The Dike I Wanted to Be

by Kathleen Hoy Foley

Image credit: Canva

A flabby eleven-year-old

what did I know about dykes?

But when I saw her,

I wanted to be whatever she was.

I did not own the word dyke

Or butch

Surely, not the word lesbian.

I had no word for that intoxicating vision

of cool and strength.

But I loved her…immediately.

Not kissy-face love

I loved her hair

slicked back

sculpted into a perfect ducktail.

Loved the pack of Camels rolled up

in the sleeve

of her white tee shirt.

And those dungarees

cuffed wide enough to conceal

a straight razor? A switchblade? Oh yeah…

James Dean with girl parts.

I wanted to be her.

I loved how she dangled a Camel—filterless, of course—

between her lips

Lit it with a flame big as my head

and pulled hard.

And after that smoke finished sashaying around her lungs,

she launched it

out of her mouth

attack-style.

An act of true defiance against

clean air

bright sunlight

well-manicured lawns.

And any man who should happen

to make the mistake

of getting in her way.

Tooling around Sunnybrae Village.

Site of white bread and station wagons

Home perms and crew cuts

In the backseat of her ’58 convertible—

all fins and chrome

Top down.

Her right arm draped over the steering wheel

The left, elbow-out catching rays.

Me, slouched directly behind her

Staring. Staring. Staring.

Staring at that slick ducktail

Trying to inhale her manpower

Her confidence

Her defiance

Her arrogance

Trying to rid my blood of deadweight shame

Of the crucifix stamped in red across my forehead

Trying to force her into my bones

She is who I longed to be.

I ached to be strong and tough.

Bold and fearless.

In my secret black-heart world

I nursed fantasies

of cigarettes and switchblades

motorcycle jackets and brass knuckles.

I imagined knocking my father’s block off.

Calling him a pathetic,

miserable excuse for a human being.

Making him the worm

trapped under my dirty shoe.

I bet The Dyke would’ve actually done it…

pulled out her switchblade

stood nose-to-nose

daring him:

You touch me one more time

and you’ll be wearing those eyeballs of yours

on a chain around your neck.

Oh yeah…

Turns out

I never did become the dyke of my dreams.

Though one time in my twenties

I did dangle a butt from the corner of my mouth

True…it wasn’t a Camel

And it had a filter and lots of menthol

to mask the nasty tobacco.

But there it was…

after all those years

an ancient awakening

of primal strength

surging once again

via a Salem cigarette

perched dyke-style—

Confident. Defiant.—

on my lips.

Eleven-year-olds have no power.

And are easily crushed

beneath The Cross

and the weight of men’s hands.

No, I never became the dyke I wanted to be.

I became a woman in hiding

programmed for good.

Had I possessed the balls

I would’ve ditched the halo

and chosen bad.

***

Kathleen Hoy Foley

Through my writings, I bear witness to the unallowed truths of abuse trauma – my own and others. Exposing the invisible, elemental secrets of trauma allows for the possibility of seeing and understanding for both individuals and our culture.