Off My Chest

I arrived an hour ahead of schedule for my appointment, budgeting for a variety of obstacles. I’d only been to this medical center once before, and only to the ER section to visit a friend who’d been in an accident. I remembered the labyrinth of cold linoleum, the many identical passages branching from each sterile hall. Even after rereading the emailed directions a dozen times, I feared I’d wind up in the wrong building, resulting in me missing my appointment (and perhaps being trapped forever within an infinite sick-white sprawl of hospital walls).

I couldn’t afford to miss this consultation. I’d scheduled it almost a year prior after leaping through a series of hoops just to earn the right to be seen. I’d changed primary doctors in order to have a better shot at being referred and I had to see that doctor regularly over the course of several months before he felt equipped to write a strong enough letter of support for me. I collected letters from him and from my therapist, knowing that I’d have to collect new versions of those letters eventually anyway. I called my insurance and spent almost two hours on the phone confirming and documenting coverage with a young woman who, though kind and patient, was not at all familiar with what I was asking after. I’d even contacted a local health support group to get back-ups of the required letters and documentation in case my doctor or therapist accidentally misphrased anything in a way that my insurance would automatically reject.

If I missed my consultation, I wasn’t sure that my heart would be able to take it. That’s why I plopped myself in that waiting room an hour before I was scheduled to be seen, clutching a folder stuffed full of my medical history and extra copies of every document that had ever been requested of me.

“Last name Douglas?”

A tiny moment of relief as the nurse called me by my surname and led me past the reception desk. I’d heard great things about the surgeon I was seeing, but didn’t know how tactful his staff would be.

While I waited in the exam room, I mentally rehearsed my arguments.

Hello, Doctor. My name is Gordon and my pronouns are he/they. I am transmasculine and have socially transitioned. I am out at home, at work, and in public, and feel safe and supported enough to continue with my medical transition. By July, I’ll have been on testosterone for a year, and it has been the best year of my life. I have worn a binder off and on for ten years and have worn one almost every day for the past year. It is very important to me that my body more accurately matches my gender identity and expression, which is why, after years of consideration and discussions with doctors and therapists, I’ve decided to seek a double mastectomy.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to be prepared for an interrogation. The top surgeon walked in, greeted me warmly, and we got down to business. After a few minutes of conversation, questions, and physical inspections, he announced that I was an excellent candidate. He also noted that, thanks to the pandemic, surgery couldn’t be scheduled yet, even though operating rooms were opening back up. He told me to expect a call late in the summer for a surgery that could happen in late fall or at the start of the next year, at the latest. Disappointing, sure, but I’d waited 30 years to get this done. What was one more year?

At the end of the visit, after the surgeon assured me that he was experienced at working with picky insurance companies, he looked me square in the eyes. “We will get this done,” he said, and I almost cried.

That was in January of 2022. I’m writing this in December of 2022, and as of yet, no surgery date in sight. The updates I used to receive every two months have stopped arriving in my inbox. When I finally contacted the surgeon’s office to make sure I was still on the waitlist, I was assured that I was, but instead of the just-under-a-year wait they’d originally predicted, they were now estimating one and a half to two years between the consultation and the surgery.

I was gutted. I was supposed to swim topless next summer. I’ve been loading up my closet with cheap button-downs to wear during recovery. My mom was awaiting a date from me so that she could take time off work to care for me after the procedure. I had tried to keep myself somewhat pessimistic about the surgery time frame in the first place. “Definitely in 2023,” I’d repeated to myself. Now even that isn’t a guarantee.

2022 has been a rocky year, to put it mildly. I experienced new and interesting ways in which to get my heart broken. I finally caught Covid for the first time, and boy howdy, did that suck. I flew from Indiana to Oregon twice, and the second time, I returned via U-Haul with my girlfriend, two cats, and a sense that all of our lives were about to change dramatically.

Luckily for me, despite the grief and chaos, I’m a professional silver linings finder. I spent what could have been a very lonely summer pushing myself out of my comfort zone and making new friends. I finally proceeded with my legal name and gender marker change, since it no longer seemed like I’d have to time that around my surgery (else risk further insurance hurdles). Despite feeling pretty gross and miserable during my Covid experience, it also gave me the chance to slow down and rest a little without feeling as guilty about not being productive. I attended two weddings, got two(!) tattoos, started running a D&D campaign with my buddies, and even performed a very silly cowboy-themed burlesque act, complete with a fake mustache, tear-away pants, and a lasso trick that I practiced for hours using my stationary bike as a bull.

