Butch Beach

I never feel more butch than when I’m on the shores of Lake Michigan. And, at the same time, when I’m there my body loses its context, my culture dissolves, language evaporates. I am my truest form at the lake, and that is cottonwood, is hagstone, is tuft of cloud, is icy water. No gender, no self. Just sky and canvas and wool.

I love how winter affords us the possibility of existing in spaces we otherwise cannot occupy. On our most recent visit I took a little rest on the ice ten feet above the spot where I love to nap in the summer. I laid out a few feet into the river, usually too swampy for any kind of approach. I sat, dry and thrilled, under huge frozen chunks of our beloved lake.

This isn’t really about what I wore, but let me tell you about my exoskeleton:

• Vintage insulated union suit acquired in trade, mended and altered by me last winter.

• Several years old carhartt, re-lined with wool and printed with an acorn so our dear friend Matt can always visit the woods with us in memory.

• Woolens, handed down and hand knit.

• Boots and mittens, both leather, both thrifted.

• Inside: all wool, then all cotton.

All photos of me by Tavi, all photos of ice by me :)