By Sasha Lamprea
Sometimes I stare at my wife’s hands and am overcome with appreciation. My wife’s hands are usually dry and smell of cigarettes and whatever she last ate—take that as you will. Her hands are strong and remind me of safety and security. When we first started dating, I used to watch her hands on the steering wheel. I would stare, mesmerized, at the hands that were quite literally holding my life and driving me forward; gently and carefully at times, fast and dangerously at others. I would stare at those hands and think of them gripping more than just a steering wheel. I would envision them gripping a hammer, a lawnmower, my thigh. But I would also think of them tenderly holding the cup of coffee she’d bring me in the morning, despite not drinking coffee herself; the flowers she’d carefully picked for me on her walk to the apartment; the small of my back. Butch girl, you are such a gift.
This is a love letter to my wife’s hands.
Sometimes I stare at my wife’s clothes and am overcome with appreciation. I stare at her soft T-shirts and imagine sleeping in them later, her crisp button ups with the buttons barely containing her chest because they are not made to hold breasts. I stare at her jeans, the way they sag ever so slightly then restrain her legs all the way down, ending at her sneakers or, if I’m lucky, a nice pair of boots. I look at her outfit, which came from the so-called “men’s department,” and I wonder who in their right mind thought these clothes were intended for a man, when they are so clearly made for a butch woman? I think of myself washing these clothes, drying these clothes, making sure what she wants to wear is clean, folded, and ready for her. Butch girl, you deserve the world. Let me give it to you.
This is a love letter to my wife’s clothes.
Sometimes I stare at my wife’s hair and am overcome with appreciation. How can you be so vain and keep your hair so beautifully cut, shaved, and styled all the time, when the world has such negative preconceived notions of you? I watch you do it in the mornings sometimes. I watch you rub your hands together with water and pomade and work to get your hair just right. Your hair, your clothes, your armor to go out and face a world that does not think you should look the way you do. Watching you and the dedication and effort you put into your hair is like watching art be created. Butch girl, you are a work of art.
This is a love letter to my butch wife and her masculine duality.
This is a love letter to butch women everywhere who hold the world in their rough hands, with a strong grip that is somehow both firm and delicate at the same time. This is a love letter to butch women who stand proudly in their masculinity, welcoming it without embracing its toxicity. This is a love letter to butch women who show me, and others like me who love them, that their hardness and roughness is in itself soft and beautiful.
Butch girl, I see the way this world looks at you. I see the bravery it takes for you to be your unapologetic self every single day and to not conform to their silly ideas of gender norms and expressions. I see how you don’t see it as bravery, you just see it as being yourself. Each day you set out to be comfortable in your skin and, in doing so, you inspire me to also be a stronger, yet more tender version of me. I see how hard you work to spoil the precious femme princesses in your life. I see the way, together, we queer gender and relationships and love just by coexisting. I see the way you love. I see how fierce you are. I see how thoughtful you are. I am usually in control; but with you, I don’t want to be. Butch girl, let me let you disarm me.
This is a love letter to butch women who walk into a room and command everyone’s attention, while simultaneously providing a sense of stability. This is a love letter to butch women who are always doing too much, feeling too much, being too much; but doing it all just right. Butch women, this one is for you. I see you. I appreciate you. I love you. Butch women, thank you for being you.
