If it’s one thing I’ll always love about dressing up, it’s all the accessorizing. Combinations are limitless, and your flair can be as small or large as you want it. I have a full shelf dedicated to various jewelry sets (most of it loud costume-y pieces), buttons, and pins– not to mention all the bags and purses threatening to fall on my head every time I open the closet door, and my growing collection of headbands.
My bling (we used to say that– do we still say that?) veers toward nerdy (a Kingdom Hearts necklace), pretty, quirky (chainsaw earrings), retro, and classy-because-I-had-to-be. The pins and buttons were reserved for that extra oompth and/or random silly thing. What was missing were all the pronoun buttons I amassed over the years…
I was taking a Staycation and spent a few days checking out the local queer film fest. I was having a blast, shooting the shit with new people as we got a card game started.
Then I heard it: the wrong one.
"Yo," I interject, "I use they/them." I tried to add a little humor as I pointed to my pronoun button: "It’s right here next to my cleavage. I know you’ve seen it!" The game started, and we played a few rounds until seating for that night’s film became available. The night went on, and I went home.
I was there for the last day of the film festival, too. I’m by myself this time to catch a special viewing and discussion. I was proud of myself– I mingled, was only a little awkward, and carried out a few conversations without stuttering. "I use they/them pronouns," I heard myself say, after my name, and I reminded here and there. The button by itself proved to be too subtle.
Then came the discussion portion of the morning. The producer, who I struck the strongest conversations with, went up to the podium. And pointed me out due to how excited I was about learning more BIPOC queer history. To thank me for supporting her. They used
she.
I smiled, awkwardly, trying to match our earlier enthusiasm.
The they/them button on my shirt felt so heavy. My heart behind it was breaking.
I don’t recall much of what happened after that; all a blur or blotted out over time. But I remember going home and ripping the button off and crying.
I try to be understanding when– not if– this happened in other ‘mainstream’ spaces. But there, I was surrounded by queer people. This was the crowd that was supposed to get it. But, no matter where I was, I always worked under the assumption that a button could be easily missed.
So I still declared.
And I corrected.
And that still never seemed to be enough.
I didn’t see the point in wearing pronoun buttons if everyone was just going to ignore them.
So I put them all away.
The years without them… haven’t changed much.
I get what my partners call "apology tours" when I correct someone. (Protip: just utter a quick ‘sorry’ if you must, then move on.)
I have officially Heard Them All– the excuses. And to those I can only hiss: "Don’t care. Do better."
I don’t bother correcting close-enough acquaintances. If they didn’t get it by now, they’re not going to. And they won’t be invited into my house.
Some queer spaces have been getting better, incorporating pronouns along with names in introduction circles. The trans-inclusive (or even better: exclusively trans) spaces are a breath of fresh air.
After a few years of them being shoved into a tiny drawer, I unearthed my pronoun buttons (and one pin). A lot of them were from Pride events or meetups, and my favorite pin– a little one, gold-on-white– was a birthday gift. Each one I held in my hand, remembering.
I put one on for the LGBTQ picnic last month.
It felt nice.
I may wear it some more.
I have my oasis. My partners and allies are always willing to go to bat for me. More people have been trying and I’m sure to thank them. But beyond that?
The buttons don’t work.
The just telling you doesn’t work.
Throwing out my CashApp and keeping tabs on each mistake isn’t working either, but at least I can buy a six pack now and then.
Positive reinforcement only works if the other party actually cares, and a lot of people still don’t. What started as a joke is going to be a serious undertaking as I begin bringing a spray bottle to the function, because I might as well have fun and use the excuse to be obnoxious.
Because if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll begin crying in frustration. And, really, I’m tired of crying.
🫂💜