On weekdays around lunchtime, I head across the street from my office to the gym. It’s a New York Sports Club, which means most of the women in the locker room are white, skinny, tweezed and plucked all over. I feel like a lumberjack when I walk in there, all hairy, crewcutted and booted among the naked women with white towels wrapped around their heads. I haven’t shaved my legs since I was 15. I try to hulk my way as invisibly as possible to a small alcove, where I find some semblance of privacy to change in all my lumberjack beauty.
One day a woman calls out to me while my binder, a tight vest I wear every day to flatten my chest, is pulled halfway over my head, my armpit the current victim of its compression.
“Excuse me,” she says, in a sharp Jersey accent that makes the second word sound more like a spring month than a pronoun.
I’ve been caught. I’ve been preparing for this moment ever since I started coming to this gym months ago. Every time I enter the locker room I hunch my shoulders like a trespasser, as though at any moment a security guard might find me and guide me out by the scruff of my neck.
Now it’s happened. Soon staff will arrive, and all I can hope is that by the time they do, I’ll have some clothes on. I’ll show them my ID with its unequivocal ‘F’ and they’ll realize the mistake, apologize even. Undoubtedly this Jersey woman will, too, flustered as she explains that she normally wears glasses / it was the steam from the shower / her best friend is gay / and on, and on. But then they’ll take me into their little glass-walled office facing the stretching area, and they’ll explain that it would be best if I changed in a private bathroom from now on. Just more comfortable for everyone that way, they’ll say.
I don’t turn around yet. I stare at the wall of lockers in front of me, arms still tangled in the vise grip of my binder. In my highest-pitched voice, I say:
“…Yes?”
“I need your help. My key is stuck.”
“Your…your what?”
“My key, it’s stuck in my lock. I need you to get it out or else I’m gonna have to get it cut.”
I pause. Take this in enough to say, “Give me a minute” with all the authority of a middle school kid sitting at her mom’s desk at work. Then I wrangle my binder onto my chest, pull a T-shirt over my head, and join her on the bench. She’s wearing only a towel and she’s prattling on about her lock, how I need to open it for her, how if I don’t, she’ll have to get them to cut it off, and she doesn’t want to lose this lock, she loves this lock.
Why? I think. It’s one of those crappy tiny ones with a key, the kind that comes attached to luggage as a kind of vague nod towards security and breaks on its first encounter with baggage handlers. But I fiddle with it for a while as my own vague nod towards helpfulness, until finally I say, “I’m sorry, I can’t get it out.” She barely looks up when I walk away and I leave her on the bench, hopelessly tugging at her inexplicably precious lock.
I take my encounter with the ungracious broken-lock woman as a sign that maybe I am more welcome in this locker room than I thought I was. Or at least, less shockingly out of place.
Sometimes when I come back to the locker room after my workout, the same women are still standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, naked and perching one foot at a time on the bench to lotion every gleaming inch of leg. I don’t go that far, but I do start to linger for a few moments in my underwear. A couple times, I even go to the mirror in the middle of the locker room to tuck in my shirt and adjust my collar. I like the way I look in this mirror, dressed in my favorite dark jeans and black captoes, face still slightly red from my run.
A few weeks later, I’m in a bathroom stall when I hear a woman say that she thought there was a guy in here. He must be gone now, she says, because she doesn’t see him.
I recognize this woman’s voice. She works at the gym. I’ve often seen her as I hustle around the locker room, avoiding eye contact but noticing her nonetheless. I sit in the stall and wait. When I’m sure she’s gone, I wash my hands and walk quickly out of the locker room.
*
Once, many years ago in Ditmas Park, a tall man stood too close to me as I was locking the door to my car. He was easily my father’s age, and he wanted to know: was I a boy or a girl?
“None of your business,” I told him. But he kept asking me, over and over, and his voice was angry, like I’d done something to him. I walked away from him, saying “fuck off” over my shoulder at a volume that I hoped was quiet enough to be safe, loud enough to risk being heard.
*
I bought my first pair of boxers when I was 14 years old. When I put them on and faced the mirror, I felt the same kind of pure flush you feel when something really good happens: when you reach the summit of a hike and turn around to look at the view; when the person whose dimples you’ve been admiring for weeks one day reaches for your hand.
Though the word we traditionally use to describe that feeling is “joy,” I’d propose another phrase: “without shame.”
There is some disconnect here.
