Among lesbians, butches are men and femmes women. But at the center of the butch, too, is the uterus—the 자궁(子宮), that is, a “palace for the son.”
It’s a disconcerting absurdity that makes me cringe before I’ve even reached the end of this sentence, but one that I felt the need to shape into text before it was too late. The world outdoors was undoubtedly blossoming into spring, but the wombs of my butch peers were falling to the wayside like autumn foliage. I certainly couldn’t bring up the topic when we were 23 or 25, when these dykes walked with puffed chests and stiff shoulders. The wrong joke could get you bopped over the head back then. But now that they were ripening into middle age, there was a chance we might be able to have an honest discussion. If a petal was fated to fall, then perhaps we could speak of it as if it had never been a petal from the start. We could speak as though we had been ready to surrender at any point, as if we were speaking of someone else.
One by one, I began to call to mind the faces of butch dykes around me, picking out the ones daring and spirited enough to pass off objectification and invasion of privacy as art. Dykes who’d be willing interlocutors because they’d come to accept the misalignment of mind and body. Exactly two individuals fit both criteria. The urge to gab vulgarities over a few midday pints nearly overtook me, but I reminded myself of my mission. I was in search of minority group pathos. I wanted to capture the raw scent of humanity. The topic at hand being what it was, I decided to send my interview request along with a sample essay, sprinkled with some human rights discourse and the spirit of earnest inquiry. I promptly received replies from my two candidates. Rate of success? 100%.
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A winter day when the cold was at its worst, I stood at a bustling street corner in Seoul. The air felt icy enough to freeze my eyeballs. Wrapping my coat tighter around me over the layers I’d piled on, I observed through narrowed eyes a big, puffy white blob that entered my line of sight. Growing in size, the white lump gradually gained definition, turning into two arms stuck to a human torso. A white down jacket that ended abruptly at the figure’s hips flapped violently in the wind, as if attempting to be free from the body it barely shrouded. But the season-appropriate ensemble that should have continued where the jacket left off was nowhere to be found—the hem of the white jacket grazed a pair of cotton shorts. Below that, two bulky, bare shins dragged grubby-looking sandals resembling battleships seasoned from years of combat. The feeble cotton shorts and the jacket, which remained open to the gusts of wind, thrashed incessantly around their owner’s body. Thus, it was only natural that the following question occured to me.
Is this fucker insane?
No, this was simply a butch dyke radiating body heat—let me call them Gender Fever. Amongst all the passersby shivering in sub-zero weather, wrapped tight in clothes that promised to break wind and retain heat, Fever stood out as the manliest of them all. They were the one and only person in this freezing cold who’d take off their jacket for a “woman” in a heartbeat; that is, the one who’d turn anyone huddling beneath their parka into a “girl.” I marveled at the unfettered masculinity that emanated from them amidst the hubbub of hetero society. This was a ferocious manhood that could not be tucked away. Very few, if any, of these passersby would even suspect that Fever had a uterus. I broke into a smug grin, as if I’d snuck a look at a classified document. After exchanging hearty greetings for the first time in a while, I thanked Fever once again for agreeing to the interview.
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If “manliness” or “masculinity” as such exists in this world, Fever was hewn from its fabric. In relation to Fever, who has consistently performed the male role for four decades and a half, one becomes a woman regardless of one’s (il)legal sex. Perhaps this was why the Creator did not insist on forming a manhood at their center. But the question remained as to why God had not left that space empty, either. Perhaps the Creator placed a son-seat within Fever as a cruelly sage decision anticipating our species’ extinction.
Thus born a womb-bearer, Fever went on to be knighted as “butch” in the lesbian scene.
—I started hanging out with lesbians, and before I knew it, I was “butch.” Everyone called me that before I’d even said anything.
That would have been the case.
—No one asked me, “Are you butch or femme?” Not even, “Are you an all-rounder?”
