—you aren’t alone, baby dyke, not now, and not ever. I see you and you see me. And as long as baby dykes sit in quiet corners of southern schools, dorm rooms, and the LGBTQ section of bookstores hoping no one notices their reading choices, I will be here, trying to be the momma dyke you need.
