Butches and the Peter Pan Projection
“I see women who own their own companies with astounding work ethic be treated in a way I could never quite put my finger on, a subtle kind of diminishing, a wisp of casual, almost undetectable belittling. And as a working-class lesbian myself whose highest level of education was a high school degree, I could feel but not explain the way in which others treated me like a little tike, a tramp in the Charlie Chaplin sense of the word, in spite of the pride, responsibility, and extreme work ethic I applied to my work. The simple act of being or existing as a butch woman will come with an inherent infantilization.”
Long ago, in a heated break up via text message with an ex-girlfriend of mine, blows were thrown. Shots were fired below the belt, weaknesses and self-doubts that had only been shared in moments of past vulnerability and mutual trust were aimed carefully with sharp tongues, poised to be flung with precision toward their intended targets, like a break-up slingshot aimed for right between the eyes. The angry suspense of the dotdotdots that are there to let you know that she is fuming, calculating and intending to take you out at the knees, her words cutting but haphazardly chosen, informing you that she’s kept your own fears about yourself within reach in the cabinet at the back of her mind, ready to use against you at any moment— or rather, this particular one.
“I should have seen this miles away, butches who refuse to grow up. I always fall for the Peter Pans.” It should be noted that the breakup in question had nothing to do with my “refusing to grow up.” Not at all. In fact, I was 26— young, surviving impressively, figuring out my mid-twenties like everyone else. I had managed to leave my small hometown at 21 and survive on my own in San Francisco, the most expensive city in the country, on barely more than minimum wage. I couldn’t think of anything that felt more grown-up than that. I really don’t remember what the breakup was about at this point; it doesn’t matter. What matters was the trope I had just been introduced to, that the simple act of being or existing as a butch woman will come with an inherent infantilization.
I’ve thought about this ever since, and I’ve seen this projection/ stereotype/ trope, whatever you want to call it, be used against every butch I know. It’s always different but always the same. Even when we’re grown up, responsible, business owners, CEOs, professionals, independent, self-sufficient, educated, reliable— we’re really just women refusing to grow up, cosplaying as teenage boys, tomboys who are still playing capture the flag.
I have mostly dated other butch women, and belonged to a large queer community in San Francisco for over a decade and had a large and diverse friend group of femmes and butches alike from different classes, educational backgrounds, vocations and with a sweeping and vast variety of skill sets. Having dated butches, mostly of whom were older than I was, I saw the way the outside world saw them and how it contrasted with reality. In professional contexts, it was blatantly obvious; she could have an under graduate degree from an Ivy League school and an MBA, all the experience in the world, be initially coveted as a diversity hire or the cool employee because she rode her Harley to work or had tattoos or skateboarded. She’d initially be shown off and triumphed, an opportunity for the higher ups to brag about their seemingly inclusionary company. But in spite of her hard work, time and time again, the things she was once valued for would be used against her; her clothing would never be professional enough, in spite of her wearing the exact same work attire as her male coworkers. Her attitude was wrong, the way she carried herself was wrong, she just wasn’t professional enough, somehow.
I saw women who owned their own companies with astounding work ethic be treated in a way I could never quite put my finger on, a subtle kind of diminishing, a wisp of casual, almost undetectable belittling. And as a working class lesbian myself whose highest level of education was a high school degree, I could feel but not explain the way in which others treated me like a little tike, a tramp in the Charlie Chaplin sense of the word, in spite of the pride, responsibility and extreme work ethic I applied to my work.
It seems that this Peter Pan Projection, whether interpersonally or professionally, is this leering smoke-like nefarious undertone, implying that we are stuck. We’re not quite complete, somehow. Because isn’t that the idea of Peter Pan; stuck in childhood, suspended in adolescence, an entire swath of people with countless differences in class, education levels, personalities, relationship styles, flaws, all just perpetually Toys’R’Us kids. It’s not to say that some of us, like every other “type” of person can’t be immature or flawed or naive, it’s the idea that no matter how successful or resilient, we’re all just suspended in the perpetuity of immaturity. I can’t say where this came from, why or how it seems to lurk in the darkest corners of the most seemingly progressive places and communities; but it might help to name it and to notice it.
