I was on the Security Crew at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival in ’98 and ‘99. My second year there coincided with Son of Camp Trans, the second generation of a protest camp across from the front gates of the festival, taking issue with the “women-born-women-who-have-lived-their-whole-lives-as-women-ONLY” policy.

I was pretty rattled that year, partially by the bitterness of the conflict, but more so by the realisation that I just didn’t know enough to have an informed opinion. I resolved to learn more about trans issues, very soon. Figured I’d read some Leslie Feinberg. HAH! Prime example of the need to watch what you ask for…

I never went back to Michigyn, but I won’t forget the profound impression that gathering made on my 19 and 20 year old self. Today I was remembering the women on the LACE Crew. I think that LACE stood for Lots of Amazons Carrying Everything. They were one of the crews setting up and taking down a small village every summer. Vividly I recall shirtless and glistening women wielding mighty sledge hammers to pound thick stakes into the earth. The easy swing of their arms, the sureness of their aim, the weight of their tools.

Of course it was hot, but I still don’t know what I wanted more – to fuck them, or to be them.

Last week the PB and I split and stacked a cord of wood, out on the front stoop in the sun. I discovered a coupla things:

1) Splitting wood is a lot more satisfying with a properly heavy and sharp wood splitter than with the dull and flimsy kindling axes I have tried to use before at my firetower.

2) I am not bad at splitting wood. I could swing a sledge hammer. I could be a kick ass member of the LACE Crew. If I wanted to be.