Despite being perceived as unquestionably butch, Fever voiced their refusal to be categorized as such. As tired as they were of documents enforcing a choice between man and woman, attempts to flatten their life through the “butch” label irked them. Quite the politically savvy narrative, I thought to myself. Somebody’s taken Gender and Sexuality 101. But I was still a bit baffled.
—You did agree to this interview though, when I told you from the start that I’d be writing a piece about butch dykes’ wombs.
Fever let out a carefree laugh akin to that of a patriarch’s second son.
—Well, ‘cause it’s funny.
I first met Fever in my early 20s, when the lessons of feminism had begun to ripen within me. The moment I walked over to the corner of the pub where they were drinking, the musk of a firm male presence, albeit castrated, overwhelmed the vicinity. As I watched them down pint after pint between deep pulls off their cigarette, I could tell that they were the real deal. In contrast to most butch lesbians who hung around feminist circles and acted like a man to the extent that they wouldn’t be scorned, Fever exuded a masculinity that not even their legal gender assignment could suppress. And their comportment was natural beyond description. It became them.
They had a lot going for them as a butch lesbian, to say the least. They had a hulking frame the average dick-sized Korean wouldn’t dare shoulder-bump in public, not to mention the manpower to match. Their voice, too, was flawlessly husky, which made me think of them whenver I needed a man to speak up for me. So how had Fever come to accept their “palace for the son”? I couldn’t quite believe it existed, either, though it wasn’t like I could ask them to pull it out for show and tell.
Back in elementary school, when Fever was a budding gentleman who protected young ladies from scoundrels but stood by the principle of “Never throw the first punch,” Fever first learned of the existence of the uterus during a sex ed class. From then on, the organ was equated to the cause of monthly bleeding. During their time attending an all-girls’ middle school, Fever hated that they got their period quite late, in their graduating year, because they grew up hearing that “a girl is not an adult until she begins menstruation.” This meant they felt “underdeveloped” in comparison to their peers. But with the grown-up’s period came brutally painful, consistent cramps. Too many pants were ruined; too many unexpected leaks awkwardly plugged. In the lesbian heyday of their twenties, Fever loathed how the period interfered with their sex life and smattered blood over their pride.
—I mean, you can’t ask the femme on a first date with you if they have an extra pad! Ahahaha!
I laughed along.
By the time Fever was in their late 20s, they’d begun talking to their butch friends about wanting to get rid of their uterus. “What’s the use?” they’d say. Some considered jabbing an IUD up their arm for the sole purpose of stopping their periods.
—The biggest motivator was the thought that I’d never have any use for it in my life.
Then came the fateful day in 2012, when Fever was nearing their mid-30s. March 14th, or “White Day” as it is called in Korea, on which couples exchange candy as gifts. Fever had returned home after getting rowdy in Gangnam with a couple of het girls, but they found it difficult to sleep because of a terrible stomachache. A sharp pain in the lower right side of their belly persisted through the night. They lay in bed the morning after calling in sick to their job, which was no easy feat as a new hire. It was only in the afternoon that they managed to crawl out of bed and head to the neighborhood clinic.
Fever sat in front of the doctor, hunched over in a baseball cap shading their pallid face. But understandably, and unfortunately, the doctor was more interested in Fever’s appearance than their internal afflictions.
—“Why are you dressed like a guy?” The doc asked me that three, four times.
For an ordinary physician, the intangible pain Fever was experiencing must have seemed negligible in comparison to the gender trouble in full display, which was in absolute discord with their documents. But since we were having this interview for a reason, I refrained from further comment.
Fever stifled their rage and focused on getting a physician’s note from this clinic. A wise decision for a new employee who had to shuttle between as many hospitals as they could on their rare day off.
—I went to the nearest university hospital after that. The doctor there said if the pain subsided overnight, it wasn’t my appendix. But they sent me straight to the gynecologist after my CT scan. I had a huge fibroid, they said. The pain was totally different from cramps. I had no idea you could hurt like that for gynecologist-related reasons.
