Somehow, I
came to think of
myself as physically
tougher than my parents, that
is, better able to take care of
myself on the street. I think what
happened is that in coming out as a
lesbian, I became persona non grata in
our comparatively privileged and sheltered
world: thus I felt I had moved down the
class ladder closer to the stereotype of
working class people as more physical and
tough. Also, living in New York taught me
street smarts like Don't look at people and
Walk with confidence and Wear a mean look on
your face. That was compounded by living in
the East Village, which prides itself to a
degree on its skeevy, scruffy toughness
and lack of money compared to the West
Village. And then of course there
was the whole butch bulldyke
stereotype. (I'm not really
that butch, but I like to
think I am.)
          
Last summer
six of us were
standing outside a club
after seeing the Maul Girls,
and this homeless guy came up to
ask for some change. My girlfriend
was a sweet Southern girl, and she
smiled her smile at him when he thanked
her, so he got this idea to start
flirting with her, saying things like
"You're real pretty, you know that? Aww,
look at that smile," while he looked her up
and down, checking her out. I wasn't real
happy with that, so I slid on in between
them, put an index finger on each of his
shoulders and pushed lightly, saying,
"She's mine." My friends all laughed
and after a split second, the guy
laughed too and tried to get in 
on the joke, saying, "Oh, I 
get it. 'She's mine.'
Awright, awright."
Then he walked 
away.