You know what they say: Save a horse…

When it comes to putting a positive spin on my indefinitely delayed surgery, however, I tend to struggle. Still, I’m looking for the bright side! To start with, between rising inflation, car trouble, and several cross-country journeys, finances are a bit tighter than usual. Even with insurance, my top surgery will be a larger expense than I’m accustomed to swallowing. I need time to fill my savings back in, and while I’m emotionally devastated by the distance between me and a flat chest, I’m financially relieved.

Another unexpected benefit of waiting is that I am immediately readable as trans to fellow trans folks. Would I like to pass as a man better than I currently do? Certainly I would, but from the jump, I figured a short, flamboyant, baby-faced fairy like me would always have some sort of tell. That aside, passing isn’t the be-all end-all of transition for some people. I like being perceived as queer, and if my bound chest tips other queer people off, then that’s great! I’m fortunate to be surrounded by friends who use my correct name and pronouns, and when trans and/or non-binary strangers see me being loud and happy and respected as transmasc regardless of the shape of my body, it conveys that this is a safe place to be oneself, even if your looks don’t line up with your identity.

On that note, I’d like to remind folks that presentation and appearance are not the same as identity. We live in a culture that has trained us to make quick and “accurate” gender assessments with everyone we encounter. That culture is shifting, albeit slowly. For most folks, their gender and their presentation are likely in sync. But for plenty of other folks, whether or not they’re transgender, that’s not the case. There are straight, cisgendered men who have lived their whole lives as men with he/him pronouns but who happen to wear more traditionally feminine clothes. The “gender reverse” of that is true as well (though perhaps less visible, considering how masculine clothes have become the “neutral” standard). I try to use neutral language until I know someone’s pronouns, and when I introduce myself, I try to include my pronouns as well.

These are behaviors and attitudes I had to learn and which I’m still learning. Despite everything I just said about avoiding assumptions, I still hope people look at me and see a man. A quirky little muppet of a man, sure, but still a man. That’s difficult when one of the major ways people make gender assessments is through body shape. I’ve managed to grow a goofy little goatee that helps guide people toward masculine assumptions, but what good is that under a mask? Even when I’m not masked, there are times when I get the quick, awkward up-down glance from strangers who are usually trying to be polite and don’t want to “sir” me in case I’m just a butchy, hirsute lady.

The best I can do for now is to continue being my boldest and kindest self. I’ve had to fight quite a lot just to get where I am now (I’ll have to write about the ridiculous experience I had just trying to get my pharmacy to fill my first testosterone prescription sometime soon, because wow, I really wish I’d been braver back then). The surgeon who spoke with me is skilled and sympathetic and surely overworked, as so many in the medical field are, especially in midst of ongoing pandemics. Currently, he’s the only top surgeon in my state who takes my insurance, and while I’m tempted to find a way to pay out of pocket for another plastic surgeon, that feels like such a financial waste.

So I’ll wait. I’ve made it this long; I can certainly make it a bit longer. My body isn’t who I am. I know this, but the more I pass, the lighter my heart feels. It’s hard knowing that there’s nothing more I can do but be patient and keep enjoying the things I do have control over.

Maybe it won’t be next summer, but some sunny July, I’ll run down a dock and dive into a lake looking more myself than ever, and I know it will feel just like flying.

Death of an Imaginary Therapist

It started with a neon-bright, alien-themed Hawaiian shirt, impulsively ordered for a family trip right before the start of the pandemic. It was gaudy and flimsy and covered in vacationing extraterrestrials lounging in flamingo floats, so of course I had to have it. As resentful as I am about capitalism’s greedy, ad-targeting claws, I admit that I fell prey to them this time.

When the package finally arrived, I could barely stop myself from leaving work early to retrieve it from my front steps. I held out until the end of the day, however, before rushing home, releasing the Chihuahuas into the backyard to potty, ripping into the bag the shirt had been delivered in, and donning my, ahem, “gay apparel.”

