FRANCES DRABICK- WRITES IT

MIGRATING MATE (Published here 3.20.14, Edit)

1/11/2019

Migrating Mate

The quiet of the roost is suffused
In an anxiety of limbs, a tenor of flit
Movement - constant in and out a door
Up and down stairs to a bedroom devoid
Of left-brain order. A mass of loved junk

Beneath a bed of sleep - No air between floor
And springs - No Feng - No Shui as every alight
Scratches a shuffle-reshuffle of papers,
Takes of photos, tales of books still to read.

My skull swells in the swoop -
The crinkle, a tearing of paper,
Scotch tape zipped-ripped.
Nesting drawers open and close -
And I wonder about the final destination
Of what she worked so hard to gather.

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LET'S MAKE THIS Easy, MY NAME IS FRAN

12/1/2018

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First, some definitions that may help as you read my latest.

“Genderqueer, also known as non-binary, is a catch-all category for gender identities that are not exclusively masculine or feminine‍—‌identities which are outside the gender binary and cisnormativity. Genderqueer people may express a combination of masculinity and femininity, or neither, in their gender expression.” (Wikipedia)

Cisgender: “denotes or relates to a person whose sense of personal identity and gender corresponds with their birth sex.” This is also known as binary. (Google)

Genderqueer -National Center for Transgender Equality explains as a “term used by some individuals who identify as neither entirely male nor entirely female.

"If you’re not sure what pronouns someone uses, ask. Different non-binary people may use different pronouns. Many non-binary people use “they” while others use “he” or “she,” and still others use other pronouns. Asking whether someone should be referred to as “he,” “she,” “they,” or another pronoun may feel awkward at first, but is one of the simplest and most important ways to show respect for someone’s identity." (www.transequality.org)

Recently, I met a married, straight mother of an adult child. Her adult child is an out lesbian in her twenties. She has a partner and is employed.

Her child has always been identifiable to her in appearance as female since her birth. Or maybe I should say, easily defined in her eyes as her female daughter.

Her daughter now prefers more masculine clothing, and has shorn her hair. The mother barely recognized <whom she identifies> as her own daughter in a photograph she saw online. The daughter no longer identifies herself as a she. See that, I wrote herself, that is incorrect as the daughter is now they-self. Confusing? Yeah, a bit.

She/hers/her. He/him/his. They/them/theirs. These are a common form of pronoun language. But some pronouns are expanding like a dark hole depending on who one is speaking of or to: They, Them, Their, in particular.

For many years now there has been a movement toward ‘gender neutral’ pronouns when writing. That is a good thing, a non-sexist effort for inclusion. But now, gender neutral pronouns are woven in to the human matrix, and beyond words on paper. The word they no longer identifies as male or female, but as a new embraceable word of gender identity in a human that does not want to be known as he or she.

The mother's daughter, born female according to records, no longer wishes to identify as cisgender or binary. No longer a she, but a 'they.' A non-binary.

Her mother was a bit perplexed, as even I am at the new way we need to identify individuals without causing insult or disrespect. But the mother is intelligent, sensitive and is relearning the latest approach to how her daughter and her daughter's friends want to be identified. The mother, above all else, wants to respect her daughter's wishes on what she now defines as self. At the same time, the mother does not want to be walking on eggshells if she speaks the wrong pronoun.

I personally would be tearing my hair out. I would not have the patience to deal with all the he, she, they, them, except to ask what is a person's name, period. All the pronoun identities seem to be rather fluid and constantly changing as the person (we can still call them person, right?) matures and experiences life.

The mother sometimes unknowingly slips with the wrong gender-specific word when speaking to her daughter and discussing her daughter’s friends. She does not want to insult or disrespect anyone, and has even read up on this naming. But in all fairness, it can be complicated and almost an odd thing to have to ask: Are you a he, she, they, gender-queer, gay, and all the other possible ways one can define themselves. Should we have to? Has political correctness gone off the deep end?

Many non-binary people these days do not want to use the pronouns of he or she to define who they are in the public’s eye. They prefer ‘they.’ I know a young straight male who likes girls, was born with all the cisgender traits of a male, not gay, but does not want to be called he. Why? He cannot clearly and with certainty explain why, is it a fad as well for the young? He is fourteen. Is he hiding some other set of feelings he has yet to own? Is he gay, afterall, and too shy to say so? Time and experience will tell. How will he define 'they' self when he hits 20 or 30 years old?