My parents raised me to believe that my boy-girl self was beautiful and natural. I got a crewcut and began to wear men’s clothes when I was 15 years old. It was the single most self-loving—and easy—thing I’ve ever done. Nothing has ever felt more right.
And yet, 13 years later, I find myself scuttling around the locker room like a pathetic bug fleeing from an all-powerful human boot. More than my body, I’m ashamed of my shame. Who taught me to be so self-hating?
*
One of the most shameful memories of my early childhood is the repeated moment—in my mind, it happened just about every week, and sometimes more frequently—in which another small child within my earshot would tug on their mother’s hand and ask, unabashedly:
“Mom, is that a boy or a girl?”
That.
I’ll probably never be able to put words to that feeling, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, either: the shoulder-tensing, stomach-roiling sensation that made me want to shrink into my own skin and body-slam my own tiny child’s frame into the ground until I became someone else. Embarrassment is probably the closest word, but it’s nowhere near strong enough: utter humiliation coupled with a frantic, desperate desire to disappear is probably closer. There is something wrong with you. Freak.
My parents treated my gender like it was the most normal thing in the world. The fact that I had short hair and wanted to dress like my dad was as unremarkable as eggs for breakfast, or the need for an umbrella when it rained. Perhaps more importantly, it was equally unremarkable as my twin sister’s undying love for Barbies and tutus.
But nothing they did could protect me from kids at the supermarket who wanted to know “what” I was, or distant acquaintances who couldn’t hide their confusion when we ran into them on the train.
*
I meet a friend for coffee and tell him I’m writing a piece about locker rooms.
“Interesting,” he says. “What’s the thesis?”
I don’t know, and tell him as much. But then I tell him about the women who lotion, naked, in front of the full-length mirror. And the stuck-lock woman. And the tall man in Ditmas Park, and the frat boys in college, and the little kids in elementary school, and the little kids in the Whole Foods bathroom last week, and every other person who’s ever asked me if I was a boy or a girl, asked their mom in front of me, asked my mom in front of me.
“There’s no thesis,” I tell him. “Except that I’m tired of being the one who chases myself into the corner at the locker room.”
There are people, real people, many of them, who think we are freaks. Who want to shame us, hurt us, chase us out of the locker room with fiery torches. I’m writing this at the beginning of 2016, and to my knowledge, no trans or gender-non-conforming people have been murdered yet this year. But, devastating as it is to name this: that probably won’t be the case anymore by the time this piece is published.
In a world like that, there’s no room for me to pick up a torch against myself.
I have about 20 New Year’s resolutions, and most of them are pretty mundane: finally get that tattoo I’ve been wanting. Work harder at getting eight hours of sleep. Cultivate the ability to laugh at myself.
But as of today, I’m adding one more to the list: I’m going to stop trying to hide my supposedly incongruous body behind a 2.5-foot-long locker door. I’m going to walk, not run, from the shower back to my locker, no matter how funny I think I look wrapped in my tiny gym-issue towel. I’m going to take my time changing, so my binder doesn’t get stuck on my armpit or my face. I’ll let those lotioners next to me wonder what the fuck this oddly shaped undergarment is—that’s their problem, not mine.
And once in a while, I’m going to stroll on over to that big full-length mirror in the middle of the locker room. And in whatever state of dress or undress feels most comfortable, I’m going to do a little flexing, a little primping. I might even buy a bottle of Neutrogena and take the time to moisturize these hairy legs of mine.
Because it’s winter and my skin gets dry.
And because fuck it.
*
(image via)
Everyone should be comfortable in their skin. Often that requires lotion.
I relate with every part of this. Thank you so much. Locker rooms: inescapably fraught for the gender non-conforming!
I’m just always afraid people are looking at me because I’m fat. Can’t imagine how awful this must feel. So, thank you for sharing this. I want to make more of an effort to smile at people and not be so captured by my own body image problems.
I haven’t been to a gym to change for many years because of body image problems. I’m glad you’re not letting this stop you despite the difficulties. You are braver than I.
Thank you for sharing this.
The gym I go to has a project/exhibit on this year about this kind of discomfort – there’s quotations from students about their experiences and fears on walls all over the building. I really hope it’s having the intended effect and getting people to be non-judgmental in the locker rooms.
