The author says that he flinched when he was misgendered but has begun pushing back.
I've been having constant conversations about pronouns. The wrong ones. The right ones. The one that was preferred. The third category is no longer active.
I think I should be celebrating this influx of discourse on the proper usage of pronouns because I am a trans person who uses they/them/ theirs pronouns as my terms of address. I'm exhausted.
In the six years since I came out, the concept of pronoun inclusivity has shifted from fundamentally Martian to hotly contested.
pronouns have become a cultural battlefield, an email-signature garnish, a token signifier of righteousness for organizations who want to rebrand themselves as politically savvy and inclusive. The fact that I require un gendered pronouns when referring to me in the third person has become a source of strain and disappointment in several of my closest relationships.
My friends and family hail from and are currently situated within a diverse range of locations, with varying political orientations, and I have lived a relatively short life, undertaking several cross-country moves. I have found love and support in so many different places.
Some of the positive reactions from my friends and loved ones when I first came out as transmasc/nonbinary were not legit. That was the easy part. I was the only one who was changing.
I have come to realize that I am in constant competition with my past. When I was misgendered, I flinched but didn't say anything. I began giving gentle reminders, followed by long-winded overtures of understanding. I made sure to emphasize that effort was all that mattered to me, and I felt guilty and embarrassed.
I have begun pushing back: "You will have to do better."
It is not that easy, people say. I can shift overnight.
I am not happy with my former self. My family and friends look upward, seemingly desperate for a reprieve from my militant current iteration, as the memory of prior me looms overhead.
Some argue that they are correct.
They assert that the world doesn't revolve around you. They insist that they mean no disrespect. I love you. I accept you. I'm trying. I need more time.
I don't know what it feels like to be misgendered. There are many metaphors. I have a million tiny paper cuts to make. They sting individually. They can overwhelm the nervous system. Become sick.
I am reassured that it isn't for lack of care.
I shared a story with a family member of a friend who had been misgendered. A falling-out occurred between the couple and my friend. I bit my lip and looked away when my relative said, "You realize that you ruined their relationship, right?"
The interaction underscored to me that these interactions don't just constitute slips of the mind or squabbles about semantics. The interrogation of personhood is what is at the center of these moments.
My friends and family might support progressive political ideologies, but they might also support my idea of authenticity. They don't see that these are the critical moments in which my identities are affirmed or nullified.
I feel bad about the times when I have avoided asking the hard questions that would show my respect for my trans identity. Is defending me worth losing a relationship? Do you care about me more than the ways in which my presence improves your life?
I struggle to articulate what it feels like to be misgendered. There are dozens of relevant metaphors. A million tiny paper cuts, I decide upon. Individually, they sting. En masse, they can overwhelm the nervous system.
The result of these interactions has been a negative effect on my relationships. I feel like I'm withdrawing from people I love because I'm avoiding interactions that might lead to misgendering and shrinking in conversations that once felt safe and enjoyable.
I have been told that spending time with me feels more cumbersome now. Some of my most cherished counterparts feel uneasy about the intentionality that goes into changing their perception of me.
New connections are often marked with a similar tension regarding my pronouns. A friend recounted a conversation she had with a friend of hers in anticipation of the first meeting.
I don't recall ever explicitly stating a maximum quota on misgenderings per new acquaintances, but she warned her friend with surprising accuracy. They're not likely to have a friendship with you beyond that.
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My friend replied that it was correct.
Kels is going to live a lonely life if that is true.
I took a moment to think about her prediction.
The fear of loneliness is triggered by the idea of dwindled community. I have accepted half-hearted apologies and assurances from people who claim to have a deep investment in my happiness but have been unwilling to work toward improvement in understanding my identities and experience.
It wasn't until recently that I began to think about the idea of leaving. I need people. The current emotional arrangement is no longer tenable.
I will no longer fight you on your truth because of the emergence of the new grammar evangelists and free speech activists in my life. You have the right to reject my pleas for change. Your requests for unmonitored, unfettered time and space to prepare for ambiguous future growth will be honored. I will be more absent.
The idea of losing some of the people closest to me is devastating. Having access to me, my time and my company is a gift, not a given, for anyone in my sphere. I'm clear on my inherent worth as a person, even though society devalues me.
This process of change requires a lot of effort. I think that trans and nonbinary people are worth the effort.
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