I love reminding myself that I still know how to make a fire. Setting the logs
just right, starting the initial flame, and then tending it as it grows is such
a reassuring activity for me. In one sense, I get the same pleasure out of it as
from playing SimCity: watching a thing you set in motion take on a life of its
own. I'm warmed by the logs that were caught by the sticks that were caught by
the twigs which were caught by the wood shavings which I lit with my lighter
over an hour ago. All related, all building upon each other.
In another sense, it's a connection to a youth that feels separate from my
adulthood. I am a woman who had a boyhood, much to her own disappointment. That
boy's memories are my own memories, even when they feel alien and strange.
Making a fire, camping in the wilderness, all of these things help build bridges
to that kid inside of me, help him come out and meet me on my own terms, as a
fully grown woman, as a dyke.
My parents, and by that I mean, my father, made me participate in Boy Scouts as
a kid. Before I could quit the organization, which I desperately wanted to do,
I had to at least achieve the rank of Star Scout. This was set as the standard
because it would be as far or further than any man in my family had achieved,
surpassing both my dad and my uncle. Dutifully, I followed those orders, even
though I could count on one hand the number of kids I could stand in my troop.
Most of them were assholes in the way pubescent teenage boys were always
assholes: overly self assured, ready to police any perceived weakness, just
plain mean. But the way gender played out on campouts astounds me, as a woman of
boy experience. I remember one time, late at night, after everyone had gone to
sleep, seeing a tent lit up with silhouettes of another camper doing what looked
like summersaults? When I asked about it, I was told that the silhouette was a
kid who was fully nude, leaping around, trying to suck his own dick, while being
watched by several other campers. This kid would later call me a faggot for my
effiminacy. What else could I do besides shrug off the insults while
simultaneously questioning how, exactly, that particular bit of logic worked?
Now, as an adult, I have the opportunity to remake the outdoors on my own terms.
Instead of being surrounded by boys, I can make a fire for a lover, or sit in a
hot spring reading a book recommended by a girlfriend. Instead of having to
prove some tenuous idea of manliness I can do the opposite, reenforcing my
womanhood by connecting to the outdoors in the way I always wished I could back
then. A fire is self-sufficiency, it's agency, it's being on a campout on my own
terms.
It feels good to be out away from the city every once and a while. It means the
skills I developed when other people were forcing me to be a boy can be
repurposed to suit my own womanhood, the womanhood of a trans dyke who can build
a fire to keep herself warm.
