Strutting into the archives

Objects can clutter the psyche, but they can also be portals to lost parts of ourselves.

When I first returned to Melbourne a few years ago, I started visiting the Australian Queer Archives (AQUA) to explore the Wicked Women collection, curious about the idealism and conviction I carried as a young dyke.

I went prepared to remember it all: the good, the bad, and the messy. But what struck me most was the sheer pulse of it all. A melting pot of hotness, hope, and reckless abandon radiates from the pages of the magazine.

One weeknight, I arrived with a box full of photos to add to the collection. A couple of volunteers were already at work. One was cataloguing a box of protest buttons. The other was there to see me.

That’s how I met Gabrielle, a young queer person completing a postgraduate degree in gender studies. Meticulous, analytical, and curious. Their questions were respectful, almost reverent.

Gabrielle’s generation faces its own challenges, no doubt, but their delight in queerness feels refreshing. Luxurious, even. My generation fought so hard that even our joy was resistance. I still trip over my own internalised homophobia, half-expecting rejection even from within the community.

Gabrielle’s attention felt like balm on old wounds.

They steered clear of the predictable, invasive questions journalists used to ask in the ’90s, the ones drawn to the titillation of drugs, sex, open relationships, or the details of Jasper’s transition. Instead, Gabrielle asked,
“Tell me about your home. Where did you and Jasper meet? Was it love at first sight?”

It felt like we had all the time in the world. I settled into this unexpected role of queer elder, surprised by how natural it felt. Shuffling through a box of prints, I began to tell them about life as a dyke back then.

A photo jumped out at me, taken by William Yang at a party and exhibition Fiona, Cairo, S’Ra, and I held in Sydney in 1993 called Strut Your Smut.

Jos beams me a smile that could light up Manhattan, as I lean in to shave her pubes. We both have shaved heads - a dyke rite of passage. Jos is butt naked except for a leather armband. The photo crops out her feet, but I’d bet good coin she’s wearing black leather boots.

We always kept our boots on.

Tiger & Jos photographed by William Yang at Strut Your Smut, 1993

I blushed. Was I really that raunchy?

You bet I was. Brazen, unfiltered, strutting through life like the stage was mine. Leather, lipstick, and a lust for life that didn’t know when to quit.

The photos reveal a life that looks like so much fun, and it was, but I was also kind of untouchable. Cool in that deliberate way, like I could take or leave anyone. And mostly, I did.

Midlife crises get bad press. But this transitional time offers a rare chance to reconnect with our younger selves.

These days, I play it safe. Taboos don’t tempt me like they used to. Maybe it’s no longer necessary to challenge the status quo, or perhaps I’ve just grown weary.

What happened to those youthful ideals? I’m still a card-carrying feminist. But somewhere along the way, I misplaced my sass.

I’m still sex-positive; that hasn’t changed. I still wear my Ms Wicked sash with pride. But now? Compliments catch me off guard. Desire makes me stammer.

I look back at that strutting version of myself and wonder: Where did she go?

I suppose I have more to lose now — a stable career, hard-won patience, repaired relationships with family, emotional boundaries, and a deeper sense of self-worth. I treasure my privacy. Even the mortgage I once dreaded gives me security as I head into my senior years.

But maybe I’ve been too hasty in tidying up my life.

Objects can clutter the psyche, but they can also be portals to lost parts of ourselves.

In my thirties, I invested in a decade of weekly therapy. Slow, steady work that gave me the tools to tend to my mental and emotional health. One of the most powerful things I learned was how to reparent the parts of myself that are in deficit.

Seeing images of my younger self gives me the chance to reframe my story. I began tending to my twenty-year-old self the way a good father might - with curiosity, compassion, and a steady hand.

Before long, a loving connection bloomed.

In other words, I became my own Daddy.

And with that, a new clarity emerged. I realised I want to live more fully. More deeply. To let things get messy. To invite a little chaos.

To dive back into the thick of it.

The objects were calling me.

And this time, I had the tools to listen.

The community of loving folx at AQUA, the curious Gen Z students like Gabrielle, nods of appreciation from the OG wicked crowd, and a well-earned kitbag of therapeutic skills have given me license to tell my story on my own terms, in my own language.

Where did that cool young dyke go?

Maybe she didn’t go anywhere. Perhaps I have laid down the armour. The cool demeanour, the cynical comebacks, and the illusion of control that shielded me.

Now I find myself craving softness.

Still wicked, just less need to prove it. Still wild, but more interested in connection.

I haven’t lost anything. I’ve just grown into someone who can hold raunch and tenderness in the same breath.

Someone who can still catch your gaze, and then look away, blushing.