Fuck. I was supposed to do things today, I like don’t even remember what they were – except that one was to get a short ‘androgynous’ haircut. I did other stuff, which I guess is good. But not the things that would’ve made packing for a 3-day family thing tonight much much easier. Or, you know, having it done already.
I cut an overdue phone conversation with Banji short to go pick Fox up. When we got home Mom was waiting for us. We had some good conversation; she’s helpful. But I was thirsty and starting to freak out that our fancy clothes were wrinkling in the wash. So I excused myself (not an easy task with Mom) and took care of it. I could tell I was on the edge, needed space from her.
I come out of the laundry room to Mom holding a blouse. It’s a thing with her. She has her ideas of what I should wear and tries to be helpful and I feel like she’s forcing her own style onto me. It’s worse now being openly genderfluid because feminine clothing tends to trigger my dysphoria.
90% of the time I go ‘gender neutral’: jeans cut for a person with big hips and thighs, a ‘unisex’ t-shirt or hoodie (or tank top), walking shoes that are marketed to men. Harder to do that with formal wear. So I’ve got my general “what to wear” anxiety on top of “fuck people are going to misgender me” anxiety on top of “I don’t even know if I’m going to feel more masculine or feminine” anxiety on top of “what will Fox’s family think if I go masculine?” anxiety. (I have a binder and a men’s dress shirt and I want to say I’m not afraid to wear them but honestly I kinda am.)
And apparently we’re sharing a room with his sister now, I thought it was gonna be just us (his parents are paying for it). So my hope that this would be a sort of extended ‘date night’ enjoying ‘us time’ away from our normal routine is … well, maybe not shattered, but more complicated. We can’t necessarily just retreat to our room if we need space (or want to do stuff that requires privacy) we have to coordinate with his sister. Who … how do I put this diplomatically? … well, she’s my husband’s sister.
My brain broke and it’s taking all my effort not to be an asshole.
Today is/has been Trans Day of Visibility, an annual celebration of trans people and opportunity for folks to be out and proud.
I think I’m fairly out on this blog but just in case, I am a proud genderfluid nonbinary trans person! My pronouns are ze zir or they them their. I originally used the former, but I’ve actually come to prefer the latter.
For anyone who’s not familiar with the terminology:
- Genderfluid means my subjective experience of my gender changes, including self-perception, bodily feelings, how I want others to perceive me, mannerisms, etc. Others have perceived changes in my energy, for what that’s worth. It seems to be mostly in response to my situation and/or the people I’m with.
- Nonbinary means I identify as a gender other than “man” or “woman.”
- Trans / transgender means I identify as a gender other than the one I was assigned at birth.
- Pronouns are words we use to refer to someone instead of repeating their name. For example: “Ziya went to the store. Ze dropped zir wallet. Thank goodness I saw it and returned it to zir!”
I recently learned of a couple developments in the visibility of nonbinary people that make me very happy. I’d been meaning to share them here, and this seems like the perfect time.
CBS News ran a story including nonbinary under the trans umbrella, explaining what it means, and featuring several different people who are nonbinary – including using their pronouns. It made me so happy to see that in mainstream media!
AP Style now allows use of they as a singular pronoun to “[…] recognize the need for a pronoun for people who don’t identify as a he or a she.” I’ll admit this seemed much more awesome when I thought it was the APA (American Psychological Association), which dictates the style and language I’ll need to use when I finally get around to writing my thesis. But if the AP approves of singular they, either APA will follow suit (if they haven’t already made the change) or I can have a stronger argument for using it.
Hopefully, as it is used more in mainstream writing, more people will become familiar with singular they and respect it when I assert my pronouns.
[Insert suitably awesome closing 1-2 sentences here.]
The “mutual friend” I mentioned in my last post has a medical condition that has affected zir hormones to the point where ze is “chemically intersex.” Ze identifies as “on the spectrum” for both gender and sexual orientation, “not completely cis and not completely straight.” Ze has shared some of zir experiences with others, but does everything in zir power to present as the gender ze was assigned at birth, and as straight. Ze wants to come out, but can’t because ze would be rejected by zir family, church, and community; ze can’t afford to take that risk right now.
Last night this friend shared details of zir condition with me that ze hasn’t been able to share with anyone else, because I’m the only person ze feels comfortable enough with. We talked about the bond we share, how we can understand each other in ways other people can’t, because we’re both somewhere in between male and female, straight and gay. We both know what it’s like to live in a world where everyone wants to put us into one of two boxes, and neither box fits; to be free of those boxes is a constant, painful, terrifying struggle. There is so much pressure to just try and find some way to fit in the box we were each assigned, let it close in around us and smother us. My friend’s struggle is currently to fit in zir box; it is the only way ze can live. As tempting as that may be at times – and believe me, it is very tempting, almost every day – stubbornly, persistently, and repeatedly breaking out of my box is the only way I can live.
I take comfort in knowing ze sees, respects, and can relate to my struggle. And ze told me last night that, since I have the courage to be out, ze can vicariously experience the freedom that brings through me. It gives zir comfort, and hope, and the strength to continue zir own struggle. That is worth every moment of fear, frustration, and uncertainty.
I’m making a difference, just by being myself.
I am a hoarder. There, I said it.
My apartment isn’t just “a mess,” it’s really, really bad. Like probably a health and safety hazard bad. And by probably I mean almost definitely. If nothing else, I keep getting sick – and I don’t think I can blame that entirely on protesting in the cold, while being precipitated upon…
But I digress.
There’s a path through the apartment: You can walk through the front door, down the hallway, into the kitchen, around the kitchen table, and out the back door.
From the hallway you can enter the bedroom and access the near side of the bed. Around the foot of the bed is a bit hazardous, and you can’t walk on the far side at all. I’ve stopped using the armoire on that side for practical clothing storage, instead I use the bed. (Fox sleeps on a futon in the living room, his choice.)
From the hallway you can enter the living room and access Fox’s futon, the TV, my desk, and my piano (if you’re brave). You can access all the important things in the kitchen, but you can’t sit at or really use the table. You can also enter the bathroom, which, umm … I don’t remember the last time I cleaned anything other than the toilet.