Chapter Text
Fareeha is a confident person, always sure of herself. She knows exactly who she is, and in what she believes, and is not afraid to stand up for herself or others when she needs to. For some people, she knows, that sort of assertiveness is off-putting, particularly coming from a woman who looks like herself. Women like her are not supposed to be open about their desires, are not supposed to love themselves, and certainly are not supposed to say that they think they are better off, are happier, for living their lives the way that they do. Others are surprised, to hear she never hated herself, never doubted, that her identity has brought her only joy; she wishes it were the same for everyone else, believes it should be, in a better world.
So Fareeha, rather keenly aware that her family name shields her from a good deal of what other women go through, does her best to be open for all of them—even when it upsets people, particularly then. Although she knows she will not solve the problem, he can at least make it a little easier for those who follow her, can challenge assumptions and offer, too, a look at what life could be. As best she can, she ensures that everyone knows just how happy she is to be herself.
Sometimes, this means correcting people. Most of the time, she is gentle, but when the situation calls for it, she is not afraid to be more firm either. She is proud of who she is, and that means acknowledging, too, who she is not.
That can rub people the wrong way, that correction. When Fareeha says, No, I’m a lesbian, she does not mean that she thinks other identities are lesser, but she is bothered if she says that she is a lesbian, and someone calls her something else. Specificity matters a good deal, to her; she has chosen to label herself as she has for a reason, after all. Another woman may handwave her identity as attracted to women, and find meaning in that, but forFareeha it matters a good deal that she is a lesbian, that it be known that her experiences are centered around women, and attraction to them.
Some people do not understand that, think she is splitting hairs, or refusing to be in community with other people, and it can cause trouble, sometimes, because she refuses to back down from that. Fortunately, Angela, despite not labeling her own sexuality, can understand that, appreciates that sort of specificity—she is similar in almost every other avenue of her life, can be confident and outspoken to the point of occasional abrasiveness. If Fareeha is honest with herself, it is one of the things she finds most attractive about her wife, that passion, that certainty. There will never be any question as to whether or not Angela agrees with her about anything, and that exacting nature is, to Fareeha, just evidence that she is passionate, that she cares. She wants things just so because they should be. That her tone is sometimes harsher than she intends is something Fareeha can forgive.
Most of the time.
It becomes a problem when Fareeha returns from the washroom to hear Angela rather forcefully correcting their server that “She is right there. Ask her,” emphasis very strongly placed on the pronouns in that sentence, her displeasure with whatever was said previously very apparent.
Rather awkwardly, Fareeha sits back at the table and confirms that yes, she is done and that her plate can be taken away. Then, as soon as their server is out of earshot, asks Angela, “Why did you say that?”
Angela looks as confused as Fareeha feels. “You don’t like it when people assume you’re not a woman.”
Well, that is true, she does not, but, “I don’t think that’s what was happening, Angela…”
Angela leans back in her seat, defensive, “I said my wife would be right back, and the answer was ‘We can wait for them.’ It sounds like an assumption to me.”
That Angela in particular might be sensitive to that sort of presupposition is not lost on Fareeha. Nonetheless, she disagrees. “Maybe it was,” Fareeha did not hear, after all, the inciting comment, “But I think they probably default to they for most people.”
“You’re being charitable.”
“You’re being uncharitable,” and uncharacteristically so. As ready as Angela is to defend her views, she rarely assumes the worst of others.
“I’m not trying to be.” Still, she softens a little. “I just don’t like it when—I know it makes you uncomfortable. How could I not say something?”
As a gesture, Fareeha can appreciate it; Angela wants to protect her, both on the field and off. But in this circumstance?
“It’s fine if they’re just trying to be inclusive.” Most of the time, anyway. “Especially if they’re also gay.”
“We don’t know that.”
“The flag pin?” It is, Fareeha supposes, remotely possible that the purple white and green mean something else, but very unlikely.
A frown, from Angela, “Is that what it was?”
“You couldn’t—right.” Fareeha does not forget her wife is colorblind, exactly, but she does not always have the best grasp on the ways in which that could lead to misunderstandings.
Angela is quieter, now, “I should apologize,” says she.
“It may be for the best,” Fareeha agrees.
One slightly uncomfortable apology and the bill later, they make their way to the car. Fareeha thinks the matter resolved, but then Angela, rather than starting the vehicle once inside, turns to her and asks, “Why is it different?”
“What?”
“People assuming you aren’t cis,” Angela says. “Other people.”
“They meant well,” Fareeha says.
“Most do.” That is true. And still, it has upset Fareeha at times.
“It isn’t easy to…” What specifically makes her uncomfortable, she does not always know. There is just something about certain conversations that rubs her the wrong way.
Angela waits for her to continue, but does not prod. If she asked to drop this, her wife would likely accept it—at least for now.
“A lot of butch people are nonbinary,” Fareeha says. Not a majority, sure, but enough people that as an assumption, it is not unreasonable, particularly when she also knows cis butch women who use they/them. “So if people assume that because they’re acknowledging that I’m butch—that’s okay.” They are, at least, somewhat right about her, and her relationship to womanhood is not so simple, anyway.
“But they didn’t know that.”
“You said I was your wife,” Fareeha points out. It is hardly a difficult leap to make, what with the way she looks.
A hum, from Angela. Acknowledgment, if not agreement.
“You still have a question.” Or several, knowing Angela.
“Ah, I’m not certain how to…” Angela taps her fingers on the clutch. “It bothered you when the person at Vin’s thought you were a trans woman.”
It is not an accusation, quite.
“It’s different when it’s about my body,” and it was, that time. At least, that seemed to be the case, from the way their eyes had lingered just a little too long on her face without ever quite meeting her gaze—so she said something, corrected them, and not kindly.
After all, it does not matter how nice and inclusive a person intends to be, when what they are saying is that a woman who looks like Fareeha could not possibly be cis, that cis womanhood is something that does not look like her. If they assumed for any other reason, she would not mind, truly, but if it is because of her height? Her strength? Worse, her face? What does it mean if a person thinks that the features that she has always thought are so beautiful on her own mother, her grandmother, her aunts and her cousins do not belong on a woman’s face—at least, not a cis one’s? Why does the person assuming think that they do not look like cis women ought to?
(And, worse, the ones who are not so accepting, the ones who think she does not look like a real woman, to use their terms. What does their assumption mean? What, besides the threat of violence?)
“I understand,” Angela tells her, reaches a hand out to hold her own.
Were she anyone else, Fareeha might ask Do you? But Angela does. She does not know it, perhaps, in the same way Fareeha has, does not feel it in her body, the tension when people say certain things, but she does not need to, to know what it is Fareeha means, has had experiences of her own that are, although not the same, close enough to empathize.
The world can be difficult, for a woman like her, can be hard and unwelcoming, but she has to love herself regardless, to take joy in what she can. Today, and always, she is grateful that she is a lesbian, that at least she has a love who understands.
And one day, things will be better. She will make sure of it.