I prefer: Hi, my name is Fran. If anyone spends some time with me in conversation they will learn and see and hopefully accept ‘Fran.’ It is that simple for me - And I have never felt quite her or him. If I had been born in the 90’s I think it would be more complicated to have to bare-bone define every aspect of my inner thoughts in pronouns, as I mature and change.

When I was born, my documents from the hospital stated simply: Female. I had all the right body parts – Female genitalia. I felt my fondness for females over males at an early age. By my teen years, when I had control over what type or style of clothes I wanted to wear, I wanted to dress more masculine. I despised skirts, frilly blouse, nylons, skimpy shoes, frilly bras and underwear, negligee type sleeping wear, dresses or hairstyles that needed rollers, and hairspray. I dressed more masculine and it felt more normal for myself. There was not a name given to it back then, except a negative use of the word queer. Today, that word is embraced. I still dislike it, but understand how it has evolved in some minds, not all. I see these present pronouns as fluid in use, as we age. I was gay, but not out as a teen. Experiences made me Fran - Not a gender label of he, she, or they - Just Fran. Today, if I had to label Fran, I guess I would be non-binary.

I see this present pronoun use as another fluid moment in language and moreso in personal growth within society. Language has taken on the deeper meaning of life in pronouns. I remember reading books in the 50's and 60's that always used 'he and him' in general essays. It was sexist. Rarely did I see 'her and she' in use in general essays. Gender-neutral ideas brought forth using 'he or she' in essays, and then eventually the use of 'they or their.' Gender-neutral has leaped off the printed page if that makes it easier to grasp. It has become a deep mind-set for some in the newer generations.

I do wish all well, no matter how you need to define self. We can all fit in to this sphere together. One's life is yours, however you want to define yourself. He, she, they, or any new future pronouns are for you alone to choose. Just be patient with the rest of society. Seek respect above all else. You alone, hold the key to your life. A pronoun on its own does not define who you are as a person or who you will eventually become. In the end, most people will not care about your chosen pronoun, but about your personality traits as a he, she or they.

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MEN ASKING OUT THE LESBIAN

11/3/2018

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Attraction to My Character (?) by Men

I have met many good men along the way. I will write about some who asked me out for a date in my thirties in Colorado. You see, I did not wear a label stating I was a lesbian, gay, or homosexual. I was simply me, Frances, Fran, or Franny.

I took any extra jobs I could get to have extra money. One was working from 11-7 am at a 7-11. I was watched very closely by the fantastic local police because a couple of murders actually took place in the town I worked in, and the next one over at 7-11’s. If they did not see me on the floor, I worked alone during those hours, they would come in and look for me. They served to protect and it gave me an immense sense of pride that these men watched over me.

While on this job I was asked out by men. One delivered the dairy products to the store. He also gave me all expired yogurts, and told me how I could freeze them by swirling the fruit first in the yogurt, recap and freeze. I lived on yogurts. One night he asked, “Would you like to go out on a date?” I lied and said, “I have a boyfriend.” I was single but a lesbian. I did not tell him that news. It didn’t feel safe to tell him. He smiled and that was it.

Another regular night-customer asked me out for a drink at a bar he worked at, and partially owned. I thought, why not. It was at the bar with others. We talked several times previously at the store after he closed up the bar. I told him how I loved the taste of Grand Marnier. He asked, “But have you had it the way it was meant to be served?”

He was a perfect gentleman at the bar. He poured the orange-flavored liqueur in to a very large snifter. He then took a small hand-held blow torch, tilted the glass and waved the blue flame on the glass beneath the Grand Marnier. Heated to drinking perfection, the perfumed drink went down my throat like the nectar of the Gods. He started to ask more personal questions, all appropriate, and then asked if one day we could go out for dinner.

I decided to tell him my truth, “Listen, I’m a lesbian. I would want you to know if I joined you...in friendship.” No sex. He gave me a crooked grin, shook his head and said, “Figures - Well, enjoy your drink.” I did, I thanked him, I wished him well, and I left.

While still in Colorado, working full time, I entered a community college program to earn my cap as an LPN. There were perhaps three men in the program of at least twenty women. A seemingly polite man named Carl, decided to ask me out. I was actually dating a woman at the time so I told him so. He seemed to take it as a personal rejection. In a few weeks of his ignoring me, he was dating another student nurse.

He asked if my girlfriend would join his for a dinner out. We did go. But he seemed to be putting on a show of possessiveness with his girlfriend. He hung his arm around her throughout the meal, and even ordered for her. I liked her. She was a bright student, and a divorcee with a child. I remember eye contact we had during the meal. She looked sad, and seemed to have shrunk in size under the weight of his arm on her shoulder. I thought, there sits the real man who asked me out. He was staking a claim on ‘his’ woman. He almost seemed to gloat.

