My Gender Is: Mind Your Business

"My privacy matters more to me than being seen 'correctly' in a space inhospitable to empathy, where nonbinary people are already subject to abuse and violence on a daily basis."
An illustration of a person wearing a striped dress
Amber Vittoria

To me, identifying as a woman feels like a final answer to a question I didn’t hear properly but have to know the answer to in order to leave the room. It’s not even the answer that gets me the most points, but it’s the only one I was taught. I know I’m genderqueer like I know there’s gallons of blood in me. It’s a fact as much as a feeling, but not something I could easily prove because it would be to my detriment as much as for the inquisitor's enjoyment. When I realized that I was genderqueer — that you can be genderqueer, that you may not identify as the gender assigned to you at birth, that sex and gender are not the same thing, that there’s a multitude of realities of both — I felt like I was given permission to run and breathe a little easier than I had before. After that freedom settled onto my shoulders I realized my new burden would be to continually make the choice between sharing this fruit of knowledge in order to explain myself, or to keep it and eat it on my own and stay nourished on my personal run through the world. I have to make this choice every day and all the time, and I have no idea if generosity will bring me harm each and every time.

Given I have enough garbage to navigate daily as queer mixed femme whose experiences are already questioned and capitalized upon, I try to mostly choose the latter. I continue to choose it. I decided years ago that my approach to explaining this part of me would be to try to explain it as little as possible. I have found, however, that a certain kind of ally likes to announce most labels for me on my behalf wherever I go, often to people whom I know and they don’t. It makes me feel used, and I know I’m supposed to feel grateful. When I see or hear strangers introduce me as “Arabelle, genderqueer” to people they don’t even know, to rooms I’m unfamiliar with, in public spaces where I can’t address the dangers first, I feel like a specimen with all the lights bearing down. I don’t want it. I want you to see me as a person first; neutral parties until determined otherwise. Why is that so hard?

It’s not that I’m afraid of “coming out” as genderqueer all the time either. I wouldn't describe my reluctance to have these conversations each time they’re possible as cowardice, or surrender, because that would imply I would feel value added to who I was if they understood me on my own terms, and that isn’t true. My privacy matters more to me than being seen “correctly” in a space inhospitable to empathy, where nonbinary people are already subject to abuse and violence on a daily basis. It means spending less time legitimizing myself to people I’m not invested in — I don’t want to work for them to see me as their equal when that is already my birthright.

I do selfhood in small ways — when asked for a bio or “about” statement with my work, I use my proper pronouns; when someone approaches me to take part in a project on the basis of gender, I correct them and check if they still relate upon new knowledge. I’m asked to be on panels or do interviews about “women’s empowerment” all the time, and so the course correction is frequent and mundane. My gender and pronouns are not listed on my résumé, and I don’t naturally enter conversations with it as leading topic. This is actually the most I’ve ever explained my stake in the subject — it is not something I enjoy explaining, but I feel compelled to write it down. I’m trying to explain the complexity of what I feel when I’m treated as a concept first, person second, and knowing I’m expected to be thankful I’m entertained at all.

I know in most ways that I’m actually lucky to be seen as a cis woman; that I get to pass through spaces and encounter less overt violence than most. That others read me as a cis woman still has never protected me from intimate partner violence, sexual harassment, or other forms of institutionalized violence, though — it is just theoretically less frequent and more pathological. Passing as cis, to me, means waking up every day knowing I’m never going to be read as who I am by most people, but also that I logically should be relieved of the burden of fighting for my specific personhood. It means asking the questions: Who gets to be seen as who they are? Who has to do “the work” of educating, and of becoming educated? What work must be done to prove me as real? And to whom? Why? How?!

There is a version of allyship in which the ally does the labor the marginalized person can’t take on; they can respect and use our pronouns in all spaces and teach others to do the same. Good! We can’t make the world better for all of us without others also doing the work. But there are places where the boundaries of an ally’s power don’t get to go, like reaching out to my personal friends and family on my behalf, without my consent, and scorning them for not being woke. This ally may think they’re teaching the people in my life, and sure, they might be initiating the conversation — but they’re entering a dynamic they were never asked or invited to join. There’s a difference between solidarity and charity, and it’s where the power goes. If I have not spoken to my family or friends about my pronouns, it is because I have chosen not to; not because I need a stranger’s help. It is a matter of safety and a matter of intimacy, and to take from me the opportunity to navigate the subject on my own terms also takes away a little bit of my personhood.

Every relationship has endless iterations of what could result from new information. Will you, as a self-proclaimed ally, take responsibility for dealing with the aftermath of your actions if it ends poorly? Will you be helping with the ugly work, the mundane work, that comes with rebuilding and loss? Do you understand how much destruction is required to build a better tomorrow, and are you really available to help build from what you tear down? A revolution isn’t just about burning things down — it is about caretaking, too. As much as we need advocates in combative situations, we also need homes to go back to.

It is necessary work, of course, to help foster conversations and realities where we can express who we are and all of our doubts; it is good to build a place where I can be they and not her, but if it means other people will reach into places where I — the person who will be harmed — will have to pick up after them, they are abandoning the very people they deign to help. I am not asking for anyone to save the world, or my family, or my world. I am asking for people to do the necessary work in their own. Make your community a safer one for the people in it to unfurl themselves. Let people be their own heroes. Or at least, trust in my capability to be my own.

I’m entitled to my privacy as much as I am my identity. I want to be respected, not known. I want to live in a world where private knowledge is a privilege, not a right. I’m in no rush to define myself. I don’t even think that is possible; that I could be so sure of who I am I could write it all down. The road to proving personhood is a harsh one, I know. An unfriendly reader is already listing ways my explanation is incomplete and my reasoning faulty. That my being genderqueer requires an explanation and description to be believed. In that case, think of it as “and then this is true, too.” That’s what I am, that feeling. That is what my gender is.

As much as I know I contain femininity in me, like my own blood and my ability to breathe, I know there’s a lot more in me than womanhood, and I am always reaching for that space — it is my true home and I don’t even know how to describe it. I have so many questions about myself and I cherish that. I don’t want to answer anyone else’s and I don’t need anyone to answer them for me either. It’s my journey. The future isn’t female or male, femininity isn’t the solution to toxic masculinity, things are more complicated that any of those narrations and I want room to doubt, room for every solution. We are our own answers and we are each other’s study partners, not guides. I am my own, first and foremost, and I don’t want a chaperone. Ask me before you define me to others. Support me; don’t speak for me. Let’s be generous with each other — for each other, as much as towards.

I hold space in the possibilities of who I am as a person, as a role, and I do this without needing the participation or validation of other people. To be known — really known — is a practice, not an event. It is a gift, but not a requirement, for personhood.

 

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