This article is not meant to be a finger pointing at every cisgender person I’ve ever interacted with, and blaming them with a ferocious, “You!” This article is not meant to be a vent that should be sent to a friend in private instead of published to an audience. This article is not meant to say that I am the most oppressed— rather instead, it is meant to address the privilege I am awarded and how it has shaped my experience of being “out.” And maybe it’s a little bit of a rant, but I’m allowed that. Mostly, I want people to understand the exhaustion that can come with needing to come out over and over again to the same people, and the risk I take to do so.
My official label that I default to when people ask is “nonbinary,” but it’s much more complicated than that. I identify with the experience of womanhood, and like wearing skirts (Sometimes. It’s hard). I’m a lesbian, and don’t fit into any of some of the inter-community labels that are popular (butch, femme, hey mamas, etc.). I want to get top-surgery, but more accurately I wish my boobs were velcro so I could decide what day I wore them— they look good in some outfits. I don’t fit into any box of man, woman, boy, girl, and I wish that I did. But most importantly, with hair grown out past my ears and a voice that pitches up when I’m nervous or trying to be polite, I don’t “pass.”
Passing as nonbinary is irrelevant anyways, since it exists as an umbrella term and has so much versatility in terms of what it means— it’s a very personal label. Don’t take my description of it as a blanket statement for every nonbinary person ever. But especially nowadays, there are people who look much more visibly genderqueer than I do, and it may be easier for well-meaning people to correct themselves in the likely scenario of a misgender. I have dyed hair, I wear funky jewelry, and have what I consider to be pretty queer fashion. If you have a “gaydar,” you probably clocked me. But even when I tell people several times to refer to me with “they/them,” they always forget. They promise to do better next time, and then a week later it’s like our conversation never happened. Certain times, it feels like I’m being gaslit as my friend asks me for a third time if I’m sure I only exclusively use they/them, because I “feel like a girl.” I smile and laugh, and say “Haha I used to think so. It doesn’t bother me, try your best.”
I’m lying, obviously. It does bother me, but what bothers me more is being perceived as a bitch, or annoying, or as a ‘pick-me’. I know that my friends and classmates care about me, at least enough to think I’m a cool person. I don’t want to be someone that’s too pushy, that interrupts the conversation for a meaningless correction that doesn’t actually change anything. I was born and raised with the social conventions we instill into girls, and because of how deeply they have been ingrained into me, I’m always going to be perceived like a girl. Too afraid to correct people, because I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want to “shake things up” too much— I’m not supposed to.
Last semester, in my public speaking class, filled mostly with football bros (you know the type), I corrected my male professor on my pronouns before giving a speech. I never did it again. I didn’t feel safe, based on the reactions, and the laughs. Later, after the election, I was targeted by several of those boys in the class who tried to taunt me about the results.
I still haven’t brought the issue of my gender up in my creative writing classroom because of a few classmates that I have stereotyped to be of a similar demographic. That may be prejudiced, and I may be wrong. I hope that I am! But I’m tired, and I don’t want to put myself in a more vulnerable position than I already am.
There is some solace with my other trans friends, and we can talk about the issues of binary gender. But sometimes we dance around those questions as well, a colloquial “you know…” getting enough of our point across without having to be too… genuine. I think they’re tired too, or afraid of how I’ll respond, and so broaching it is a risk we have to take time to calculate, deciding if the other is safe enough to be vulnerable to.
I’m incredibly grateful for the gender non-conforming and queer friends that I have, and the community that we work to built here on campus, and in online spaces. I’m grateful that I have a family that loves and supports me, even though they don’t fully understand (and that might be my fault, for being too scared to explain). I’m grateful for the Stonewall riots, and the people who fought for visibility, and who blurred the lines of gender roles long before my existence. I’m grateful that I can put this article out for you all to read!
But to cis people, if you’re reading? Embrace work from trans and nonbinary people, please. Learn what it’s like to live a life built for someone shaped like you, but isn’t. I would love for the responsibility to teach you about my gender to not only be on me. Maybe that’s selfish, but I really don’t care.