By Alex Greenspoon
Edited by Alloe Mak

Since discovering that I am a lesbian, I have determinedly searched for any ounce of representation. A slight mention of a lesbian would send me into a deep dive, analyzing a single sentence with the hope of deepening my understanding of what it means to be a lesbian. I’m from Toronto, a city filled with queer people—it was never shocking to see the flags covering storefront windows or that of people’s homes—but even then, I was one of the only lesbians I knew. Nearly all of my friends were bisexual or queer in some form, but rarely were they explicitly lesbians. I have spent my entire life yearning for proper and accurate representation of my identity. I have always been intrigued by my identity, yet in every book I’ve read, non-lesbian sex and life reign in importance and prominence. I have never read a book about feminism, sexual health, or any theme intertwining with those that is specifically aimed towards lesbians—I have never been the target audience. Perhaps I just didn’t read the right books or speak to the right people, and maybe I just didn’t know how to find them either. Nevertheless, I hoped that I would find community or understanding in the depths of these pages. Until this fall, I didn’t realize that the people I was so eager to find were not in print but were dispersed throughout the country, many of whom are residing at the University of Guelph. Since starting university, I have found a community of lesbians that is enriched by our conversations and connections provoked by our shared identity. What dominated much of our discussions when talking about lesbianism on campus was how everyone was interconnected. If you are a lesbian at the University of Guelph, there is a 98% chance that my friends and I have talked about you. During one of these many conversations, my best friend mentioned how interesting it would be if I wrote about this. Inspired, I grew curious about what lesbian culture in university towns is—and if there is more beneath the surface of ‘interconnected’. Therefore, I have spent the past month interviewing lesbians to answer the question, what is lesbian culture? My findings are as follows: from masterdocs listing lesbians to colourful hook-up maps, university town lesbians have repeated a historical mantra; when you lack a third space, go to third base. Through interviewing lesbians across three university campuses (McMaster University, Western University, and most notably, the University of Guelph), I have been shown how prominent hook-up culture is as a means of searching for community. The point most often raised by interviewees is that of ‘three degrees of separation’—every lesbian on campus is somehow connected—we are an interwoven quilt of exes, Hinge matches, and overall an unspoken understanding of familiarity.  In order to write this piece in the most concise way possible, a fair amount of information elaborated on in interviews was not included here. This includes personal jabs at other lesbians (some being ones that were interviewed) and sexually explicit commentary directed towards other lesbians on campus. University-town lesbians are messy—but hey, at least they know how to have fun. 

I have spent the month of March in active discussions with the lesbians around me, all of whom built and strengthened this article. Every one of them has offered an idiosyncratic outlook on their lesbianism, what that means to them, and how that relates to others. The way they describe their lives is an art form in itself—the emotion in their voices as they retell their experiences, some speaking on it for the first time. I received messages from many of the participants expressing their gratitude for this article and highlighting the unique experiences of lesbians from university towns, given that many of them lack a lesbian community outside of sexual/romantic encounters. As lesbians, we deserve to be heard and listened to, we deserve to have our stories told. The openness in which lesbians who I have never spoken to have shared their personal lives is so powerful, and in my opinion, evidence of why we need our stories to be further uplifted. 

The majority of the interviewees come from small towns or smaller cities, which has offered a unique perspective compared to mine. While I had exposure to lesbians in the metropolis that is Toronto, most of the interviewees were only exposed to lesbians as a result of conscious efforts when they were researching their historical significances and practices. The only way for them to find out what lesbian life does and/or can entail was through the legacy left by the lesbians that came before them. Emiliana, a femme from the University of Guelph spoke on her experience with this: 

“Almost everything that I’ve learned before coming here, before having a community, I taught myself. Like I did my own independent research, I worked my ass off because […] you go from having no community, you don’t really have to learn about yourself. ‘Cause there it wasn’t like as much of being a lesbian as […] an identity, it was just kind of a sexual orientation.” 

