No One Lives Her Life
Lyn Davis
No one lives her life.
Disguised since childhood,
haphazardly assembled
from voices and fears and little pleasures,
we come of age as marks.
Our true face never speaks.
Somewhere there must be storehouses
where all these lives are laid away
like suits or armour or old carriages
or clothes hanging limply on the wall.
Maybe all paths lead there,
to the repository of unlived things.1
Lesbians – we all don disguises in our childhood. As our desires come into< focus, as our true selves come into our consciousness, we find resistance to who we are: in our dreams, in our language, in our appearance. We develop code to identify ourselves and one another: in our dreams, in our language, in our appearance.
I open my closet door and my ties, neatly hung on a shiny metal rack, flutter into my face. Until February 11, 2010, I'd never worn one of these ties to the university. Starched long-sleeved dress shirt, pleated freshly-ironed trousers, perfectly shined shoes – yes. But a tie, no.
By wearing this tie, in this university, on that bright and shiny day, my true face speaks: I am a lesbian. I am a butch. I have a BA, an MA, and a PhD. I use my brain, not my brawn, to make a living.
By wearing this tie, I declare myself publicly as marked. And these are the ways people may, intentionally or unintentionally, treat me as a mark:
You may do any, all, or none of these things. I will still be me. I will still be a lesbian, a butch.
But despite my bravery, my most fierce intentions, my truest face will speak most clearly in spaces that exclude non-lesbians, for these are most safe for me:
Here, I do not lay my life away; I live my life unedited. I tie my tie, metaphorically and physically, and the distance between this world and those other worlds no longer exists.
Maybe all paths lead there,
to the repository of unlived things.2
By wearing this tie, I publicly empty my repository of unlived things and vow to keep that repository empty as long as I am able.
1 Maria Ranier Rilke, Book of Hours, II, 11, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy.
2 Ibid.
Disguised since childhood,
haphazardly assembled
from voices and fears and little pleasures,
we come of age as marks.
Our true face never speaks.
Somewhere there must be storehouses
where all these lives are laid away
like suits or armour or old carriages
or clothes hanging limply on the wall.
Maybe all paths lead there,
to the repository of unlived things.1
Lesbians – we all don disguises in our childhood. As our desires come into< focus, as our true selves come into our consciousness, we find resistance to who we are: in our dreams, in our language, in our appearance. We develop code to identify ourselves and one another: in our dreams, in our language, in our appearance.
I open my closet door and my ties, neatly hung on a shiny metal rack, flutter into my face. Until February 11, 2010, I'd never worn one of these ties to the university. Starched long-sleeved dress shirt, pleated freshly-ironed trousers, perfectly shined shoes – yes. But a tie, no.
By wearing this tie, in this university, on that bright and shiny day, my true face speaks: I am a lesbian. I am a butch. I have a BA, an MA, and a PhD. I use my brain, not my brawn, to make a living.
By wearing this tie, I declare myself publicly as marked. And these are the ways people may, intentionally or unintentionally, treat me as a mark:
- you may assume that I speak for all lesbians.
- you may not listen to what I say in a town meeting until I tell you that I teach at the University of Victoria.
- you may be certain that I know Eleanor in New Brunswick because she's a lesbian, too.
- you may assume that all the women with whom I am standing, sitting, or talking are straight because they don't look like lesbians.
- you may gasp, put your hands protectively in front of your breasts, and tell me I'm in the wrong washroom.
- you may assume that my girlfriend does all the cooking and cleaning, and I do all the yard work and heavy lifting.
- you may say “sorry, sorry” and fall over yourself apologizing without having any idea that I may like being called both “sir” and “ma'am”.
- you may assume that my femme girlfriend is straight until she takes my arm.
- you may lift your eyebrows in surprise when I talk about my sons or my grandchildren.
- you also may hear me stumble as I explain that my sons are not biologically or legally mine but that they have been in my life since 1976, and for 15 years I raised them every bit as much as their mother and father did – and a whale of a lot more than their legal stepmother did.
- you may fiercely maintain your unwritten hiring quota: one dyke per organization. Oh, exceptions can be made, if the existing lesbian is entirely closeted, definitively androgynous, or femme with no visible tattoos or piercings.
- you may assume I'll be on the Equity Committee.
- you may refer to my dead lover as my “friend,” even though you have granted me the right to legally marry, and never, ever think of me as a widower.
- you may have allowed me to adopt children, and yet the children who are truly available to me are the ones who are the most damaged or who don't already fit in.
- you may read my wife's or girlfriend's application for landed immigrant status, but you'll take your sweet time processing the application if she's not white and/or she doesn't live in North America.
- you might realize that I won't visit your country if my choices are to walk in fear, dressing as I do, or to pass as a man.
- and, based on my own experience, you may: fire me, legally take my children from my custody, chase me in your car for one long hour after I leave the bar, continuously peep into my bedroom windows, break into my house and masturbate into my dresser drawer, nail my roommate's dead cat – dear goddess, I hope she was dead – to our front door.
You may do any, all, or none of these things. I will still be me. I will still be a lesbian, a butch.
But despite my bravery, my most fierce intentions, my truest face will speak most clearly in spaces that exclude non-lesbians, for these are most safe for me:
- with my dyke friends,
- with my lover,
- at the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival.
Here, I do not lay my life away; I live my life unedited. I tie my tie, metaphorically and physically, and the distance between this world and those other worlds no longer exists.
Maybe all paths lead there,
to the repository of unlived things.2
By wearing this tie, I publicly empty my repository of unlived things and vow to keep that repository empty as long as I am able.
1 Maria Ranier Rilke, Book of Hours, II, 11, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy.
2 Ibid.
Working notes
I was asked to speak for no more than seven minutes on lesbian presence within the heterosexual matrix, including herstorical, current, and future challenges. While pleased to be asked, and excited at the prospect of participating with six other non-heterosexual individuals, I was stumped. How to say what needed to be said, in such a short time frame? Then this Rilke poem came up in my stack of poem cards, and what I needed to say flowed out of me. And I'm pleased to report that my part in the panel was very well-received, indeed.
About the author
Lyn Davis spent the first 50 years of her life in the US, sitting behind someone else's desk by day and writing poetry and short fiction by night. Now a Canadian citizen, she's pleased to report that for the last 12 years, she's sat behind her own desk, wrote whatever and whenever she pleased, and teaches in the Faculty of Human and Social Development at the University of Victoria.
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.