Would anyone like to share what they might like to hear the parent answer when they hear a child ask “is that a boy or a girl?” My kiddo doesn’t quite have the words for that yet, and I’d like to think my friends are diverse enough she might never think to ask it, but I’ve just realized I have no answer…
I’m a non-binary person and would rather just be referred to as a person. Maybe say something like “not all people are boys or girls”, like not all people are blonds or redheads, and emphasize using person-type language instead of “that” or “what” or other dehumanizing phrasing. I think a big problem comes from the people who, the instant you stop fitting into a binary, promptly begin using “it” etc.
Thank you!
Hey, thank you for thinking about it! It made my afternoon a little.
That is an awesome answer! Storing for my 16-month-old!
I agree, I am an afab non-binary person who passes for a man a lot of the time (especially in a ball cap). Aside from the fear of using public restrooms/change rooms, my biggest frustration when interacting with cashiers or other strangers is when they make a big fuss and change whatever they said after they hear me speak. “Hello sir, what can I get you?” “Burger and fries” “OH MY GOD I am SO SORRY so sorry ma’am WOW THIS IS EMBARRASSING”. I don’t mind what strangers say as long as they, uh, pick a gender and stick with it. Making a fuss makes ME feel like the embarrassing freak because I’m an introvert who doesn’t like elongated stranger interactions in the first place. That’s a little different than the question you asked but it seemed relevant re: strangers and ambiguous gender.
For kids, like someone else said – “person” is a good word. “Well, that’s just a person like you and me. It’s not really polite to comment on a stranger’s appearance. How about we smile and say hello instead. You know, (childname), not everyone is a boy or a girl.” But in a very normal/everyday tone of voice, not as if it’s something scandalous or embarrassing.
If it’s an acquaintance, friend, or more personal interaction the person in question will probably have their own answer for the child.
Thank you! I like “not everyone is a boy or a girl” – factual, neutral, and probably a complete answer for a toddler.
My 8 year old is genderfluid, and while we use she/her in school and with adults she knows, in public and with other kids, she says she doesn’t really care if they use he or she, so long as they don’t switch back and forth!
From an non-binary adult, I just want to say thank you. The support you provide for your child will make them grow up secure in knowing they and their gender are lovable. This really got me in the heart. I can’t blame my mom too much because “genderfluid” wasn’t even a word when I was 8 probably. Her response was to rigorously correct strangers and make sure everyone knew I was a GIRL and try her best to make me adopt feminine appearance markers while I willfully wanted what I wanted, which was to get all the same things my older brother got – boy haircuts, boy clothes. I’m 24 now and believe my struggle with anxiety is partly related to my gender and childhood experiences with it. Long response but…by providing a safe place for your child with their parent to talk about gender and feel accepted you are setting the foundation for them to feel secure and confident everywhere else they go. Thank you.
Thank you! I’m trying my best – Voldemort has never fit into a gender box, but it’s only the past few months that we’ve tried out the label of “genderfluid.” She describes herself as a boy AND a girl, and is pretty damn comfortable with that. It’s taken some time to get to this point and included way too many meetings with teachers and school people, but we’re settled for the moment. And I’m trying so hard to make sure my kid grows up happy with themself – I don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks.
i feel like it’s a good time to say, “it’s not an either/or. this person is a person.” it introduces gender fluidity without going into it, and then kids tend to move on. but if they press, i think handling it how you would handle anything: by explaining that different people experience the world differently. it could also be a good time to say that there aren’t “girl toys” and “boy toys” there are just “toys.”
i know two very sweet little boys who are being raised by two very cool women. And they were over some kid’s house for a birthday party, and one of the parents set up a game to be boys vs. girls. And the younger boy went up to the parent and said, “Um, can we play people versus people instead?” AND I DIE WITH CUTENESS OVERLOAD. he doesn’t think of gender as binary because he wasn’t taught that it’s binary from the get go, so playing “girls vs. boys” felt really like a weird way to split people. I feel like starting from there, kids will grow up to understand the nuance.
ooh, heartmelter!
Thank you for asking this. And thanks to those who answered.
I identify as a cis woman and am now a parent to a 5-year-old who is very much NOT a member of the Gender Police. As a teenager and young adult I presented very androgynously (by my own fashion/hair choices) and really hated the “what are you” questions (not because of misgendering but because I hated that I was expected to just… IDENTIFY myself for strangers).