Fever had gone through a few check-ups over the years through their job’s health insurance, so they weren’t particularly opposed to or unfamiliar with an OB/GYN visit. One of their mother’s friends had a daughter who had gone through surgery to remove both her ovaries, so they considered it common sense to get a regular check-up at the gynecologist’s.
—I’ve never missed any of my check-ups.
Fever stated with a crack of their neck and a squaring of their shoulders.
I was surprised by the fact that Fever had been visiting the OB/GYN all these years as a patient, rather than a guardian, despite their masculine appearance. I nearly patted them on the back. They deserved some kudos, after all, for sticking through this process even the average single-and-ready-to-mingle young ladies of Korea would balk at. They knew how to love their body, as the kids say these days.
I let my eyes grow big and showered them with all the bubbly femme adulations in my arsenal. Something in Fever’s face softened.
—Most butch dykes hate going to the gynocologist’s, y’know. A lot of them have never even stepped foot in there.
Fever was full-on bragging at this point.
—But I think that’s ridiculous.
I blinked slowly, and asked why they thought so with the most innocent look I could muster. With their thick, tan arms crossed over their barrel chest, Fever replied with a slight lift to their chin, as if to signal that they were only being matter of fact.
—Ignoring it won’t make it go away! Personally, I hate the thought of my uterus catching some disease and controlling my body.
Back when Fever visited the gynecologist for their fibroid, they also knew how to answer when the doctor asked if they were “sexually active.” All they needed was to say “yes”; there was no need to disclose their partner’s gender. They were fairly adept at these exchanges, considering that plenty of homosexuals tearfully come out at this step when no one’s asked them to.
Even so, the news that their ovary had a fibroid 12cm in diameter came as a shock. On my part, I was surprised Fever hadn’t known about a lump that big when they had been so diligent about getting check-ups.
—I did have a gap in between jobs when I didn’t see the doctor for a while. And like three, four years before I got that diagnosis, a doc mentioned seeing something on the ultrasound. They went, “Huh,” and kept muttering, “What is that? What could it be?” In the end, the doc concluded it was poop, though.
I pulled my eyebrows into a frown and drawled, “I see… Poop.”
—That might’ve been the fibroid.
Luckily, Fever was able to schedule a surgery for the following day. Though the operation aimed to remove the fibroid, the doctor said there was the risk that they would have to take out the entire ovary. As Fever was an “unmarried woman of childbearing age,” they needed to get the surgery signed off by a guardian who was a member of their family. Fever called a male sibling they’d maintained a decent relationship with.
—I went with my older brother. It wasn’t like there was a designated space for “the guardian’s signature” on the forms though. They just had him write his name and sign an empty spot. I’m not sure it was actually necessary.
After a successful operation, Fever was sent to stay in a two-person room after a brief period in the recovery area. They had to be moved from a mobile cot to the hospital bed, but the nurse in charge had a hard time lifting Fever, who didn’t have a partner or guardian with them. The nurse ended up putting the two beds side by side so that Fever could roll themselves over.
—That guy could barely lift my leg.
Fever’s lips twitched into a sneer.
After a night spent drifting in and out of sleep, Fever woke to three doctors making their morning rounds. Upon arriving at Fever’s bed, one of the doctors addressed them in a solemn tone.
—Unfortunately, we had to remove your right ovary.
Fever responded,
—‘Kay.
Fever was about to turn over and go back to sleep when they saw all three doctors go bug-eyed. After a brief pause, the doctor who’d spoken earlier looked into Fever’s face and carefully repeated in lengthier phrasing that the surgery had “removed an entire ovary” from Fever’s body.
—Ya, I got it.
Fever gave another curt response. They already knew that their remaining ovary would continue to produce hormones, meaning their day-to-day would essentially be unchanged. Fever just wanted to get back to sleep, so they were frustrated by these doctors lingering in their room. But the three physicians were baffled. Had this unmarried female patient of childbearing age truly understood the reality of her loss, the extraction of one of her precious ovaries? Perhaps she was in denial from shock? The doctors left the room after much hesitation.