I admired my reflection in the hall mirror. Winter-whitened skin, screen-strained eyes, and the tackiest shirt in all the land, and yet I felt so perfectly me and good in a way that I hadn’t for quite some time. I couldn’t control the parts of me that were causing increasing discomfort - my chest, my hips, my voice - but I could put on a bright, goofy shirt. Something that communicated some part of me that I hadn’t been communicating before, even if the communication was mostly to myself.

Of course, I say it started with the shirt, but really, this has been a conversation I’ve held with myself for most of my life. That conversation has been at times aggressive and self-eviscerating, at other times whispered, muzzled. I could say it really started with buying a binder for a drag show in college, or being mistaken for a boy in a Target as a preteen, or even insisting that “I’m not Abi, I’m HENRY!!” as a child. If this all sounds familiar, it’s probably because I wrote about these incidents in 2017, when I first published a piece on my genderqueer identity. Even that could be called a start, even though I’d been talking about wibbly-wobbly gender stuff for years before that essay.

But the shirt was something different. It was a step toward a new outward presentation, something I hadn’t allowed for myself outside of select scenarios. Everything about it was unapologetic. It was confidently ridiculous. It was masculine, but in a very unserious way. It was playful, bold, and silly, and it was me.

Oh dear, I thought as I surfed a wave of euphoria. This may require action. How inconvenient.

Months passed. Strange, lonely, stressful months, and I was one of the lucky folks who didn’t get sick, didn’t experience the pain and horror of a family member or close friend dying from a disease that we should have, as a society, been able to contain and mitigate. Even so, by November, I had scheduled my first voluntary therapy appointment.

I have severe depression and anxiety. I’ve talked quite a bit on this site about my experiences with those illnesses, and my fluctuating willingness to even admit I struggle with my mental health. The American healthcare system and the general societal stigma regarding mental illnesses have hindered my willingness to seek professional help, and even when I did, negative experiences with medication and dismissive doctors scared me off for a long time. Instead, I relied on an “imaginary therapist” - a nameless, faceless figment to whom I could rehearse what I would say to a real therapist. That was helpful for venting purposes, and sometimes helped me work through irrational thoughts in order to see my situation more clearly, but talking to myself could only take me so far.

I meditated. I changed my diet. I exercised, I cleaned (although it’s never been my strong suit), I forced myself to sit outside in the sun on the days I just wanted to hide in a puddle of blankets. I researched and practiced my mindfulness. I kept a gratitude journal. For a while, those things helped, too.

But day by day, and funky Hawaiian shirt by funky Hawaiian shirt, I realized there was an underlying issue that I wasn’t equipped to handle alone. After some false starts and scheduling issues, I finally met with a therapist, and, in addition to working on my standard array of struggles, I started talking about coming all the way out of the closet.

I am now four months on a low dosage of testosterone and am going by my middle name, Gordon (Go for short!). I no longer feel like I have to be “good” or “valuable” enough to ask for people to refer to me correctly. I no longer fret over ignorant people who insist I have no right to my pronouns. History and grammar are in fact on my side, after all.

And I’m aware that I’m not alone. The isolating (and traumatizing) environment of the pandemic has brought many people face to face with themselves as individuals, and that kind of introspection tends to result in discoveries and growth. With growth comes pain, but my pain has been MASSIVELY offset by new heights of joy and self-confidence.

With that in mind, clad in a shirt as loud and weird as I myself am, I have held an imaginary funeral for my imaginary therapist. This essay stands in as a eulogy for them. Without their presence, and the encouragement of my actual, non-fictitious friends, I may not have had the strength to seek a real therapist. And had I not done that, I may have delayed my coming out even further. I regret how long it’s taken me as it is. However, I’m relieved to finally be here, and I have renewed energy for the long trail that still stretches ahead of me.

Between the time I started writing this entry and now, I’ve learned that my actual, real, would-not-be-accepted-into-Foster’s-Home-for-Imaginary-Friends therapist put in her two weeks, and I’ve seen her for the last time without even knowing it. I gotta say… That threw off my groove a little. That said, I’m grateful for the months of work I’ve done with her, and because of that positive experience, I’m more willing to seek out assistance again. The system is imperfect, not every therapist is a good match, and obstacles like insurance and stigma still block the way sometimes, but I believe in the value of forging ahead regardless.

