I have to confess, I have this obsession with Dwight Yoakam’s wardrobe. I like fringe, and embroidered roses, and all things glitzy and western. Most days, you’d never guess this if you saw me. However, if I were ever to enter a drag king contest, it would be in full-on western wear and singing “I Like My Women A Little On The Trashy Side”. (You can hear it here if you need to. The name sort of says it all.)
As proof positive, at the end of this post, I’ll include a picture of me in the drag Halloween costume I wore to work this year. My co-workers called it my salute to “Broke Butch Mountain.
Anyway, many years ago, in a ritzy little wine country town, I stumbled across a going-out-of-business sale in a rock-star western wear shop . I actually tripped and hurt myself when I realized boots were included in the sale, marked down 75 percent, and some even more than that.
That’s how I became the proud owner of what I now call my “Obama Boots”.
You see, the problem was, I bought them just as Clinton was leaving office and George Dub was on his way in. That was about the time politics began to feel like a Dallas Cowboy’s game, and I didn’t want to look like one of the cheerleaders. So I shelved the boots. Every now and then I’d take them out, try them on and spin around in front of the mirror.
Keep in mind there’s very little Broke Butch in me. Despite my obsession with western wear, I’m a genuine toenail painting, perfume-spritzing, occasionally skirt-wearing girl. Or, as one of my ex-girlfriends would say. “She’s a complete femme, except when she’s not.” And she’d say it with a big ol’ wink.
But I promised myself I wouldn’t wear my flag-waving America boots until I thought we were really looking at a brighter future.
So I wore them to work today, with my pants tucked in, letting their colors fly in all their glory.
It’s so nice to feel hopeful again, but still…
Losing the fight to stop California’s bigoted Proposition 8 hurt like hell. A good sized group of my friends and co-workers are wondering if they’re still married, or what. There’s nothing like being slapped down and told to get to the back of the bus to take the joy out of an American milestone.
I started my day by writing this email to the governor:
I am disheartened that a largely church-driven and church-funded referendum may change the Constitution of the State of California. I am disheartened that not only will this impact the civil rights of a portion of the state’s residents, but that this should occur in any situation.
This is a blatant mixture of church and state, and I sincerely hope that the executive and judicial branches of the state’s government will act in recognition of this travesty.
Many of us woke up this morning to find out that our state now considers us to be second-class citizens, largely because the Mormon Church thinks it should be so.
Please address this publicly, and as soon as possible.
Of course, by the time I’d emailed this, lawsuits were being filed, and the pro-Prop. 8 folks were stamping their feet in righteous indignation, saying that legal protest was only further indication that we are trying to “force our gay lifestyle” on everyone.
(Listen, we can’t force you to be tolerant any more than we can teach you tight-assed types to dance well, but we can legally force you to respect our civil rights. It will happen.)
Someone tell me, just how did my beloved home state lose sight of the fact that civil rights exist to prevent the majority-of-the-moment from telling minority populations what they can and can’t do?
(And, finally, as promised:)