I was curious whether Fever had ever thought of ejecting their entire uterus, since they’d suffered their fair share of cramps and didn’t think they would have any use for the organ.
—If you get rid of the uterus, y’know, you go weak in the belly. You need that power, so I haven’t thought of getting rid of the whole thing.
A prompt, definitive answer. I wrote the words “uterus” and “power” in my notebook, and drew two short vertical lines between them.
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—I can’t handle my drinks as well anymore. When I drink like I used to, I black out.
For Fever, perhaps, the ovary was like the song-pouch in the folktale about the old man who had a bulge in his neck that stored endless songs. Maybe it was like a bottomless gourd for alcohol, the loss of which meant they could no longer drink to their heart’s desire. Fever said they were also shocked to learn they had been oblivious to an organ becoming so diseased it had to be removed. Since the operation, Fever has become someone who goes straight to the clinic when they sense that something is off. Recently, they even paid for one of those energy replenishing medicinal potions from a Korean herb doctor. Fever waxed on and on about how they weren’t as strong and sturdy as they used to be.
—Then what about smoking?
—I got back to it as soon as I got home.
I felt the urge to share a few choice expletives, but focused my attention on the topic at hand.
—Then did your cramps get any better after the surgery?
—Those stopped as soon as I quit my job.
After their right ovary was removed in 2012, Fever received another emergency surgery for a uterine myoma and experienced an unexpected outpour of menstrual blood after their second round of the COVID-19 vaccine. At the time of the interview, they said they had a lot of erratic bleeding due to thickened uterine tissue, which meant more money spent on pads. They couldn’t wear white shorts anymore, they admitted. Gory updates these were, but Fever delivered them all with composure.
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Fever said they used love trying on their dad’s ties and loosening them with a one-handed tug when they were little. They liked to shave, but since they didn’t have enough facial hair, they’d taken to shaving their legs every once in a while. They said they weren’t sure if they wanted to become a “man” though. Ever since middle school, on days when they had to dress up, Fever would start by wrapping a bandage around their chest. All their life, the existence of their breasts has annoyed them far more than their uterus. But at this point, nearing their mid-40s with a crew of various gender-deviant friends, they have come to accept this part of themselves, too, as they said, “That’s just the way my body is.”
—I look like a muscular, upside-down triangle, plus I have a uterus and boobs… It’s not every day you get to see that.
True. A butch dyke with all the goods—that’s Gender Fever in a nutshell.
On my way home from interviewing Fever, I had the thought that they’d been manly even as they recounted their journey of uterine acceptance. The Fever I’d met today had mentally compartmentalized their uterus as simply one of many bodily organs. Getting their period was a miserable experience, and they couldn’t understand why they had a uterus, but since they’d been born with it, they’d accepted that they had to look after it and keep it in good health. This rationalizing, businesslike attitude struck me as an un-womanly approach.
The interview with Fever had gone smoothly from start to finish. To me, this was at once satisfying and disappointing. I’d expected more visceral antagonism between Fever and their uterus, so I felt the two had grown too cordial with each other. Considering it had been over 10 years since Fever properly confronted the uterus and got their ovary removed, it wasn’t surprising that all sorts of spiky emotions and tumultuous experiences had been digested to some degree. This coherently sutured narrative must have brought my interviewee considerable peace, but from my perspective as a writer, I was missing an element of raw perversion.
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—‘Ey, c’mon in.
A greeting with a Southern inflection welcomed me as soon as the door opened. A sunny energy I’d come to expect, a tad bouncy even, seemed to seep through the gap. Once I stepped into the apartment, I noticed the cat scratcher I’d gifted a few weeks ago standing tall in a corner of the living room. It looked beloved even from a glance, and I couldn’t help feeling a little proud of my shopping acumen. The pansexual, pan-species rule of thumb is to win points from the parent by treating their children well. Watching the recently-spayed kitten frolick about, I had the feeling that this parent-child duo must share a lot in common.
