Kaelyn

I was a junior in college when we brought Leslie Feinberg to speak at our campus. A small group of student leaders from the Rainbow Alliance and Women’s Center, including my future partner, went out to dinner with Leslie before hir talk. We filled a small wood-paneled banquet room at Canale’s, one of the few semi-fancy restaurants in our small, working-class college town.

I honestly hadn’t read any of Feinberg’s books yet and I didn’t know much about hir. It was later, when ze spoke about hir intersectional theory of trans liberation, that I became a Feinberg convert. I doubt Leslie remembered any of this, but I remember so much about that night: the way ze spoke truth so effortlessly about the inherent connections between oppression, the need for theory to include the lived experiences of directly affected people, and about radicalizing our understanding of gender. I went on to read all of hir books and became a follower of hir activist work.

I remember so much about that night: the way ze spoke truth so effortlessly about the inherent connections between oppression, the need for theory to include the lived experiences of directly affected people, and about radicalizing our understanding of gender.

My partner, when we got together, brought his own copy of Stone Butch Blues to the relationship. When ze and Minnie (who is a badass in her own right) moved back upstate, I got updates on hir through my Syracuse, NY friends. As a writer, I am so grateful for the literary work Leslie has done, for the words ze leaves that are part of our collective queer and trans history. As an activist, I will strive to live into the values Leslie lived by, to fight for the rights of all, to be a true comrade to other communities, to forge new futures and connections. My heart goes out to Minnie and their chosen family. I hope Minnie knows and Leslie knew that hir legacy will live on in the hearts and minds and actions of the many who were inspired by hir. As ze once said, “Join us in the front ranks. We are marching toward liberation.”

Sinclair Sexsmith

For me, Leslie’s book Stone Butch Blues invented butch identity. If I had the word before the book, it was only as a slur, only as something nobody should want to be. If I had the word before Jess’s story and her tortured restraint of passionate love, it was only used to describe ugly women, unattractive and unwanted. It wasn’t until I read Stone Butch Blues that I realized it described me.

I could feel the power that came from being butch, the paradox of growing up a girl and then becoming the suited partner of a beautiful woman, the torture of being such a social outcast, and the deep craving hunger for being accepted.

I’m not sure I wanted it to, but I knew that it did. That book made me feel exposed, like someone had found me out. Vulnerable, like someone could come along and pluck my heart from my unguarded chest to do with as they pleased. But also, strangely, it made me feel powerful. I could feel the power that came from being butch, the paradox of growing up a girl and then becoming the suited partner of a beautiful woman, the torture of being such a social outcast, and the deep craving hunger for being accepted.

I have heard so many butches cite this book as their coming out root, as finally recognizing who they are by reading Jess’s story (Leslie’s story), and so many femmes cite this book as finally feeling like they could be queer and crave a masculine partner, or that it’s the “heartbreaking holy grail of butch perspective.” They have told me they see themselves in Theresa’s butch devotion. For so many of us, Feinberg’s book made our secret budding desires make sense.

Read more of Sinclair’s thoughts on Leslie Feinberg at Sugarbutch.net. 

Marni

Like a lot of people I’ve spoken to about the book over the years, Stone Butch Blues really did change my life when I read it. It’s not an exaggeration. It was around the time I started university, I was maybe 18 or 20, a baby butch, finding my feet in a new city and discovering my radical pinko commie leftist feminist politics for the first time. I had never read a book before that so profoundly resonated with me, never felt anything like what I felt reading Leslie’s story.

Before I read that book I thought I’d maybe known, but I just didn’t know. I didn’t know at all.

There were times when it felt like my heart was going to burst right out of my chest. “YES, THAT,” I’d think, heart pounding, practically unable to believe what I was reading. I would be sitting on the bus and start looking around me, suddenly feeling exposed, like everyone else could see inside my soul. Stone Butch Blues made me feel seen for the first time; it brought my own experiences with gender into focus for me and gave me a sense of belonging. And even more than that, it opened my eyes to the brutal struggles that our community faced in the generations before me, that some of us still face now. It filled me with rage and righteous anger and bewilderment and sadness. Before I read that book I thought I’d maybe known, but I just didn’t know. I didn’t know at all.