When my kid has asked in the past, he has never done so within earshot of the person in question (it’s generally after we get home and are alone). I have usually responded “Well, I don’t know because I don’t know that person,” usually with a side of “we don’t actually need to know that.” Also in other conversations my wife and I have always told him, “if so-and-so-says they are a boy/girl/neither/whatever, then that is what they are. You don’t have to worry about what anyone else says about them.”
We have also made a conscious parenting decision to refer to all strangers as “person,” “grown-up,” “kid,” “baby,” etc. In English this is 100% gender neutral. I credit this policy with my own kid’s relative gender-non-concerned-ness (not a word!).
Thanks!
That’s interesting because the other day I was a the grocery store, and a woman in line behind me referred to me as “this person” to her child in a way that seemed oddly pointed (something a long the lines of “we’re just waiting for this person to done first.”) At the time I was fairly taken aback by it because I’m so used to hearing “this lady” because I am cis, have long hair, etc. Because I was dressed as a slob who was going to the grocery store on the weekend, I wondered if it was some kind of backhanded remark about my imagined sexual orientation and/or inadequate femininity or something. But now I wonder it if it was pointed because it was actually a progressive anti-gender lesson, which I am all in favor of. Here I thought I was being gender-policed, but maybe it was the opposite, I was being pointedly gender-not-cared-about.
Askelande, you don’t live in DC, do you?
Sorry, I don’t! And I don’t know any DC-area parents!
In my own experiences of being pointedly and aggressively de-gendered, I usually found that people would say things like, “we’re just waiting for this..… person… to be finished” with lots of sharp glares as if they could xray-specs their way under my clothes to reveal my true identity.
Ooh, what a great suggestion. I always appreciate specific strategies for inclusive language, and I especially like how “grown-up” carries a bit of the respectful tone of “lady” or “gentleman.” Nice!
My kid’s teachers also unfailingly use the term “grown-up” instead of “parent” which I love because every kindergartener has at least one grown-up and that is a nice, casually inclusive way of conveying that some kids have parents, some have grandparents, uncles, aunts, foster families, etc.
Your kid is pretty rad. And your choice to default to gender-neutral terms is also rad.
We do the same, but to my intense vexation this has not been enough to keep the kids from internalizing pervasive societal messages regarding gender as binary and male as default, which, ARRGH.
(We keep trying, of course.)
ARRGH! It’s hard! I think my kid’s particular personality helps a lot tbh.
One time a kid I know from a two-mom family, whose parents had worked SO HARD on this, told me (I think she was six), “When [friend] grows up, he is going to be a MAN. And when I grow up, I am going to be … a PRINCESS!” in this incredibly proud voice while her moms looked at me over her shoulder with falling horrified faces. (She is now 13 and not inclined to frilly or royal things in any way.)
There are several good picture and chapter books that bring out the active, powerful potential of princess-hood, but, yeah. Exactly.
I mean, kids also like to put things in categories. It’s their way of understanding the world around them. (For example, my friend’s son decided that all women were “Mommy” and all men were “Daddy.” Made for some fun outings with that kid for a while!) And some kids around ages 3-5 years get very interested in what it means to be a boy or girl and how they and everyone around them fit into those categories. It’s not that you’ve failed as a parent to teach them appropriately, it’s a pretty common developmental phase that lots and lots of kids go through.
I think as a parent, you just keep doing what you’re doing, using gender-neutral language, and discussing how it’s okay that not everyone is a girl or a boy. I think knowing how to gently correct their use of language is really important, especially in public and especially where someone who is gender-nonconforming may overhear and be hurt by a question. I appreciate the example scripts folks have given in this thread; I’m one of those people who doesn’t always think of the right thing to say off the top of my head, so this is really helpful.
Oh, I know it’s partly developmental, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating, especially when it’s particularly marked from the boy of the two!
I am actually a bit jealous now about how much easier this is in English.
In Hebrew, everything is gendered. Not just all verbs, but all nouns. You can’t say “giraffe” without deciding if it’s a male or female giraffe. We don’t even have a neuter sex like in German. There is literally no such thing as a gender-neutral word, not even for “people” (which uses the default male plural).
This makes trying to teach a child that gender doesn’t matter very difficult, because there is literally no way to talk about any other person without making a decision about which gender to use, unless you start saying complicated constructs like “we will have to wait here until he or she (male) finishes or (female) finishes her or his turn” – and even then, it has to be based on binary gender.
In Spanish as well, everything is binary-gendered! This is germane because we are a bilingual family. We really just tried our best with the Spanish, which at least has the luxury of dropping a lot of its pronouns (so you get to say “esperamos para que termine” instead of having to say “nosotros esperamos para que él o ella termine”).