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The text arrived one day in June, 2021. We’d been close friends, but we weren’t the type to exchange warm and fuzzy daily updates, so texts from them usually meant more than a lighthearted check-in. It wasn’t that every text they sent was a weighty, smothering coming-out story, but chances were high that this wasn’t just some “whatcha up to?”
—You got any OB/GYN recs?
Mirroring the casual tone of the text, I replied with the name and address of a neighborhood clinic as though this was a typical question I might get from my butch friend. The wait time is hellish and the doctor seems like a kook so it’s not 10/10, I added. But there isn’t really an alternative so I keep going. I didn’t think my friend would willingly step foot into that clinic unless it was for some god-sent miracle, like pregnancy by strap. They’d spent the entirety of their life as a butch dyke in a 10-year relationship and had never seen a gynecologist, after all. But in times like these, my intuition told me, herding them to the clinic took priority over prying into why they needed to go.
—Are they gender affirming or whatever?
—I dunno about “affirming,” but you know how many lesbians are in this neighborhood. Just get your ass over there.
After a few back and forths of them grumbling that this was the last thing they wanted to do and me urging them to just get it the fuck over with, our conversation came to a halt.
At the time, I had no idea that this would be one of our last exchanges with my friend’s uterus still intact.
My friend had decided to go see a gynecologist for the first time because their period had not stopped for several months. But even on the day of their appointment, they dragged their feet, wiping down their bike again and again until their partner barked at them to go to the doctor.
Such were the dire circumstances under which my friend was forced to face their uterus. And upon biomedical inspection, the organ appeared determined to procreate—growing, that is, a protrusion of some kind at the center of my friend’s body. Fibroids, myomas, you name it—this bugger had it. After living in neglect for over 40 years, my friend’s uterus had attempted metamorphosis in a heroic effort to draw its host’s attention. But this attempt had sadly become the reason for its expulsion. Some wombs yearn all their lives for the moment to lock eyes with its host, but are fated to pass to the netherworld the moment its wish has been granted. If a womb was destined to deliver a message, it would be that of the humble myosotis flower—forget me not.
My friend and their uterus were immediately shuttled to the nearest university hospital. And right away, as if to take the bull (or heifer) by its horns, as if their entire life had led up to this day, my friend’s hysterectomy was scheduled at lightning speed. As they informed me of their operation date, my friend also reported seeing two other butch dykes in this hospital, expressing a queer thrill and growing faith in this medical institution of their choice. Anticipating their recovery period, I picked out a book online and scheduled its delivery so my friend would receive it when they returned home. To Apartment XX, XX Street, Seoul. Recipient: Gender Affirmation.
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Gender Affirmation is a longtime friend of mine who started out as a fan and gradually turned into a buddy. A tie that spans a decade, starting from a point in the past when the boundaries between friend, fan, and acquaintance were less clear in the queer community.
From the first time I met them, they looked the part of a “probably butch” lesbian. This is to say they didn’t have the brooding aura of a chainsmoker lurking in the back alley of a lesbian bar, or the air of teddy-bear coziness and resourceful benevolence that smacks of certain domestic dykes. They were naturally tan and muscular in the right places, sure, and they spoke with a mean, rapid-fire Southern accent, but Affirmation didn’t display a pinched, petty mindset shaped by decades of gender trouble. Affirmation was a dyke rarer than you’d think in this scene, the type that gives off the pheromones of a “real man” when they walk by.
The longer you dwell in this community, the better you come to understand its gender formations. Some announce their butchness with their entire being, like Gender Fever. Others bow into the role because they’re not sure what they are, but if pressed to answer, they’re “not exactly femme.”