When back in New York, I hung around a lot with a straight female co-worker. She was great fun. Beers and steaks were our best friends as we sat around a fire pit in the woods, where one day would stand her and her husband’s house. She was engaged. I was single.

A third co-worker, Mark, started to tag along with us. I thought he had a crush on my 'engaged' friend, until one day he asked to take me out for a row on a local lake. His name was Mark. He was a handsome blond, and the son of a minister. I don’t know why I miss signals but as we sat out on the middle of the lake he asked for me to be his girlfriend. I was in my thirties, dressed in flannel shirts and blue jeans near daily. I had a long braid, but I thought it was clear who and what I was, so I was shocked at his anger when I told him I was gay. “I thought you knew.”

He raised his voice. “Everyone’s gay! It’s sick. What’s wrong with everyone these days?!”

Yikes. I felt like I needed to be ready to dive in to the lake as he grabbed the oars, to thankfully, row us back full-speed to the shore. He never spoke to me again face to face, even if I said hello in passing at work.

My straight girlfriend knew I was gay, how did Mark miss it? However he viewed me, I certainly received his bigoted views and religious wrath. I thought, where had the mature men gone? And what in hell where they truly looking for in even a straight woman… fairy-tales and utter control? A faultless broad? Someone to mold in to the image of what they wanted a woman to be?

(Insert my laughter) I had a fatal flaw with these men, I was a lesbian. These were all mostly good men, fine people. I didn't reject any one of them in kinship. I could have been friends with all of them to one degree or another. But they could not do the same with me. Yes, they were attracted to my character, but clearly wanted a sexual connection to follow. Maybe the fact that they were attracted to a lesbian, freaked them out - Or was it merely the sting of rejection, afterall.

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INTERNAL LIBIDO DANCE - CAUGHT OFF GUARD - KNOCKED YOUR SOCKS OFF

11/1/2018

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If you never had one, then you will not relate to what I write. There have been a few times in my life that I have seen a woman that made my stomach literally feel the butterfly-feeling that some talk about having in their life. It can feel like a sudden but tender hug to the visceral part of your entire being.

One happened with a track coach/professor when I was in my early twenties. I had a crush on her as did every budding lesbian at the State University of Cortland. I was working part time at a grocers, and I turned down the aisle just as she did. I did not expect it, but my whole body shudder for a brief moment. I had no idea she was a lesbian, but there were rumors of her and her blond room-mate. Even if I had known, I was too shy to flirt. But it was just her mere presence that sent my mind in to an internal libido dance. That is what I choose to call that 'butterfly' sensation.

Another internal libido dance happened later in life, as I was standing and reading posted signs in the hallway of a high school. I decided I wanted to try my hand at a writing workshop. I was both physically and mentally exhausted. My parents had just died within five years of each other, and I had some unknown diagnosis that zapped my energy. I felt that my body could only handle the lifting of a pen in those years.

The writing workshop was going to be hosted by a woman, who was also a wife, a mother of several, and who had degrees in English. I had yet to meet her for the first time on that damp, cold, autumn night when the heavy exterior doors of the school crashed open. She zoomed in to the hallway looking left and right. Her arms were filled with folders, and a carry-all bag. Her pocketbook was hanging off a shoulder. Her dark coat hung below her knees, and flapped and billowed opened behind her body, like a breeze was created just for her entrance. She was not much taller than I was, but she seemed six feet tall, with her bronze-reddish, cropped hair. An assured, dominate energy preceded her as she seemed to soar down the hallway without touching the floor.

In an instance, her intense aura, her energy, suck the air right out of me. I was flummoxed. I had that kick in the gut feeling, and was sure my mouth was agape. I had to inhale quickly to catch my breath. I had no earthly reason why I felt what I did on this one precipice of a steep moment, with this complete stranger. I was stunned. And I doubt she even saw me standing there in the school's hall, as her energy sped by me and entered the room where my adult class would begin.

As I entered the classroom, I felt like a flower caught in a passing hurricane. She had the half-dozen or so adults sit down in a tight circle of desks, and she leaned forward toward us on the edge of her seat as if she had an urgent message to impart. She prompted us - And we wrote, and wrote and wrote.

I was left wondering what eternal or external energy placed me there on that day. But I can say, that after all was said and done, she did unleash the writer in me. She did knock my socks off, but I did put them back on, one at a time.