Also we made conscious decisions never to talk about a person’s appearance, and to talk a lot about how brave, beautiful, strong, well-mannered, every-other-genderizing-attribute-we-could-think-of, etc, various people are.
I’ve seen at least one proposal to strip the gendering of nouns from Spanish, and now I am kicking myself for not following that link. I think it would be a hard sell (and I am an American who has to fight really hard to not run screaming if she finds herself needing to speak Spanish), but over the years I’ve seen some English gender-neutral pronouns catch on in certain corners of the Internet, so I doubt it’s not possible for it to become a notable variation on how the language is spoken. But the examples of “hir” or “zie” work pretty differently in English than they would in a language where gender is baked into every noun.
Love this! My son is approaching the age where kids tend to get very binary about gender and I’ve been trying to figure out how I’ll deal with it. “Grownup” is perfect.
I’ve elicited similar questions before, and I work with young kids, so I get to be one of the first relatively androgynous people some of them encounter, which is a great privilege. I would say keep your response positive and non-defensive, since kids are really just curious and looking for an answer. They don’t carry the baggage of all the weighty debates on the subject, so something like “I’m not sure what they prefer to go by! It’s up to them who they are,” followed by “They sure have a cool [article of clothing, dog, etc], huh?” to point out what they have in common with other people/your kid will eliminate any confusion.
Love it! This is a better explanation of what I was going for in my comment!
This is a great piece. I’m always amazed in the gym locker room by all the women who happily walk around naked – I don’t think I’ve ever been that comfortable in my own skin.
(And hi from a fellow NYSC-goer! The one I go to is very non-white and non-thin, though.)
Yeah maybe I should have said “I am too freaked out by the fact that NUDITY IS OCCURRING” to notice any non-gender-binary folks…
“More than my body, I’m ashamed of my shame.”
THIS THIS THIS.
I’m sorry you’ve had to experience these things which I, through sheer luck, have never had to experience.
(Also for what it’s worth I only learned about binders recently, and I’m a cis femme lady, but they make SO MUCH SENSE to me and I’m thinking about it. I would probably be eyeing yours in the change room out of envy.)
Thank you for writing this and I’m so sorry you had to go through all this. I’m an amab gender-queer person and I just started going to the gym and there is no way I’m going near the locker rooms. My bob cut may be kick ass (and freaked out the hairdresser when I asked for it) but it isn’t kick ass enough to deal with angry men folk.
Although it doesn’t do much outside of that when creepy men press up behind me or stare.
No insightful comment, just thanks. Thanks for writing this and for being you. Everyone deserves lotion!
This is great, and I feel it very personally, and on top of that I missed the “a tight vest I wear every day to flatten my breasts” on the first read and pictured someone, for the first several paragraphs, clutching a stationery binder to their chest while they tried to fix the lock problem.
oh my …… (i’m new to Toast, btw)
some of this recalled my own experiences of ‘dressing like a man’ ….. as a teen, i would raid my father’s clothes closet for old, corduroy slacks, tweed coats with elbow patches and captains caps ….. i drank neat whisky and smoked a pipe (i know – how fucking adolescent cool *rolls eyes*) …… i did have long hair, tho it was dreaded, and the dresses i occasionally wore were genuinely hippie-sacks, which communicated practically nothing of modern, feminine fashion, and i only ever wore boots – docs, blundstones and converse
SO, one day, my very straight mom (born and bred in rural 1940’s/ 50’s Queensland) offers to buy me some ‘nice’ clothes, and i, in my extreme naivety, agree – maybe it would be good to have new, non-sack, non-dad-hand-me-down attire to wear to the occasional ‘straight’ function ……. ???
