I wrote this piece in May and let it fester in my drafts for months. I was worried about posting it, and whether it would induce eye-rolls, discomfort, or even hate. But if people don't talk about these things, they never get the chance to be normalized and discussed rationally and considerately. I believe rigid standards of gender are harmful to many people, transgender and cisgender, women and men (and those outside the binary!).
So with that in mind, here's me being me.
Back when my small hometown had a Target, I experienced my first instance of being misgendered while opening the door for my mother and the school superintendent. Once she and my mother were inside the store, the superintendent turned to her and said, "You have a very polite son! He's quite the gentleman."
I don't remember how my mother responded, but I assume she was gracious, and that she didn't point out the error. I was too busy riding a wave of adrenaline to notice. Something about being called a gentleman was delicious. I wanted to exist in that moment forever, glowing in mistaken masculinity on the dirty white tiles of Target.
My life up until then had been treading on the gender binary line. I wore dresses and flourished my pinkie when playing tea party, but I also sought out the butchiest remote control car when my grandparents offered me a "you're getting a baby brother" gift, and had gone through a period of time in which I insisted my name was Henry (and also that I was a male cat). In fifth grade, my mom not only let me chop my hair off, she encouraged it, ever supportive of my self-image. It helped that feminine pixie cuts were making a big comeback at the time, of course, but my mother had also permitted me to dress myself for school pictures, which resulted in me flaunting a brown collared sweater covered in Rockwell B-1 Lancers in my first grade portrait.
Fun fact: I asked my mom for the picture of me having a tea party in my Chicago Bulls jersey, and was presented with two such photos, neither of which being the photo I remembered, which means there are multiple documented instances of me playing tea as my hero, Michael Jordan. Much love to my late grandmother, who also let mini Michael Jordan do her nails.
Around the time of the Great Target Gentleman Incident, I landed the titular role in our community theater's production of Peter Pan, which kicked my gender dysphoria into hyperdrive. As part of the preparation for the performance, the director had us go around the theatre in character, as if we were on an adventure, and I was in charge of the exploration. I was given permission to behave differently, in unfeminine ways. I was unapologetically loud and stood with my legs apart, taking up as much space as I wanted, as I deserved. I teased and directed my Lost Boys, and stood high on a platform to tell them stories, which I acted out without a hint of self-consciousness. Everyone was swept up by the game, and I had never felt so at ease in my own body.
But I knew that it had to end. That I'd go back to baby-doll tees that emphasized my breasts. That my hair would have to return from impish madness to the carefully girlish spikes more befitting my gender. That I would lose the magic of Pan.
It hit me all at once, and after rehearsal one night, while my mom was meeting with some of the production staff (she had a big hand in the costumes and beyond), I sulked alone on stage. The director - then Wabash film student Reynaldo Pacheco, now rubbing elbows on the silver screen with the likes of Sandra Bullock and Ewan McGregor - approached me. He asked what the matter was, but I didn't know how to tell him.
"Nerves?" he suggested.
I shook my head. For the first time in my life, it wasn't anxiety. At least, not the kind he was thinking of.
"Is it boy trouble?"
My heart shattered. I was angry and embarrassed, and now I was crying on stage, a scared little girl. I didn't have the words for what was wrong. At that point, I knew I didn't like boys, but thought I was just behind everyone else, immature. I think I made some kind of "ew" face at Rey, pushing away the idea like a much younger child might. I felt wounded. I'd grown attached to Rey, who had been so full of support and guidance both on and off the stage. It seemed like he didn't even know me. Maybe nobody knew me.
It meant that this little refuge wasn't really a refuge after all. It was a swiftly evaporating oasis in the desert. My time there was running out.
Eventually I did return to the feminine world, but the feeling lingered. My heart pounded when the judges at marching band competitions assumed that I was a boy, as most tenor drum players were. I imagined and wrote stories from a masculine perspective. My Halloween and convention costumes were mostly male. In college, I finally acknowledged my homosexuality and discovered the wondrous existence of drag kings. The lines of gender began to fade.
By now in this meandering entry, my mother is probably hyperventilating. Don't worry, Mama. I frequently rock dresses and mascara, and I'm a weirdly big fan of high heels (tall and spiky, of course). However, I don't think I fall into the strictly ladylike camp. My relationship with my gender is a little... wiggly.
I think a lot of folks who experience homosexual attraction can relate to that. In some ways, our sexuality aligns us with the "opposite" gender, culturally speaking. The gender constructs that shape our worldview are heavily influenced by sexuality, and so it's no surprise that so much intersection exists in the queer community. We describe masculine lesbians as "butch," and you don't have to be a man in drag to be called a "queen." As for the bisexual folks? In a world so colored by the gender binary, their sexuality lands them in especially choppy and chaotic waters.
This year, I've been thinking a lot about gender's place in society and in my own life. I don't like how much of human behavior is dictated by its rules, and the strict cut-off in gender presentation frustrates me to no end. Like so many things, gender exists on a scale, and I wonder how different I would be if I had grown up as a boy. Would I be more confident, like I used to be on the stage? Would I have encountered better opportunities? Would I actually have cash in my savings account today?
Even if I had been assigned male at birth, I get the feeling I would still be somewhere in between. I love the frill and flourish of the femme, but also the confidence and swagger of masculinity. As a boy, I would still have done drag, but this time, in an over-the-top, traffic-stopping, sequin-laden evening gown instead of a gruff leather jacket and work boots.
So, there it is. I'm genderqueer. And honestly, I think we all are, to some degree. It's nearly impossible to fit perfectly into the gender roles that society places on us. Not just for women and queer folk, but for all of us. I'm one of the fortunate ones, though. I'm comfortable with my she/her/hers pronouns, and while I'm often frustrated with my body, I also don't mind playing dress-up with it (to quote The Producers, "If you got it, flaunt it, baby, flaunt it!"). Truly, I lucked out, and am happy with my (occasionally mercurial) identity.
I challenge you to consider your gender today and what it means to you, whether you're at the far end of the spectrum, consider yourself genderless, or are somewhere in between. Do you like where you fit in? Can you imagine yourself somewhere else on the scale? This is a topic worthy of exploration, so don't hold back in your self-analysis!
As always, I would love to hear from you about your experience, and I'm always down to chat.
Happy holidays, everyone. Be kind, be safe, and be yourself, whatever that may be.
Bless you, Snapchat. (Also, add me! abi_douglas)