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CORNERED IN SHYNESS

10/2/2018

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Decades ago, she gave me a tour of the weather-beaten cottage. It would become a rental that she filled with her worn, and flea market furniture.

'This was my desk as a kid. It used to be in my bedroom.' It was now positioned in a corner of a very small room, that could barely hold a single bed. I ran my hands along the smooth wood, imagining her younger years as she sat there writing in long-hand of desires, loves, sadness, and hopes of a teen from some 30 years earlier. I wanted to connect with her like I was to her desk, as my hand suddenly warmed on the wood.

It felt like I was touching her bare skin. As the heat rose from my palm and up my arm, I turned to see her standing tightly in the corner behind me. She looked both shy, and a bit afraid as our eyes met. She was barely three feet away. I wish I could have read her mind in that moment or she would have spoken one word.

I wanted to lean in to her, and kiss her as she stood in that corner - But I didn't. I wanted to tell her how deeply attracted I was to her - But I didn't. I walked out of the room, and we sat outdoors on an opened deck. Our legs dangled off the edge as we carried on conversation. In so many words she asked, when will someone desire me, what's wrong with me? Nothing is wrong with you, I said. You're very desirable. Someone will find you that way, I said to her. I did not say, someone already does.

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MISSED SIGNALS

9/2/2018

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In Colorado,1980's something, there was a group of mostly lesbian women who went cross-country skiing. I was in my mid-thirties, and in fit form as I easily glided along mountain paths. Even though able-bodied, I did suffer a broken heart as my partner around that time decided to dump me. I was better off, as she did sleep with other women during our 'monogamous' 5-year relationship. Back then I was a woman who trusted nearly all, and took people at their word. I had this deep abiding thought that people, in general, had the same morals that I carried. Not so. But in the end it was okay - I needed that lesson that not all people are honest.

I was so ensconced, and rightly so, in my own emotional recovery that I missed signals coming from a straight female on several of our all-women outings. After the vigorous ski outing in the Colorado foothills we all went back to our hostess's house for bowls of hot stew. Her husband had divorced her a couple years earlier, and she worked full time supporting herself and her young daughter. I met her at my workplace.

Long before we met, she was the breadwinner as her husband went to college to become a dentist. He decided to take on another woman as a lover as he set up his business. She was not the first straight woman I had met in Colorado that fell in to that category of putting a husband through his career only to be dumped after he made it. Another watched her husband become a veterinarian and begin work at the Denver Zoo, only to dump her. She reminded me, in looks, of Mila Kunis who played Jackie on the 70's show.

On this bright winter's day the group enjoyed the crockpot of stew, crusty bread, and warm drinks. After the meal I stretched out my legs on an ottoman, feeling a wretched ache in both legs. It was the first time I had ever felt arthritis. I asked for aspirin which the woman brought to me, with a quilt to place over my legs. I fell to sleep.

When I woke, all the others were gone. I will call her Carol. We spoke of the outing and when we could all do it again. Compliments on her hospitality was forthcoming as I readied myself to leave. She asked me to sit again, as she wanted to tell me something. She said, without hesitation, that she had fallen for me. My quizzical look perturbed her - I was truly surprised. 'I had no idea you felt that way about me,' I said. I explained that I never picked up on any signals. I thought we were becoming friends. Instead of taking me at my word, that I never sensed her feelings towards me, Carol grew frustrated. I didn't mean to upset her as she forcefully said, 'Are you blind? I've had feelings for you for some time now.' I guess I was blind, to her feelings - But I was not a mind reader.

It was awkward, as I said I don't have romantic feelings for her - But I wanted our friendship to stay in place. It was not enough. Understandably, our friendship did not grow any further, and eventually I moved to New York.

Looking back, I admire her for being honest and direct with me about her feelings. Many people are not. She had positive aspects that would have made for a solid partner for someone, but I was never physically or romantically attracted to her. I wanted a friendship, not a lover. Kudos to her for being brave enough to even raise the sensitive and deeper feelings she had within her. No one should ever have to live out such longings and desires in their head, fearing any form of rejection - Thus, never being honest with themselves.

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Yeah, Okay, I MADE LOVE TO A NUN

8/16/2018

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I made love to a nun, along my life's way.

She was out of her convent for a brief period of time. I had to let go of my guilt for leading her down a road of pure sex, but many women know it's different with a woman. A tenderness invades a body as I led, and held her through the motions of love making. Her first with man or woman. I did brighten her life as she exited her darkest corridor. She fell for me, moreso than me for her. One can feel tenderness without falling in love. I felt like a party of mind and body was happening as her heart ran to deeper caverns than mine.