In that binary, Affirmation fell into the latter. But I hadn’t seen them refuse the label of “butch” outright, or, on the other hand, brandish it as theirs. The more accurate description might be that they didn’t care too much and were willing to go with the flow. When I hung out with them, I’d often poke fun at their butchness or how they were “not woman enough” by joking that they were “getting in the way of girls’ talk.” But in these instances, too, they’d simply chuckle along. Who exactly was this person who neither refused this twisted mantle nor embraced it wholeheartedly?
With the opportunity given through this interview, I minced no words. I asked Affirmation straight away if they were butch.
—This might surprise ya, but I don’t like ‘em labels, butch or femme. I don’t go ‘round sayin’ “I’m butch!” I hate how people categorize ya into man or woman, so to do that maself with butch, femme—that’s the last thing I wanna do. That’s that binary thinkin’, ya know…
I let out a small yawn and asked again if they really, truly thought that way, even in their head.
—In ma head? I label people, yea…
The same question that had popped up during Fever’s interview came to mind.
—The title of this piece is “Butch Palace for the Son,” and you saw in my sample that I call you “butch.” Is that okay with you?
—Yep, that’s fine.
Affirmation didn’t call themselves “butch,” but didn’t seem to mind being considered one. They even admitted that they were pleased when femmes called them so—the reason being that they liked being reminded of their “androgyny” and their status as a “potential romantic partner” in the meat market. Being considered “butch,” depending on the context, could mean “attractive.” They added,
—If I go someplace, and I pass as a guy, then it irks me a li’l but I feel good about it, too. But if I pass as a woman, it’s like, yer not wrong, but I’m miffed.
Now that I thought of it, Gender Fever said that when little kids playing on the street called out to them with “Sir, could you pass us that ball?”, they’d nod and toss it their way, but when they were “Ma’am”’d for the same request, they found it annoying. Fever and Affirmation were both oddities, but I had the feeling I understood what they were saying. Even so, I thought that I shouldn’t let myself be so swayed by my interlocutors. I rested my gaze for a moment on the hetero couple on the muted living room TV, then calmly continued my line of inquiry.
—Aren’t you just trans, then?
—I ain’t gettin’ any surgeries!
For Affirmation, the desire for genital reconstruction seemed to be the threshold between whether you were a trans “man” or not. Affirmation didn’t like “men” to begin with, since they were a child; therefore, they said, they had no intention of becoming one. More than anything, they stated, “I don’t want ma center shaken up when I don’t even like ma chest jigglin’.” A brilliantly articulated sense of bodily groundedness. For this reason, Affirmation enjoyed wearing binders. When I asked them whether they wouldn’t like a pair of “compression underpants,” they did seem a bit shaken to the core.
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—It’s going to be difficult to keep your uterus. But you weren’t planning to get married anyway, right?
These were the first words from Affirmation’s university hospital gynecologist. Affirmation had been fidgeting about when to come out to the doctor, but the physician spoke as if she were already well aware of the situation.
—I betcha she’s seen dozens of dykes like me! She knows one when she sees one!
As time makes its mark on a body over the course of life, certain elements simply exist as they are, beyond the binary of expression or camouflage. With Affirmation, too, these elements were already discernible from their appearance, so that they did not need to voice who they were. Though Affirmation was told they’d have to return the following week for a blood test because they’d had a can of Let’s Be brand coffee in the morning, the doctor, equipped with an excellent radar, made them an offer they could not dismiss.
—Let’s get rid of it. I’ll make sure you won’t have to see a gynecologist ever again.
It was as if the doctor had peered into Affirmation’s entire life. A welcome proposal, as Affirmation didn’t have any attachment to their womb to begin with, these words from the doctor resonated as though someone had dislodged an age-old stone stuck inside them. She had put into words a desire that had never been articulated. The doctor sounded like a butch dyke’s butch dyke. Even for me, hearing this story secondhand, the doctor’s suggestion sounded like an irresistible offer for any womb-bearing person. At this point in Affirmation’s life, their ovary was functioning far below the standard for their age, so it was out of business “anyway.” The doctor said leaving the uterus intact would only lead to various illnesses, so a hysterectomy was the best way to proceed.