Through her experience and ones alike, it is demonstrated how the documentation of lesbian history has allowed the lesbians of today to examine their sexualities and create an identity out of it, even if it seems like you’re the only one near you who identifies as such. Those who did not know how to conduct this research suffered from a hermeneutical injustice; lacking the words to efficiently describe their confrontations with identity. This heavily impacted people’s sense of self and sexual/romantic development, with some interviewees identifying as bisexual and dating men prior to university because they felt as though that was the only option. For many, it was seemingly impossible to separate oneself from men, describing the hardest part of coming to terms with lesbianism being the rejection of men as opposed to the attraction to women. Ella, a lesbian at McMaster University states “There is no possibility if we were to live out what we want for ourselves that we would be able to do things traditionally.” Having to reconcile with the fact that you are isolated with being able to adhere to traditional expectations is one of the hardest parts of accepting oneself. 

Upon arriving at university, many felt more comfortable in their identities and expression of them, especially since it was more likely that they would find a lesbian community, given the surge of new and diverse people. Chloe, a butch lesbian studying at the University of Guelph, explained “definitely for a long time, it felt like there was a spotlight on me and everyone could see me. I was so vulnerable and visible, and kind of like peeled back because it’s like, wow I’m the only person who looks like this, I’m the only person who walks like this in the next like 50 mile radius. Whereas here, […] I feel like no one gives me a second look. It’s just so nice to be able to melt into a crowd.” As a lesbian, you are often on display to be gawked at or the target of a constant spitting of slurs. As a lesbian, you are visible. As a lesbian from a small town, this is aggressively heightened. The vast majority of interviewees described their coming to university as a newfound sense of freedom, now being able to display their identity with pride rather than doing so forcibly.

Regarding properly exploring community rather than solely one’s identity, the lesbian community is often extremely connected with hookup culture. The lesbians from small towns were bound to a very limited dating pool consisting of the same few queer people. On the other hand, once you get to university, the dating pool flows with the intensity of an ocean, seeming like every option that has never been presented to you is finally available and accessible. However, only after a few interactions do you inevitably realize that that dating pool is still small, or rather concentrated. This has resulted in extreme overlap between social circles with some referring to it as a web or map. An anonymous interviewee from the University of Guelph, claims that “I don’t feel like I’ve met every lesbian I could meet here, but I am probably connected to every one.” Nearly every interviewed lesbian relates to this, sharing the same sentiment in slightly different ways. This is very telling of how university-town lesbians interact with one another. Our past and/or current sexual and/or romantic interactions act as a red string that connects the dots between us and a random lesbian walking down the street. Thea, a lesbian student at the University of Guelph, referred to the overlap as Jenga, detailing, “We’re all trying to fit ourselves into this tower—sometimes you move up and you’re with different pieces; one moves and it fimbles all the others.” Since everyone is interconnected, one wrong move could make everything come crumbling down—dating on campus is a risk that one goes into cautiously, knowing that your actions can and will be traced back to you quite easily. An example Thea uses for this when comparing her experiences from Toronto to being in the small environment that Guelph is is: “In Toronto, there’s a ton of overlap, but in Guelph, it’s even more. If you hook up with a girl, you will see her—and you’ll see her on a date with another girl that you’ve hooked up with, you know what I mean? There’s so much overlap.” El, a nonbinary lesbian studying at the University of Guelph, stated similarly, “There have been some close calls where I’ve matched with someone on a dating app and then found out that they’ve hooked up with my ex.” El furthers this by explaining their desire to avoid sexual engagement with other lesbians on campus. This is a common theme among other lesbian interviewees viewing the aforementioned interconnectedness as a curse. Lack of privacy has discouraged lesbians from interacting in a non-platonic setting with other students at their universities, though others report this being too much effort to avoid, accepting the fact that if their dating life is public knowledge, they’re probably not the only one being subjected to that. Norah, a gender nonconforming lesbian at the University of Guelph, explained “I don’t think it matters too much. At the end of the day, everyone’s gonna know your business. And that’s fine, I don’t care.” The crossover episode that is lesbian dating has become such a common aspect of university life that the shock quickly wore off after being on campus for about a month. As Chloe puts it, “three degrees of separation is a great way to describe it, but it’s really not three degrees. It’s like two, and if anything, it’s one.”