Farewell, imaginary therapist. Hello, new tools and refreshed hope.

And hello to the bigger, happier version of myself whom I’ve gotten to know quite a bit this past year. So many loved ones have welcomed this version of me into their lives, and I’m so grateful. I’m still evolving and still struggling from time to time, but I feel lighter as I go.

As Kurt Vonnegut would say: “If this isn’t nice, what is?”

Hugs and Butterfly Kisses, Your Friend,

Go

Fairy Tale

Controversy erupted earlier this week over the release of a picture book featuring a lonely princess who, in a daring twist of convention, is rescued from her draconic captor by a handsome prince.

The book, titled innocuously as A Day in the Dragon's Tower, hit shelves with little initial fanfare. However, once readers brought the book home to their families, they discovered its contentious content, and were quick to express their distress on social media.

"Like all good catmoms, my wife and I read bedtime stories to our furbabies every night," self defense instructor Sharon Meyer-Richards (they/them/their) posted on a Facebook page called "Animoms." "Now we're forced to address a highly sexual topic with our cats well before they're ready to hear about that kind of stuff. Our youngest hasn't even been fixed yet! What are we supposed to tell her?"

Luxury soap shop owner Martin Ramirez (he/him/his) commented via Twitter: "It's a sorry day when children's books turn political. Further evidence of the #StraightAgenda."

His sentiment and ones similar to it have been repeated across the internet at a viral pace. Even the President chimed in with her opinion through a Tweet featuring the book's cover and the simple caption: "Sad. :("

Not all responses carried as much vitriol. "They could be bisexual," Tumblr user straightrightsally (unspecified pronouns) argued, spurring another online debate of whether bisexuality is even a thing.

Several mainstream booksellers are now championing the book, featuring it prominently in window displays, festooned with black and white streamers reminiscent of the Straight Pride flag. While many in the Straight Cisgender and Questioning (SCQ) community applaud the act, some remain skeptical.

"I appreciate the gesture and the representation, but, I don't know," a self-identified cisgender, heterosexual woman said in the cafe of one such bookstore, turning her copy of the book in her hands. "Like, I love that there's a story out there about a woman and a man falling in love, and the woman's even a damsel in distress, which is something you hardly ever see in kid's stories. But it feels like tokenism, you know?"

Others have voiced a similar concern, comparing the book's promotion with the tendency of large companies to adopt a black and white color scheme during Straight Pride Month as a marketing ploy. 

"They're just trying to make a buck off of SCQ folks," the shopper continued. "The author isn't straight or cis, either. Maybe xe is an ally, which is great, but I'm always a little suspicious when it comes to products that seem targeted at a cishet audience."

The author, Des Walker (xe/xem/xir), has made few public comments regarding xir latest children's story, beyond a statement on xir public Facebook page that the book's characters are open to interpretation. 

Fans of Walker's page support that perspective for the most part, with one anonymous user writing, "I don't see why such a big deal is being made. I assumed one or both characters weren't cis. Not that it should be a problem if they're both cis. It should be left up to the individual reader."

Ty Matsui (he/him/his), director of Straight Jokes for Queer Folks, disagrees. 

"It's a matter of representation," Matsui said in a vlog on the Straight Jokes website yesterday afternoon. "In the industry, we call media like A Day in the Dragon's Tower straight-bait. It's teasing its readers, suggesting the two characters could be straight, but never outright saying it."

Later in the video, Matsui talks about the representation he used to dream of as a child.

"It would have made life so much easier to have seen healthy, heteronormative couples on TV when I was young. Every time I saw a different-sex pair on the screen, it got dismissed. 'Oh, they're just siblings' or 'Oh, they're just friends, don't make it sexual,' or 'Oh, that's actually his grandma's ghost, so if you interpreted any of the dancing and hand-holding as flirting, then that's on you.'"

Despite Matsui's progressive stance, his show has received flack from SCQ viewers for reinforcing negative stereotypes and making light of straight experiences. Straight Jokes is a reality show featuring five straight, cisgender hosts who descend upon uptight queer people (usually nominated by their family members) to teach them how to dress down, relax, and appreciate the little things. The premise seems friendly and palatable, but many consider it condescending at best, and appropriative at worst.

We spoke with our own Sports writer (and casual fan of the program), Rick Brown (he/him/his), to learn more.