At age 43, though they’d never thought of the uterus as “theirs,” Affirmation began studying up on the organ for the first time. They were already leaning toward receiving a hysterectomy, but since it would be a big surgery requiring general anesthesia, they wanted to learn about what might happen after. They joined an online group for myoma patients and started gathering case studies and information. They called up friends who had similar experiences and asked for advice. One butch friend had received two gynecological operations in their late twenties. A strict Confucian, they tried to talk Affirmation out of the hysterectomy by telling them it could only be the last resort. “All wombs have a reason for being born into the world! Every part of our body is a gift from our parents!” A femme who had had over 30 myomas at one point said she’d wanted a hysterectomy from the start, but her doctor had refused to operate for “ethical reasons.” She was only able to receive the surgery after the myomas reappeared multiple times, and advised Affirmation to seize the opportunity. A gay physician who heard about Affirmation’s affliction suggested they consult with him further before rushing to a conclusion—he offered to assist Affirmation in their “transition.”
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—That’s what I thought. I’ve already booked a date for you.
When Affirmation revisited the university hospital to say they’d decided to receive the surgery, the doctor drily responded with the date of their robot-assisted operation. But what about rapid onset menopause? Affirmation asked. “You’ll just be going through it five years earlier than others.” Affirmation’s concern was met with instant relief, like a dab of Tiger Balm applied to a mosquito bite.
—That doc and I? We just got each other.
Affirmation lay on the surgery table, freed from their worries. At this point, they had no idea that the prep nurse would shave their hoo-ha nice and clean prior to the operation, but at least they went into the surgery room with a mind at peace. With their partner as designated guardian, they received a complete hysterectomy leaving only their left ovary intact.
—My ovaries don’t work anymore, so they could’ve done away with all of it. But the doc who did the surgery left one for hormones.
Affirmation began to list the various functions of the uterus and ovaries, as they had become Dr. Uterus over the course of this process. In summary, their uterus had to be removed due to several ailments, but one of their ovaries was kept despite negligible hormonal secretions to minimize the operation’s aftereffects.
—But that ovary can develop issues now, too. Fuckin’ hell. If the woman doc who did all my exams did the surgery, I betcha she’d have yanked it all in one go.
Affirmation sucked their teeth as though they were disappointed.
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—C’mere, take a look at this. It’s real gory, I’m tellin’ ya.
Affirmation scrolled through their phone’s photo album for a minute, then stretched their arm out as far as possible before turning the screen to me.
—Ain’t it funny lookin’? Looks just like cow intestines before ya grill ‘em.
—That’s your uterus? Isn’t that just… a demon??
In the photo was a dark red lump too vile-looking to describe its exact shape. If you molded some clay with “death” or “devil” as a theme, that’s what you’d get. If you grew an onion for 40 years and bullied it the entire time, that’s what it would turn into. I couldn’t believe that this evil incarnate was Affirmation’s uterus, nor the fact that a member of the human species who possessed a photo of it on their phone was sitting beside me. I was at a loss for words. According to Affirmation, the doctor came out with a zipped bag of the ejected organ mid-surgery and had Affirmation’s partner take a photo of it.
—Why in the world did your partner have to go through that?
—That’s what I said, buddy.
Affirmation chuckled sheepishly, and I felt my heart sink. Affirmation’s partner was someone’s beloved daughter, but her choice to date some pseudo-woman had led her to this terrible ordeal. Her original sin was simply that of being born a woman who fell in love with another woman, but she had to shoulder all sorts of gender trouble support, including bearing witness to and taking a photo of a raw uterus. When would the heavens have mercy on homosexuals? Or wait, could this love still be called a gay one?
—Then this li’l one got his surgery right after.
