I wanted to immerse myself in lesbian culture, whatever that was. But outside the canon of L Word episodes I illegally downloaded, some coming out-themed novels borrowed from the library, and maybe a sitcom cameo by a stereotypical lesbian foil character, I had no idea what being a lesbian meant, culturally. In my seventeen years, I had yet to encounter a lesbian in real life (that I knew of). Instead, I ignorantly believed outdated tropes regarding women who liked women. I had no concept of femme-ness or butch-ness or queerness, or self-awareness, so I didn’t realize that I, who had always been a leader and fiercely independent, didn’t need to mimic—or, truthfully, mock—my concept of lesbian stereotypes to be a lesbian myself.
Queer, feminine women are better represented than ever before in the media. In shows like Younger, The Bold Type, and Vida, lesbian and bisexual characters dress like their straight counterparts, demonstrating to the masses that there’s no singular way to look like a lesbian. Still, the concept of femme invisibility—that feminine-presenting women are often perceived as straight because we don’t match the cultural schema of what a lesbian looks like—is very much prevalent. Even now, and especially a decade ago, recognizing queerness is impossible when we resort to cerain archetypes.
My summer of lesbian shorts was studded with polo shirts (sometimes, yes, multiple worn at the same time, layered in one outfit), weird hats, and rainbow-ish accouterments—any accessories I felt would communicate the identity I was too frightened to speak out loud. I would wear khakis with lacey tank tops, horrible cut-off yet somehow just-above-the-knee jean shorts (maybe they were capris?) with men’s undershirts. I was exploring a new part of the world as a new self—or the same self, but with a fresh exterior, open and hopeful for people to understand me.
The author, in her summer shorts, in 2008.
Courtesy of Melissa KravitzI felt good in my lesbian shorts. I was not yet an adult, and my abilities for self expression were limited to what I could a) buy in babysitting cash and b) not be completely obvious about. Cutting or dying my hair, getting piercings and tattoos, or wearing anything obviously gay (like a Pride T-shirt) were all strictly banned. Too creative, self-determined, and honestly desperate for some type of visibility or affirmation, my knee-grazing khaki shorts became the wardrobe item that, to me, said, “Hey world, I’m gay!,” without spelling it out across the butt of a pair of Soffe shorts. In reality, I was just an awkward, spoiled, poorly-dressed teenager sweating through a Jewish-themed tour of the Colosseum because I needed to wear those horrendous leg-tubes and look like a lesbian—something that, I knew, was fiercely forbidden.