Smiles brightened her life. I felt merely like a light to her rescue during her darkest hours. She had endured years of a Catholic institutional approach of electric shock therapy to kill her love of women from her mind, and to cure her depression of living not a truth, but a lie, as she moved closely, lovingly and longingly around many women in dark robes, praying for the salvation for all souls.

I felt like Mercury delivering a truth she sought and needed - You are a lesbian, and that is okay. Time to light up your morning with your very own soul. It was all I could give in those moments. Not the deeper me. No future with me. Don't hang or cling to me. I stayed totally in the present, then I dissipated.

But before I completely evaporated like a ghost in the mist I drove her to her convent on a polluted Staten Island where my throat close up. It was for her to retrieve the every day items that meant something to her, and to her alone. I was kept in an outer hall, not allowed to help gather her few things. With her small bundle, I drove her and another nun to lunch.

I sat in silence like a cloistered nun, as she and the other sister politely argued about where her life was now headed. The nun wanted to save my friend from her choices, pull her back to a sad world of shock therapy and prayers. Dagger stares to me from the convent nun told me I was stealing the church's property. NO! I was not. I was merely an aide, not the woman's conscience. I did not direct her moral principals. She wanted to be free, all on her own.

At the end of the lunch the full-fledged nun had no issue with me paying the entire luncheon bill. Figured. She would return back to the fold where all she had to do was pray to get fed, clothed and directed in each choice of her daily prayers and deeds expected.

I showed my nun-friend an alternative path - The one she dreamed of when praying amongst so many black-garbed hidden creatures. Did I put me there in her life? I don't think so - Someone prayed me in to that space. I did what I did, I led her out of a fire she didn't deserve to burn in for her mortal life, and then I moved on.

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Breezy Lover

8/15/2018

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A mother, she was, to more than one
Her Irish energy darting about from
Stick-home to rocky shores and

Easy to imagine her line
Of cloth diapers, white cotton flapping
On the rope she wrangled to the height
Of her square shoulders
In search of the perfect spot
To catch the sea breeze
And southern bleach of sun

If your glimpse was timed
The winds peeled back
Her wraparound flowered skirt
To reveal lean legs, and a tanned hip
As smooth as a water-worn boulder on shore
A place of want to rest your head and lips.

Her fruit peeled by the whip of air
But she never reached to close her sarong
As she smiled with clothespins set
Between pearls of teeth,
Free with her lover, breeze.

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LOVE-MAKING ON PAPER

6/7/2018

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I remember listening to another writer's pen on paper as
She took listeners down the length of her body
As her husband made his familiar love to her.
She watched him kiss his way down
To her sacrifice for his future children.
It was easy to tongue and kiss and
Place lips across the summer scent of her neck,
To linger lightly and lick nipples
Into tight, near painful erection.
Moans on her belly skin were familiar
To my female ears, as I knew well
How to pleasure a woman - many past women
And as the rising came in her penultimate sentence
She ended her paragraph within the fire of my blush.

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PORTAL TO HER DREAMS

5/10/2018

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It's a sweet thing when someone truly knows your heart, recognizing it in a glance.

It is a rare occurrence for me, but it has happened a couple times in my life when I have hit it off almost automatically with a woman. I'm not talking about sex or love or longings. I'm talking about connecting quickly in wit, and depth. At some times along the way I wanted to connect more deeply, but didn't. I left it in my dreams. That inspired this poem.

I lost myself for awhile
High in the hills
Of your dreams -
It happened nightly

Wondered if you might find me there
And wake me up from your despair
Free me from wanting you beside me

I see you walking toward me
But then you turn away
Shaking your head forlornly

As your brow wakes to another day
Spreading out the sunrise
Beyond your dreamscape

I can only float in mind a few more times
As I watch you pull those lonely blinds
But I'll channel my way slowly toward you

And wait for just a little while, maybe
Get to see one slight smile
I think that might settle it for me
Create a distance
'Cause I also need to be free
From wanting you to be near me.

I lost myself for awhile
High in the hills
Of your dreams -
It happened nightly.

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When I write lesbian/gay themed stories, I write predominately for people who do not understand our lives. Yes, I am a lesbian. If you do have issues with that, go look in the mirror and point a finger at yourself, not at me. But do take the time to read my writings because I write for you, more than anyone else... to help you see we are more alike than different.

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