Dyke This

Where I grew up, in rural eastern Oregon, the only “dyke” I knew was the one that established the backside of our property line. Just wide enough for a passenger vehicle, its sole purpose, in my mind, was to allow me an efficient means of reaching Dorian Park. Once at my destination, I would leave the dusty tire tracks and carefully make my way down the hot rocks, watching for snakes and shattered glass, and plunge my well-worn Keds into the icy water of the Walla Walla River. My inner tube, an annual gift from the owner of our local Les Schwab Tire Center, and I would float, paddle, and raft all the way to the Fifteenth Street Bridge where, dripping wet, I would immerge victorious. I would throw my tube around my neck and carefully make my way back up the hot rocks, watching for snakes and shattered glass, and walk along the dusty tire tracks of the dike, ready to do it all over again.

For many years, “the dike” was my proper name for that dusty strip of land which kept the Walla Walla River from encroaching on my father’s vegetable garden. I think I was in high school before I learned that “dike” is a generic term for any sort of stone or earthen wall constructed as a defense or boundary. For me, the notion that there were dikes everywhere was a very disappointing realization. My dike was no longer unique. It simply became the dike with which I had the most familiarity.

Around that same time, I learned from my peers that “dyke” was also a term used to describe lesbians who looked and acted like men. However, this was a largely academic and abstract definition, since we didn’t know any lesbians at all, let alone any that were noticeably masculine. It became a word, like snatch and cunt, reserved for the highest echelons of the insult hierarchy: the triple-dog-dare of female relational aggression. In a note I recently unearthed from a box of teenage memorabilia, the author uses the word “dyke” to describe her class rival, another 14-year-old girl who maliciously stole the affections of Brian from her.

Today, when reading the word in print or hearing it in conversation, I appear to have a conditioned, negative reaction: it’s the “ick factor” embodied in a word. This automatic startle response, I think, is operant learning in its purest form. I have learned to associate the term “dyke” with something bad, a relationship that has been reinforced by my complete avoidance of the word under all possible circumstances.

So I ask myself, what is a “dyke”? The etymology of the word, its historical usage, and contemporary nuances of meaning have been widely explored by other, more qualified writers[1]. However, I am curious by the seemingly endless array of words, and qualifiers, used to describe the lesbian experience. You can be a “dyke,” a “baby dyke,” or a “diesel dyke.” You can be a “butch dyke,” a “bull dyke,” or a “femme dyke.” You can self-identify as a dyke solely as a political act, or embrace “dyke” as an identity. Others may consider you a “dyke,” even if you choose not to self-identify with that word. Further, the meaning of the word “dyke” seems to depend largely on who is using it, and in what context.

My own lesbian friends are somewhat possessive of the word. For them, it’s acceptable to use the word “dyke” to describe each other, but it’s not okay for heterosexuals (or most homosexual men) to use it to describe them. Further, depending on the circumstance, calling someone a “dyke” can be either a compliment or an insult. “I think it might be somewhat like the word ‘nigger,’” said my lesbian mom[2], Sally. For Sally, a “dyke” is an older lesbian, the one that would have recognized herself in the lyrics of Elton John’s classic “All the Girls Love Alice.” Perhaps precisely because of this lack of consensus, authors of sex theory and gender politics are forced to repetitiously define the terms they use. Some, like Gayle Rubin (1984) devote entire paragraphs to this endeavor.

At first glance, the amount of mental energy devoted to sorting out what a “dyke” is, and then categorically determining who is a dyke and who is not a dyke, might be better spent on planning the action necessary to advance civil rights for all homosexual individuals, dykes and non-dykes alike. As Phelan (2001) argues, “The demand for clear boundaries and borders hurts rather than strengthens” the queer community (131). Interestingly however, the efforts, on the part of many, to reclaim the word “dyke” and strip it of its negative connotation, are also part of a larger cultural dialogue of inclusion.

Since 1993, there have been Dyke Marches of pride and empowerment in every major United States metropolitan area, where marchers “join with other dykes of every stripe and flavor, of myriad nationalities, ethnicities, races and border-transgressions,” (http://www.dykemarch.org/statement.htm). Alison Bechdel’s comic strip, “Dykes to Watch Out For,” and Dyke TV are other contemporary examples of how the word “dyke” has been “uprooted…from its negative associations and planted in a new context where it has flourished as a signifier for lesbians who are confident and open about their identity,” (Bechdel, 2005). Most recently, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office agreed, after years of debate over the relative vulgarity of the name, to grant trademark status to “Dykes on Bikes,” recognizing “dyke” as a stand-alone part of an official trademark for the first time. In some circles, the fight to define the word “dyke” has become intertwined with the inalienable right to define oneself. With websites like DykeDiva.com, TechnoDyke.com, and DykeActionMachine.com, it’s clear that the reclamation of this particular word is thriving, and that community identity is flourishing.

For me, reading the personal declarations of Carolyn Dever, Judy Grahn, Arlene Stein[3], and others was like “dyke” exposure therapy: repetitious presentation of the conditioned stimulus without the conditioned response. In these accounts, the authors eloquently describe their individual and collective understanding of the term as one of inclusion, activism, empowerment, and gender equality for all lesbians. There is also a collective refusal by these women to be defined, and thereby limited, by other people’s terms. Redefining “dyke” is not just about changing the definitions of labels. It is the empirical semantics of personal agency.

This cognitive liberation, of sorts, is precisely what some social movement theorists argue is necessary for success. Indeed, protest movements succeed by disrupting social institutions enough to force leaders to take notice and react. Piven & Cloward (1977) suggest that “collective defiance” is the “key and distinguishing feature of a protest movement” (5). I would argue that the collective refusal of lesbians to allow non-lesbians to define them is a very collective defiance.

As a heterosexual woman, I don’t think I will ever feel comfortable using the word “dyke” in my everyday vernacular. However, I am pleased to say that my own understanding of this term has broadened as a consequence of challenging myself to explore my irrational association of “dyke” with negativity. The next time I make a trip along the dusty tire tracks toward Dorian Park, I’ll hear the roar of motorcycles in the distance.

[1] http://research.umbc.edu/~korenman/wmst/dyke.html
[2] I use qualifiers in my language too. Sally is like a mother to me, but not related biologically.
[3] These, and others, can be found at http://www.artemama.com/.