we get to Myer in the city (Myer is a major retailer here in Oz) and mom keeps pulling out dainty, frilly pieces in pastel colours, which i brush off with barely any consideration …… i end up selecting a pair of black jeans (from the women’ s section) and a mostly purple, striped, polo-necked t-shirt (from the Men’s section)….. i figure i’ve done pretty well to balance the ‘conservative look, with something i can wear without feeling like a complete, lying, mannequin
i show mom my final choice
mom – country born and bred, stoic, unemotional, down-to-earth mom – breaks down in uncontollable sobs in the middle of the busy, inner-city Myer store
i was so, so lost
this also reminds me of my ex girlfriend who lived constantly with that refrain of – ‘Mummy… is that a boy or a girl?’ …. she was always upset by it, and i would do my best to comfort and reassure her, but i suspect the me back then didn’t adequately grasp the impact quite enough …… reading the author’s pain inflicted by such comments makes me feel more compassion for my ex’s experience and shame at my inadequacy to adequately comprehend it, and therefore support her, at the time
loved the read
This piece is a lovely read and I can’t even imagine the awkwardness and emotions you and other non-conforming folks have to deal with; Thanks to the Toast my eyes are being opened to how other people experience our world and just how gendered everything is (I can only guess how annoying it is to just need a pee and have to go through a whole ‘what bathroom to use’ rigamarole. Why are other people so nosey?)
I grew up around a lot of very butch lesibans, so women looking like men was just a normal occurance to me; and I was always surprised when other children or people would comment. A friend of my mums was visiting once and we were having lunch in the garden, when the little girl who lived in the other apartment came out and asked who the man was, and I remember thinking ‘What are you stupid, she’s clearly a woman!’ until I thought about it and realised she was making an assumption based on the woman’s appearance, whereas I was generally used to waiting for someone to talk, or taking que’s from the environment (as in, if we’re at a womens only event and there’s someone who looks like a man at first glance there, it’s probably a woman. I have funny stories about this, but I’ll leave that for another time.)
Also everyone needs to moisturise regardless of gender. Just because you’re male, or identify as male, there’s no excuse for rough flaky skin and if you come near me I will throw a bottle of cocoa butter at you.
Naomi, thank you a million times for writing this!
“Embarrassment is probably the closest word, but it’s nowhere near strong enough: utter humiliation coupled with a frantic, desperate desire to disappear is probably closer.”
I feel like (as a non-binary person) I vacillate between embarrassment and a ‘fuck you’ attitude multiple times a day just because the world doesn’t understand me. Thank you for articulating the awkwardness of such intimate spaces and the awkwardness that pushes down upon someone like us in those spaces.
When I change in my gym locker room I will smile, knowing that we both are challenging gender norms with our hairy legs and binders and men’s clothes. And hopefully our confident and unashamed locker room presence helps everyone else realize and normalize all gender expressions.
My 8 year old is genderfluid, and while we use she/her in school and with adults she knows, in public and with other kids, she says she doesn't really care if they use he or she, so long as they don't switch back and forth!
Thank you! I'm trying my best – Voldemort has never fit into a gender box, but it's only the past few months that we've tried out the label of "genderfluid." She describes herself as a boy AND a girl, and is pretty damn comfortable with that. It's taken some time to get to this point and included way too many meetings with teachers and school people, but we're settled for the moment. And I'm trying so hard to make sure my kid grows up happy with themself – I don't give a damn about what anyone else thinks.
What an awesome piece, Naomi. Thanks for sharing it.
I was gender-nonconforming when I was a kid. When puberty hit, some kind of switch just flipped in my brain and I felt perfectly comfortable identifying as female all the time; I went from gender-fluid to cis in a matter of… I can’t remember how long it took now. Months? Weeks?
I don’t know why that happened in my brain. I assume that way more kids than we’re aware of grow in a state of gender-queerness until changes start to happen in their body and chemistry, and then something “sticks.” Some people stick with a gender that’s different from what their physical body implies. Some people stick with a gender that matches their physical traits. Some stick with a gender that remains fluid. I have NO IDEA whether this is true or not; it’s just the assumption I’ve made in thinking about my own experiences.
Sticking cis and hetero was one of the few places where luck has been on my side. I don’t feel lucky because I think there’s anything inherently superior about cisgenderedness or heterosexuality; nor do I think there’s anything wrong or shameful or bad about people who aren’t cis and/or hetero. (Quite the opposite. I’m aware that it was probably only an accident of hormones and timing that gave me my final gender… I’m aware that I might become gender-fluid again in the future; who can say?)
It’s just because, as your piece so clearly illustrates, life for people who don’t conform to this bullshit binary expectation is so fraught with all these difficulties. And it doesn’t need to be; that’s what chaps my ass. This is all other people’s problems, all other people’s insistence on being able to label and categorize other human beings, when nobody needs to do that. There’s no good reason for it; it’s just an issue of personal comfort–for them, the people who are looking at other people.
Fuck them.
Thank you for this piece, it was well-written, evocative and beautiful.