Tracing the Shifting Identity of Queer Femininity
Image Courtesy: Instagram
When did femme stop meaning fem? Or rather, when did femme become something separate, while fem faded back deep into the historical footnote? Today, femme is often used as an umbrella term for queer femininity, while fem, once intrinsically tied to butch, has largely disappeared from popular discourse.
From the 1930s to the 1950s, butch and fem were not just descriptors; they were integral to the fabric of working-class lesbian life, especially within bar culture (Kennedy and Davis, 1993). These roles were often an unspoken requirement, shaping not only personal relationships but also community belonging.
Historian Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy, in Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lebsian Community, documents how a fem’s queerness often remained invisible unless she was with her butch partner.
"Lesbians did not form simple oppositions to heterosexual women or men. They were shaped by the tensions and contradictions of gender and sexuality, by the dangers of the outside world and the strategies of survival that those dangers necessitated."
This afforded a certain kind of safety, but also underscored the vulnerability of being seen only in relation to someone else. Butches, often visibly queer, occupied the role of protectors—sometimes quite literally, as they shielded their partners from harassment and violence. The dynamic wasn’t just about attraction; it was about survival.
Sexual expectations were also embedded in these identities. In many cases, butches were expected to be dominant in the bedroom, while fems were assumed to be passive. These dynamics mirrored the rigid gender roles of the time, offering a kind of camouflage that made queer relationships more legible in a heteronormative world. But within the lesbian community, not everyone adhered strictly to these roles, and that’s where ki-ki lesbians came in.
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The term ki-ki described lesbians who didn’t adhere to strict butch-fem roles, engaging in relationships that blurred traditional distinctions (Kennedy and Davis, 1993). This concept was often met with skepticism from those who valued the binary, with some seeing ki-ki relationships as lacking depth. What’s striking about this is that it challenges not only the binary, but also the idea that identity must be relational. While butch and fem identities were interdependent, ki-ki lesbians were often self-contained, questioning the need for gender presentation to define relationship roles.
While today butch remains firmly tied to identity, masc has emerged as a looser, more aesthetic descriptor. Femme, however, exists in a gray area where it is still an identity, but one that has been appropriated beyond queer circles. It appears in femme fatale tropes, beauty brands, and mainstream media, often stripped of its historical weight. This broad application has led to a lack of clarity: is femme still a political identity, or has it become a mere aesthetic?
Another complication is that femme is often assumed to be the default for anyone who isn’t explicitly masc. This echoes the past in unsettling ways where once fem was defined only in relation to butch, now femme is sometimes seen as simply “not masc,” rather than an identity in its own right.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my own relationship with femme. I have always been drawn to softness, to delicacy, to a certain intentional femininity even if I don’t know exactly where I stand on the spectrum. Yet, the more I learn about butch-fem history, the more I wonder whether I am unconsciously reaching for a structure that no longer applies.
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For years, I dated men, performing a version of myself that felt half-real. It was easy, even expected. But, it was also hollow. Now, as I navigate queerness with more intention, I see how much of my identity has been shaped by external forces rather than internal truths, how I ignored it for heteronormativity. I feel the weight of history providing me with a sense of connection, but also a limitation.
The butch-fem dynamic was about survival. It was about making queerness legible in a time when invisibility was the safest option. Today, we are no longer confined to those roles, but we still seek out labels, still try to map ourselves onto past frameworks even as our realities have shifted.
So where does that leave us? Maybe it’s not about finding new terms to replace old ones. Maybe it’s about recognizing that identities evolve, and that it’s okay for a term like femme to carry multiple meanings. We can honor its history without forcing every lesbian into a fixed category.
Femme meant something specific in the past, and it means something broader now. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe the goal isn’t to redefine femme, but to allow it to breathe—to let people claim it, shape it, and live it in ways that make sense to them.
The past shapes us, but it doesn’t have to confine us. We exist in relation to history, but we are not bound by it.
Strike Out,
Jessica Giraldo
Saint Augustine
Editor: Maya Kayyal
College senior Jessica Giraldo is an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Digital Media Production and Journalism. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Strike Magazine STA and a member of Sigma Tau Delta, the national English Honor Society. She hopes to become a columnist or professor, using her experience in publishing and media to guide future writers and publications.
