Out in the Mountains

    

by Christine Burton

I am woman. Well, I used to be
woman. Before thatl was girl. And before
that . . . ? I’ll explain.

At three, wanting to get on with my
life, I insisted on learning to read and write.
My mother bought books with sugar bowl
money. In school, the principal didn’tknow
where to put me -- ready for the fifth grade
but too small to fit fifth-grade desks. They
put me in third grade.

Poor Miss Elkins. I spelled girl: g-i-r-
r-r—r-r-r-r—r—r-1. “You’re so bright; why
can’t you learn to spell it correctly?”

After three sons, my mother wanted a
daughter. On that August morning in 1905,
they must have been quicker than usual to
peek between the legs of the emerging
infant. When told he had a sister, I’m sure
my twelve-year-old brother shouted with
real male disgust, “It’s only a girrrrrrnrl!”
From the age of eighteen months (my ear-
liest memory), that’s what I remember
hearing.

It didn’t take much longer for me to
realize that my world agreed with him. He
was never corrected or punished. A male
child verbalizin g the assessment of society,
who could blame him?

Because girls were expected to be
quiet and meek, my parents and teachers
never guessed I was growing up with a
severe case of low self-esteem, that was to
last for sixty—six years. When the pubescent
bumps on my chest grew larger than boys’

chest bumps, in secret I bound them pain-
fully for many months with white strips of
clean cloth from the household rag bag.

At seventeen: “Mom, why am I called
a woman?” “Because Bible says woman
came from man. You’re made like a man
except you have a womb. You are a womb-
man but they leave out the “b.”

“Why am I called female?” The _n_1fle
part of the word is plain. The _f_e comes from
fggund. Means you have the babies.”

Babies? I wanted the respect given my
brothers. “You’ve always been a bit of a
problem,” she’d say. “You’re not ladylike.
Keep your knees together.”

How could I ever become an astrono-
mer? Unheard of for women in 1922.
Surely my mother understood my pain. At
the age of 21 , she had pled with her mother
to let her go to business school. Unheard of
in 1891. “What can I do?” I asked her.

“You’ll have to pull yourself up by
your bootstraps.” I knew that meantl was in
an impossible situation.

Many, many years later I realized I was
a human reject because I had no penis. A
non-penis person was valued only to the
extent that a male took her into his house-
hold and his life to serve him. In history and
anthropology, I was lost in l\_/lag. In Sci-
ence, I was lost in Heme sapiens; (eapime
has got to be a misnomer). In The Well ef
Lgneliness, I was “God’s mistake,” or “an
invert.” There I glimpsed an identity, but
still no name that fit me. When first I

 

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10

learned I was Lesbian, joy was born. That
was in the days of butch QI_{femme. I chose
butch, naturally. Wasn’t anything female
inferior?

All through the years, in business, in
mainstream social situations and activities,
I was still only a woman, excluded from the
profession I had come to want more than
any other: symphony conductor. I became
a drudge.

I observed that my brothers, bathed in
clean clothes, were acceptable. But my lips
and cheeks were not red enough. My eye-
lids weren’t blue, my eyebrows had the
wrong shape and should be darker. My
fingernails should be very long. If I’d wear
high heels my hips would wiggle interest-
ingly when I walked. My large breasts
weren’t the right shape, a bra would lift
them higher towards my neck. Even the
clean smell of me should be sprayed over
with a manufactured liquid, said to entice
men. And my body was all wrong, too
many curves.

Until the twenties, women had no ‘
boots. 'I‘hen women won the vote. By the
sixties they were edging the lid off the
pressure cooker and women began to find
their bootstraps. So that was why I was
hearing “enly 3” less, and “weman” more.

In stores, slacks hung between the
skirts; I stopped trying to keep my knees
together. I threw away my dresses and bra. I
cleaned the colored chemicals off my face,
cut my fingernails and at age sixty-sixl i
bought a rundown business. In ten yearsl
increased it by 700%.

Now I am womyn, no longer a crutch
to the life of another human my destinyto {
make him feel big and important. That ,
anachronistic cultural ideal is passe. We j
wimmin are alive.

Look Ma, I don’t need boots. lam
womyn giving birth to myself.

 

Copyright 1989 by Christine Burton I

I

New York Times from page9
behind the scenes. Writers should praise
the Times for its retraction, but insist thai ¥
more stories be written about the gal and
lesbian community. Write: Max Frflnkeh '
NYT, 229 w. 43rd St., New York, NY
10036.