 While this is a regular occurrence for lesbians, interviewees compared this experience to that of straight people, referencing their peers’ dating lives as evidence that our L-word esc drama would send a straight man into a coma: this interconnectedness may be unique to lesbians. Hetero-presenting environments have the comfort of anonymity and the reinforcement of ‘girl code’ and ‘guy code,’ but if we are all already friends or connected in some way, what is our ‘lesbian code’? Some argue that it can’t exist when our dating pool is so condensed—maybe our ‘lesbian code’ is a basic respect that comes with understanding the complexities of our relationships with each other, and maybe it’s healthier that way. Interviewees said with certainty that heterosexual rules around dating are much more rigid. Some have heard the gasps from straight friends at the thought of dating an ex-boyfriend’s friend, but their lesbian friends may not bat an eye because they know that not only is it common, but it’s most likely their only option. 

This highlights the topic of overlap between friend groups rather than simply dating circles. Results from the interviews propose that this is due to the size of the campus lesbian community as well as the comfort one derives from meeting others with their lesbianism as a common trait. Every single interviewee confidently stated that a friendship between lesbians is unlike any other since they understand one another on a deeper level than with most. They understand the profundity that comes with the rejection of men and their de-centering. For instance, Thea unpacked the reality of being a lesbian in a non-lesbian social circle: “I’m different than my friends. We’re having different sex, we’re having different relationships. Sometimes it feels like there’s a little bit of a wall, but I wouldn’t say I necessarily feel isolated, I just feel sort of…—sometimes I have to compartmentalize that part of my identity.” There is a sincere pleasure that comes with being fully appreciated without explicit explanation. Toni, a lesbian from Western University, described this using his relationship as a reference. Toni was adamant that his relationship exuded a love unfamiliar to non-lesbians because of the implicit understanding that coincides with the lesbian experience. This understanding includes the linkage to isolation through deviating from the norm of heterosexuality and the complete admiration one has for the other without the interruption of gendered expectations. The richness that this includes elucidates this comfortability, knowing that as a partner, you are not living up to an expectation created by a man, but rather one developed together. Your relationship is yours, not society’s. What this understanding feels like was clarified by Norah. They stated that after having a lesbian community, you are often shown that “being weird isn’t weird. That’s what I think is the nicest, things that other people would be like ‘ugh that doesn’t make sense like why are you doing this’ like, no. It’s not weird, it’s just like—it’s just who you are.” The normalization of unorthodox identities is an easement that accompanies the distance lesbians have from men. 

Lesbian-lesbian friendships are the freedom from the burden of male validation; breaking the walls that confine and define sexuality in a patriarchal society. An anonymous participant expanded on this, commenting “When you are a lesbian there is this involuntary thing where you do kind of decenter men in your life, so having that in common is nice. Especially when I don’t mind men but I don’t have a ton of male friends […]. I have friends who are straight and bi as well, but it’s nice to have friends where like that’s not a main topic of conversation half the time.” She continued on the forceful hold that heteronormativity has on the world, making references to her upbringing, stating that when you are closeted, you are placed into an environment where you must engage in male-centric discourse to fit in with your peers. It is thus a redundant onus to raise the pedestal men are placed on through aggressive heteronormativity as an out lesbian. It is one thing to be attracted to men and it is another to completely center them, though a lesbian is less likely to, given this inherent decentering, as mentioned by the interviewee above. This actively impacts lesbians’ friendships with non-lesbians, as detailed by Thea: “What I want feels so different from what they want. It just feels like who I am as a lesbian, and what I do romantically and sexually feels so different than what my friends do—it just doesn’t feel like we can talk about it.” Interviewees reported that with other lesbians, they can express themselves and their relationships without being questioned or fetishized. Ti, a lesbian at the University of Guelph, framed this by saying “Being in a relationship, a lot of straight people, especially men for some reason, they like to know what happens in the bedroom a lot. They’ll ask me intimate questions that you’re not really supposed to ask someone.” Other lesbians, on the other hand, don’t express curiosity through immediate assumptions and inappropriate interrogations. When interacting with other lesbians, lesbianism is not seen as unique or the ‘other option,’ therefore questioning a same-sex relationship is not just unnecessary but unlikely. The key difference described between interactions between two lesbians versus a lesbian and non-lesbian is that of doing sufficient analysis into one’s own identity and the privilege that accompanies such. El describes this as “Lesbians, and especially genderqueer lesbians, are forced to do that introspection that it takes to step so far out of the binary, of you are a woman and you will marry a man.” In order for non-lesbians to even conceptualize this, it requires a conscious effort—a recognition that lesbians are inherently pushed beyond the boundaries that heterosexual society has enforced and are unable to assimilate into such a world. Thus, having people around you who don’t have to attempt to walk in your shoes to see your point of view summarizes the importance of lesbian relationships, whether they be platonic or not. 