"The problem with [Straight Jokes] is that it takes straight culture and tries to sell it to the masses. I feel like my identity is being used as entertainment for people outside of the SCQ community. They glorify these stereotypes about us, but it doesn't make the real world any kinder to straight folks."

Brown, a cisgender man who had to wait for cishet marriage to be legalized three years ago to marry his high school sweetheart, discussed the prejudice he encountered when trying to order a cake for their wedding.

"The bakery we settled on was supportive and willing to bake for us, but when it came to the cake topper, we were harrassed over our choice. It was humiliating."

The cake topper Brown and his fiancee wanted featured a groom being dragged by the back of his tuxedo by his bride, apparently reluctant to marry the woman he proposed to. The bakery questioned Brown, suggesting a more traditional topper, perhaps one involving two people embracing, as if they both wished to be married.

Pictured: a cake topper similar to the one requested by the Browns, featuring additional elements of straight culture, including cheap beer, multi-player shooters, and poorly-fitted formal wear. Source

"That's just not our culture," Brown explained. "They talked us into a topper with a bride tugging the ear of the groom, a compromise. I didn't want to argue with them over it. I was still able to paint 'HELP ME' on the bottom of my shoes, and my best man cracked up the reception with his speech about my new ball and chain."

Brown also suspects shows like Straight Jokes encourage SCQ stereotyping in other corners of pop culture. 

"Every Halloween, you see more queer couples dressing in traditionally SCQ costumes, like plugs and sockets, hunters and deer, and giant pairs of boobs. I know it doesn't seem like a big deal, but the small things stack up."

Brown's statement is reinforced by the recent viral news story about a straight bar's emails with a queer bachelor(ette) party. The bachelor(ette) party asked the bar if it was "clean" and if there was a chance "those with uteri could become pregnant by using the [bar's] bathroom, since heteros are so susceptible to unplanned pregnancies."

"We advise you read a little more about pregnancy before you impregnate our club with your ignorance," the bar shot back.

The spread and exploitation of other cishet customs has sparked similar offense. Curious queers have insulted the SCQ community by trying out traditionally heteronormative pastimes, such as catcalling, drinking Mountain Dew while walking around Wal-Mart, entering their children in beauty pageants, and paying employees less based on their gender identity.

"If you want to engage with straight culture, that's great," Brown said when asked about SCQ appropriation. "But you also have to be on board with our cause. You have to back us up, give us your support. While our rights have come a long way in the past couple decades, we still have a long road ahead."

For many SCQ citizens, A Day in the Dragon's Tower is much more than a simple children's book. It carries a message of tolerance and diversity, even if the delivery of the message is flawed.

The woman in the bookstore cafe told us her copy of the book is for her younger cousin (they/them/their). 

"I just want them to grow up in a world where people like me and my boyfriend aren't viewed as abnormal or implicitly sexual. I want them to feel safe and loved if they happen to discover they're cishet someday," she said. "Because, at the end of the day, if you're upset over a book that's all about love and being true to yourself, then maybe you need to reevaluate your priorities."

La Vie Parallèle

A couple weeks ago, I went out to lunch with my uncle/boss/landlord (it's a whole thing). Because I am a fool, I ordered a sandwich, knowing full well my crooked little puppet mouth would struggle with it. Sure enough, I had to stop eating a quarter of the way through, because the meat was too tough for me to sever between my tongue and top teeth, which is my normal method. My uncle noticed and asked if the food was alright.

"It's good, I just, you know." I gestured to my teeth.

He did not know.

So I explained that my teeth don't meet in the front, which is something I thought was obvious about me. You can see it in my smile: this hanging, partnerless row of jagged, chipped, sawlike upper teeth. I fear it alters my speech and forces me to be deliberate with certain sounds. I worry it juts my upper lip too far out and gives me a dopey look if I don't hold my jaw a specific way.

I stuck my tongue through the gap to demonstrate the lack of slicing action, and explained my tongue method, and my not-in-public alternative of ripping into tough food with my back teeth, like a famished hyena. 

"It's because I didn't wear my retainer," I told my uncle. "I got braces earlier than most of my classmates, because my adult teeth were large and came in very fast. At least, that's how I remember it."

