The Pronoun Game

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, someone asked me, “What are your preferred pronouns?”

I was sitting outside a Starbucks with my girlfriend, chatting about types of hot peppers, when one of her mom-friends walked out of the Starbucks with another mom, their two toddlers in tow.

“LT!” exclaimed my girlfriend’s mom-friend when she saw us.

“E!” exclaimed my girlfriend, and she ran over to hug her friend.

E and my girlfriend walked back over to our table, where we offered her some of our food and talked about types of hot peppers.

“You remember Eliza?” said my girlfriend.

“Yes, I do,” E said warmly, and we shook hands.  Then she asked:  “What are your preferred pronouns?”

The question confused me.  Was she asking if I was trans?  Wait — do I *look* trans?  But… what does it mean to “look” trans, anyway?  Did she not remember meeting me six months earlier?  Hadn’t LT referred to me as “she” and “her” back then?  And after all, LT was extricating herself from a heterosexual marriage and coming out as lesbian to her suburban mom-friends… coming out as lesbian implied she would be with a woman, right?

Right?!

Like I said, it was the first time in my life someone had asked me that, so please excuse my resultant crinkled brow, the fifty questions that ran through my mind in 3.2 seconds, my slowness in answering, and my final embarrassed response that,

“I’m just… I’m just Eliza.”

“Just Eliza?” said E, and her brow was crinkled, too.  I think she was as confused by my response as I was by her question:  Did that mean she was only to refer to me by name, never by a pronoun?

LT intervened.  “She’s a she.  You can say ‘she’ and ‘her.'”

E seemed relieved.  “Oh, okay,” she said.

And from there we went back rather seamlessly to talking about types of hot peppers, how to cook cacti, and eliminating sugar from one’s diet.

The Tangled Complications of Progressive Politics

After E took her toddler home for a nap, after we’d exhausted the topic of hot peppers, LT eventually said:

“E is such a sweet person, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“The fact that she asked you about your pronouns shows how kind and considerate she is,” said LT.

It does? I thought.  “Yes,” I said.  “Totally.”

LT’s no fool.  She knew it had made me feel weird and uncomfortable.  So she went on to explain how asking about pronouns is just “a thing” now. A normal part of polite society amongst progressives.  When she was at her queer literature fellowship over the summer, she said, everyone’s name tag had the standard “Hello, my name is ________,” but beneath that it said, “My preferred pronouns are ___________.”

I’m not sure that LT totally understands my defensiveness around gender.  I mean, I know she understands to some extent, but… well…

I will try to explain my defensiveness like this:  My defensiveness comes from being called “sir” by mistake all my life.  It comes from kids on the playground in elementary school asking me if I was a boy or a girl — and not in a progressive politics kind of way.  In a Mean Girls way.  It comes from women doing a double-take at the sink in a public restroom when they come up next to me and, for a moment, think that there’s a male in the women’s room.

It comes from the time the little girl dragged her mother into the locker room at the karate dojo and pointed at me to prove that, see? There really was a boy in the girls’ locker room and her mommy needed to chase me out. (The little girl had told me in no uncertain terms a few minutes earlier that I needed to leave, and refused to believe me when I said that I was a girl.  How do you *not* feel like some sort of creepy predator in a situation like that even when you’ve done nothing wrong?)

It comes from being in women’s locker rooms even to this day, carefully not looking at anyone in particular, lest I make them feel uncomfortable.

I hope you can see the irony in that:  I’m the one who works really hard to not make everyone *else* feel uncomfortable.  Don’t forget that the word “homophobia” has “phobia” in it, and somehow it’s the job of the homos to alleviate that phobia.

My defensiveness around gender comes from a lifetime of defending the right to be female.  Of defending the right to be *addressed* as female.

But I never get to forget that I’m different for very long.

I’m a girl, goddammit.

I know I’m not supposed to stutter and stammer and feel defensive when a very kind and well-meaning progressive person asks me, “What are your preferred pronouns?”  I know they’re only trying to be nice.  I know I should applaud it as progress.

But for me, it still just feels like defending my right to claim “female” as one of my identities.

Because here’s the thing:  The question “What are your preferred pronouns?” is not a normal question like, “Oh, what are you eating?” or “Hey, isn’t it a beautiful day today?” or “What have you been up to?”

It’s not a handshake question.

But more accurately:  It’s not a handshake question for *everyone*.  It’s a question you ask only of “certain” people. People who are different.  And just by asking them, you remind them of their difference.  You set them apart.

Some people want to be set apart.  They want their differences to be recognized.  But there is a difference between *choosing* to be set apart and having someone else make that decision for you.

No one is going to shake LT’s hand, for example, and then immediately ask her what her preferred pronouns are.  (Well, okay, maybe at a queer literary conference, but otherwise…)  And why would they?  On the broad spectrum that is gender, she has the dial cranked as far as you can go to the “female” side.  She has long hair — and bangs!  She tweezes.  She wears make-up and dresses and gets her nails done and carries a purse.  No one is going to shake her hand for the first time and say, “Yes, I remember you!  What are your preferred pronouns?”

No one will ever ask her to defend her right to be female.

“You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill,” my mother might say.  It’s one of her favorite expressions.

Just because E was the first person to ask what pronouns I prefer doesn’t mean she’ll be the last.  And when the next person asks, it will be important that I try to smile and give them a straight answer (pun intended) and feel grateful for progressive politics and not feel like I’m being put on the spot or being asked to justify my womanhood.

And if I don’t feel grateful?  If I feel defensive anyway, despite my best intentions?  Well, then, I will chastise myself later.  Because after all, no one was attacking me.  Because I’m making a mountain out of a mole hill.

And because even though I’m the one who’s uncomfortable, it’s nevertheless somehow my job to make sure I don’t make anyone else uncomfortable.  The first time I was misgendered (that I remember) I was four years old.  You’d think I would’ve learned by now:  Be gracious.  Smile.  Don’t embarrass anyone.

People like E… they want to support me.  They will ask me about pronouns because that’s what they think they’re supposed to do to be a Supportive Ally.  Honestly, it reminds me just a little bit of when all the liberal white people started wearing safety pins to show they were a “safe space” for people of color, and all the people of color (at least amongst my own friends) were a little like, “Wha…?  And who asked you to do that?”

It’s like, it’s sweet, but…

Can’t we just talk about chili peppers instead?  I’m having a nice lunch and it’s a pretty day outside, and for once in my life, I don’t want someone to remind me that I’m different.