In addition, every conversation revealed either a prominent longing for community or a confident satisfaction with the one they had built. These reactions were quite binary with no one having a mix of both. The most common point of connection between each interviewee was their engagement in hookup culture or lack thereof. Except for one person, every lesbian in a monogamous relationship felt as though their relationship had been a barrier to connecting with other lesbians. They claimed that the sequences holding the community together were of a sexual nature. I believe that this is because as lesbians, we lack explicit third spaces and representation. We are too often grouped in with other forms of queerness, which can be beneficial at times, but frequently ignores the blatant difference; as lesbians, we can never integrate into society in the seamless nature that other women can. It is a privilege that they hold, oftentimes without even recognizing such. Therefore, the only people who truly understand what this is like are other lesbians. Since we lack ways of finding one another in an explicit nature (ie. clubs, events, etc), it is common to reach for dating apps or even in-person flirtations to find other lesbians because that is all that we know. This relates to the history of lesbians who historically founded their community on their sexual escapades. This can be traced back to brothels, bath houses, and private social networks of hidden lesbians. Since the majority of lesbians kept their sexuality a secret, there is little research and evidence showing the social lives of the quotidian lesbian. Though their interconnectedness is slowly but surely being unveiled, including legal records of lesbian social circles from 18th century Amsterdam. Poems, journal entries, and more have revealed the sexual complexion of the average lesbian in order to explore lesbianism while it was not possible to express such openly the same way heterosexuals could. Lesbian life may not have been vibrantly on display, but it has always existed. Even when third spaces were created, they primarily served as a means for lesbians to connect and fulfill a social need—a need that continues to drive lesbian culture in today’s university towns. The way we search for community resembles a starving animal searching for food. We may be weakened from the pain of our pasts and the lack of lesbian circles alongside discrimination, but we have remained steadfast in our desire to change this narrative for ourselves and others; our lives dictated by inherent symbolism, similarities, and social summonings. 

I find it extremely interesting how often lesbians brought up the point of interconnectedness, given that most of the interviewees are unknowingly connected to me and to each other—likely without realizing it until reading this article. Not only does that continue to prove my point, but how I got all of the interviewees is further affirmation of such; the vast majority of interviews were attained by word of mouth. I have overheard lesbians talking about this article in the library and have been texted by strangers about being interviewed all because a few lesbians have been mentioning this piece to their friends. Through this web of lesbianism, I was able to explore the ways in which most university town lesbians are intertwined in some way or another. Within these interviews, I have been shown drawn out maps of the overlap between lesbians across campuses, as well as been told about a master-doc listing a great number of Toronto lesbians. The interviewees range from lesbians with no lesbian community outside their partners, lesbians with no lesbian community whatsoever, all the way to lesbians with both lesbian friends and sexual/romantic partners. Yet somehow, even with this wide range of relationships in the lesbian community, I can connect each lesbian to another in at least one way.