Long ago, in a heated break up via text message with an ex-girlfriend of mine, blows were thrown. Shots were fired below the belt, weaknesses and self-doubts that had only been shared in moments of past vulnerability and mutual trust were aimed carefully with sharp tongues, poised to be flung with precision toward their intended targets, like a break-up slingshot aimed for right between the eyes. The angry suspense of the dotdotdots that are there to let you know that she is fuming, calculating and intending to take you out at the knees, her words cutting but haphazardly chosen, informing you that she’s kept your own fears about yourself within reach in the cabinet at the back of her mind, ready to use against you at any moment— or rather, this particular one.
“I should have seen this miles away, butches who refuse to grow up. I always fall for the Peter Pans.” It should be noted that the breakup in question had nothing to do with my “refusing to grow up.” Not at all. In fact, I was 26— young, surviving impressively, figuring out my mid-twenties like everyone else. I had managed to leave my small hometown at 21 and survive on my own in San Francisco, the most expensive city in the country, on barely more than minimum wage. I couldn’t think of anything that felt more grown-up than that. I really don’t remember what the breakup was about at this point; it doesn’t matter. What matters was the trope I had just been introduced to, that the simple act of being or existing as a butch woman will come with an inherent infantilization.
I’ve thought about this ever since, and I’ve seen this projection/ stereotype/ trope, whatever you want to call it, be used against every butch I know. It’s always different but always the same. Even when we’re grown up, responsible, business owners, CEOs, professionals, independent, self-sufficient, educated, reliable— we’re really just women refusing to grow up, cosplaying as teenage boys, tomboys who are still playing capture the flag.
I have mostly dated other butch women, and belonged to a large queer community in San Francisco for over a decade and had a large and diverse friend group of femmes and butches alike from different classes, educational backgrounds, vocations and with a sweeping and vast variety of skill sets. Having dated butches, mostly of whom were older than I was, I saw the way the outside world saw them and how it contrasted with reality. In professional contexts, it was blatantly obvious; she could have an under graduate degree from an Ivy League school and an MBA, all the experience in the world, be initially coveted as a diversity hire or the cool employee because she rode her Harley to work or had tattoos or skateboarded. She’d initially be shown off and triumphed, an opportunity for the higher ups to brag about their seemingly inclusionary company. But in spite of her hard work, time and time again, the things she was once valued for would be used against her; her clothing would never be professional enough, in spite of her wearing the exact same work attire as her male coworkers. Her attitude was wrong, the way she carried herself was wrong, she just wasn’t professional enough, somehow.
I saw women who owned their own companies with astounding work ethic be treated in a way I could never quite put my finger on, a subtle kind of diminishing, a wisp of casual, almost undetectable belittling. And as a working class lesbian myself whose highest level of education was a high school degree, I could feel but not explain the way in which others treated me like a little tike, a tramp in the Charlie Chaplin sense of the word, in spite of the pride, responsibility and extreme work ethic I applied to my work.
It seems that this Peter Pan Projection, whether interpersonally or professionally, is this leering smoke-like nefarious undertone, implying that we are stuck. We’re not quite complete, somehow. Because isn’t that the idea of Peter Pan; stuck in childhood, suspended in adolescence, an entire swath of people with countless differences in class, education levels, personalities, relationship styles, flaws, all just perpetually Toys’R’Us kids. It’s not to say that some of us, like every other “type” of person can’t be immature or flawed or naive, it’s the idea that no matter how successful or resilient, we’re all just suspended in the perpetuity of immaturity. I can’t say where this came from, why or how it seems to lurk in the darkest corners of the most seemingly progressive places and communities; but it might help to name it and to notice it.
