Tag: non-binary

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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.

A variety of they/them pronoun pins.

 

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.

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Throwback Thursday: Fri, 03 Oct 2014 15:00:55 on the VerboseTerse instance, yadda yadda yadda. Notable that this was for the write31days challenge for that year; I decided to write about my non-binary gender experience. This is from the third day, about my doubts before coming out.


So far, this is the hardest entry I have to write.


I am going to be 30 years old relatively soon. And only two years ago I’ve come to terms with not being a binary gender. Late to the party– better late than never– but I still feel some type of way about it.


Fuck High School


My initial, knee-jerk response to “What the hell took you so long?!” is to cite the lack of information and representation I was able to get my hands on. I keep saying that… but I have a print out of this page still and it is largely unchanged. So I can only use that excuse for so long.


5% was bigoted asshattery.


My high school was a tiny dangerously-close-to-fern thing in the middle of central Not Progressive Ha Ha. We ran out the only decent Spanish teacher because he was a city slicker. Out of the grand total of two gay young men we managed to run off one of them within a month. And of course, kids being kids with slurs in their mouth.


You do the math.


85% was just pure denial.


Some of it can be attributed to my poor grasp of gender, even with the info laid out to me. The gist was I was still working off the binary system with the faintest understanding of transgender (and that’s being kind). Furthermore, I was still under the illusion that bi/pansexuality was merely a phase and I was going to grow out of it eventually. Nevermind that to this day I associate a Sugarcult song with my First Serious Crush on A Girl. And my favorite movie wa, and still is, But I’m A Cheerleader.


clea duvall holding a train of paper girls
FORESHADOWING THAT WAS 1/2 OR 2/3’D RIGHT


10% was fear.


Like any teen, I wanted to fit in. Just a smidge. Just enough. I also didn’t want (what I felt was at the time) the eventual heartbreak and isolation if I pursued these thoughts. So I forced contentment of something I was much more familiar with- unrequited love and alienation on my terms (and the first term was “that weird kid that walked in the rain and kicked trees”- conveniently not too alienating, just weird as fuck).


This fear was also borne of not letting down my parents. They were cool with me through my Wiccan phase and was alright with me taking my best friend to the prom, but the possibility that I was probably trans squicked my father, at least.


Moral of this story is being a teen sucked and trust no one that says otherwise.



No Longer a Teenage Dirtbag


But enough about that. Fast forward to a) finally dealing with my pansexuality and came out in college b) just ended a relationship that was another failed statistic in the mono/poly configuration, 1.5 years post college (I was the poly). So, in one of my brooding moments, I got to sitting around thinking about my gender.


Like, really think about it. In a space where I wouldn’t get shit for not shaving my sideburns and not be called somethin’ gendered every 10 minutes, even in jest. And in a place where I’m certainly more knowledgeable about Stuff. And Things. And learnin’ all the time.


I had so many doubts. Two of my entries from a particular meltdown were titled “I may not be trans enough.” And I was just a worrywart.


  • Was this just borne of frustration of being feminine-read/patriarchy?

  • Do I need hormones? / Am I still validated without needing surgery?

  • Was this because of my parents?

  • Am I trans? If I am cis, do I still get to be genderqueer?

  • Can I be genderqueer? Am I trendergrender or something?

  • Am I ready?

  • Am I sure?


The majority of these questions was when there were so many different variations of the definition of cis floating around. Not to mention the truscum gatekeepers got me fucked up- I assure you, I’ll talk about them later.


And I was finally, finally shedding the last of the fear and truly Stopped Giving Much Less of a Fuck.


So.


Yea.


I’m pretty fucking sure.


After a solid year of second guessing, and a life of little cascaded moments.