Affirmation picked up the kitten who’d been tearing at the scratcher next to us and gave this former son of theirs a head rub. “We’re the two neuters in this house,” they said, with a lighthearted chuckle. That was right. The majority of this household had been sexually neutered, and Affirmation’s partner, who was still at work, was the only one retaining the sex organs they’d been born with. She was the sole member of this household inhabiting a gender the world could identify.
After the operation, Affirmation had a hard time riding cars for a while. Each time the vehicle drove over a speed bump or shook due to uneven paving, the organs in their stomach would jostle out of place, causing agonizing pain. But three months out, they were able to carry on with life as usual. They only lost a lot of muscle, their hair got thinner, and in some way, their body seemed a bit out of it.
—I can’t tell if this is just me getting older, or the aftermath of the surgery.
I asked them if they recommended the hysterectomy, as an early adapter of the procedure.
—Yep, I say go for it, ab-so-lutely.
Affirmation raised their voice.
—If you a butch dyke, I’m tellin’ ya, this will change ya life. You get menopause after or whateva, but gettin’ it outta ya is what’s important.
When I asked why getting rid of it took such priority, Affirmation proclaimed,
—‘Cause I jus’ don’t want it! Ion’t need it, first of all, and who likes to bleed every month? We were born with sumthin’ we shouldn’t have been born wit’.
They managed to add an argument as well.
—If the hospital’s not comin’ up with sum “possibility of pregnancy” or “morally wrong” typa reasonin’ to talk you out of it, I recommend it all the way. What right do they have? It’s my goddamn bizniss.
At this point, I asked them this question one more time, in service of the wider public.
—Hey, are you sure you’re not trans?
—Shure, I am.
—You changed your mind.
—And what about it?
And so it was.
Reborn as a hysto-missionary, Affirmation even went on to sing praises for the operation to their mother. Yet not even six months since the surgery, they were diagnosed with endometriosis. How can one suffer from endometriosis when one no longer has a uterus? Many times over, Affirmation demanded an explanation from the doctor. But even the physician could not unravel the post-contextual illogic of Western medicine. Modern medicine had certainly removed Affirmation’s uterus from their body, but it seemed the uterus itself had not accepted its death. Instead, it chose to haunt its earthly host. Their uterus, in other words, had no desire to affirm Affirmation’s gender.
As I took in the impassioned retorts and cries of resentment toward their uterus-lost-at-sea, it occurred to me that Affirmation’s womb had a striking resemblance to women’s voices, which grow louder the more vehemently you deny their existence—to feminism, so to speak. Perhaps the life of Affirmation the butch dyke was devoted to “women” whether within or outside of themselves; they were forever yoked to the “male role.”
Ah, the tragic life of a true patriarch!
◆
After our interview, Affirmation asked whether I had any plans to interview other butch lesbians about their wombs. It seemed they were willing to introduce me to some potential interviewees. I took a moment to think, then got up from my seat, saying I was good for now. I added that I’d ask for help if I needed it, but I knew this was unlikely.
On my way home, a snort escaped from my nose as I recalled Affirmation’s offer. They seemed to think it took no trouble at all to mold the stories of people like them into language that the world would understand. Perhaps they imagined I’d squeal with gratitude and scrabble to transcribe every little anecdote if they got a group of butch wombs together. But that is the work of folks interested in statistics and integrated analysis, who would want to reach some widely applicable implications.
I needed to write up the stories of Gender Fever and Affirmation, and move on to easier topics. As I worked on my draft, the scenery quickly shifted toward summer, with cherry blossoms that had opened too early fluttering in the breeze. By the time I’d finished the piece, the early bloomers had lost all of their petals, which had become wads of gray rolling on the ground. But the leaves of the cherry tree were green as ever, as if the tree had never offered sanctuary to such things as flowers. The tree was as much a tree as it had always been. The trunk looked so dark when it had all those white blooms, I thought, but this is what it actually looks like. At the same time, a voice snarled in my head, Who gives a shit?