I did not tell him about the time I plucked out a handful of teeth to distribute to relatives at our foreign exchange student's swim meet, but the memory did surface.

"I tongued out the retainer in my sleep, so it was difficult to use overnight, and I was teased pretty bad for the speech impediment it gave me at school. After a few months, I couldn't stand it anymore, and stopped wearing it. I was already the weird kid, and in middle school, I was finally starting to realize that wasn't a good thing. I couldn't give the other kids more fodder."

I wish I had written down my uncle's response, because it took me by surprise, and I can only communicate the gist. He praised the experience of living a parallel life, of existing just outside of the beaten track and experiencing the world from an unusual angle. My messy teeth shape a unique set of experiences for me. They change what foods I order in public (sometimes, because as I've previously stated, I am a FOOL who likes SANDWICHES), and they force me to create work-arounds. Maybe my jaw and tongue are stronger for the slack they have to pick up. Maybe my teeth are more ridged and serrated than other folks' because they have to tear instead of cut. 

It's a small shift, but a shift indeed, and my uncle found that interesting and meaningful.

I've been thinking about ma vie parallèle ever since, all the little things that remove my experience from the standard human experience, and give me insight into other worlds. I think about my shortness, and my thin thumbs, and my large chest (I mean, I'm telling it like it is, folks. I got titties. They turn seatbelts and button-ups into my worst nemeses). These are small physical differences that minutely change how I interact with the world (step stools or climbing on counters, not being able to repurpose too-large family rings for my creepy aye-aye thumb, looking like a damn table-clothed picnic bench when I wear flowy shirts). 

Small, small differences, right? I'm able-bodied (and look like it). I'm right-handed. I'm white in a world that rewards me for it. I'm, ahem, reasonably attractive, creepy thumbs and buck teeth aside. There are worlds upon worlds that I never see. I don't have to look for wheelchair ramps or accessible bathrooms wherever I go. Scissors fit properly in my cuttin' hand. The only time people follow me around stores is when they think I've lost my mommy, because I'm small, acne-prone, and maintain a generally dazed/frightened expression. Sometimes people hit on me... I think. 

There are meaningful differences out there, parallel worlds that most of us don't see. There are benefits and drawbacks. There are stories that ought to be told.

And it's not all physical, either. Invisible disabilities create new angles of viewing the world as well. A topic I bring up a lot (because, and there's a theme here, I am a FOOOOOL) is mental health, and how I'm frequently in want of it. My brain does these things that I've learned to laugh at. I've talked a bit about my face-blindness, and how I've developed alternative and sometimes funny means of identifying people, and then there's the anxiety/depression/who-the-heck-knows bucket of mental illness. Like, sometimes my brain goes, "Wow, you better off yourself with this stapler so you never make that mistake again, you vacuous burden on society," and I'm like, "Whoa, my guy, I just forgot to attach a document to my last email, so maybe we leave the stapler out of this."

Sometimes I get overwhelmed and have a panic attack for seemingly no reason. Sometimes I reflexively hit myself for making innocuous mistakes. Sometimes my self-image swings from "I'm pretty sure I'm an actual wizard" to "I'm pretty sure no one would notice if I was replaced by a dummy made out of old gum and chewed up pencils for a week."

I live many parallel lives that, sometimes blessedly and sometimes cursedly, most people rarely see. I take what I experience, and I make it into stories, distributing my slices of the world to different characters, like a musician coping with depressive episodes, or a lesbian overcoming irrational guilt. I research other worlds as well, so I can allow glimpses into wider physical and psychological experiences.

What do your parallel worlds look like? Are you willing to share them? To tell stories about them, so more people can see what you see, and take your perspective into consideration? Because if you have the power to do so (and it is fine if you don't, because you ought to take the best care of yourself that you can), you can spread understanding across multiple worlds. You can unite with people who share your parallel track, and educate those who don't.

In a time when human empathy is in high demand and short supply, I think that sharing your unseen worlds is an important thing to do, if you can. And if you can, I invite you to share your stories with me. I'd love to post some guest entries, or link to your writing (or other media, if that's more your speed). 

If you'd like to get in touch with me, you can email me here.

I wish you a year of empathy and kindness, and as always, I'll be here to listen. 

Wibbly-Wobbly Gender-Bender

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)