What Pronouns Do You Prefer?
“I never know how I’m going to be read, but I recognise the revulsion a mile away. And from strangers I can sometimes bear it. The twist of the knife is when it comes from women who like it, as long as no one else can see me with them. I think most of the time they don’t even know. They can’t articulate the shame they feel for desiring someone who looks like me. And how that desire marks them as deviant too.”
This is a new question. I often confuse people with my ‘gender presentation’, but twice now I’ve been asked what pronouns I prefer and it makes me uncomfortable. It shouldn’t, because they’re very well intentioned. It’s a way to acknowledge everyone’s experience and sense of self. And I’ve often felt my sense of self is lacking, so I should appreciate this effort.
I hear women talk of the power of their high heels, the power of that favourite dress. And how when they’re getting all dressed up, they feel sexy. Powerful. Invincible. I feel that way in a finely cut pair of pants, a crisp shirt and boots. And I can’t work out what it is about a fresh, sharp haircut that makes me feel like a million bucks, but it does. And then I leave the house. Despite being used to it, it doesn’t take much. A double take from smirking teenagers. A confused look from a middle aged woman. Perplexed, then disgusted. And then my swagger shrinks, and the shame sets in. I suddenly feel the shame of the world seeing me as a young boy, then more shame when they realise I’m butch. My clothes can be my armour, but also my undoing. I never know how I’m going to be read, but I recognise the revulsion a mile away. And from strangers I can sometimes bear it. The twist of the knife is when it comes from women who like it, as long as no one else can see me with them. I think most of the time they don’t even know. They can’t articulate the shame they feel for desiring someone who looks like me. And how that desire marks them as deviant too.
At these times I feel an intense amount of shame – shame that being asked about my preferred pronoun should counteract. But for some reason it doesn’t. Asking in a queer space about pronouns doesn’t stop me being removed from women’s toilets, doesn’t stop the weird looks and crawling humiliation. The only thing that really stops that feeling has to be myself. Has to be writing it down. Has to be finding others like me, and being able to ask to speak it all out loud. Has to be knowing there’s nothing to be ashamed of.
This is a new question. I often confuse people with my ‘gender presentation’, but twice now I’ve been asked what pronouns I prefer and it makes me uncomfortable. It shouldn’t, because they’re very well intentioned. It’s a way to acknowledge everyone’s experience and sense of self. And I’ve often felt my sense of self is lacking, so I should appreciate this effort.
I hear women talk of the power of their high heels, the power of that favourite dress. And how when they’re getting all dressed up, they feel sexy. Powerful. Invincible. I feel that way in a finely cut pair of pants, a crisp shirt and boots. And I can’t work out what it is about a fresh, sharp haircut that makes me feel like a million bucks, but it does. And then I leave the house. Despite being used to it, it doesn’t take much. A double take from smirking teenagers. A confused look from a middle aged woman. Perplexed, then disgusted. And then my swagger shrinks, and the shame sets in. I suddenly feel the shame of the world seeing me as a young boy, then more shame when they realise I’m butch. My clothes can be my armour, but also my undoing. I never know how I’m going to be read, but I recognise the revulsion a mile away. And from strangers I can sometimes bear it. The twist of the knife is when it comes from women who like it, as long as no one else can see me with them. I think most of the time they don’t even know. They can’t articulate the shame they feel for desiring someone who looks like me. And how that desire marks them as deviant too.
At these times I feel an intense amount of shame – shame that being asked about my preferred pronoun should counteract. But for some reason it doesn’t. Asking in a queer space about pronouns doesn’t stop me being removed from women’s toilets, doesn’t stop the weird looks and crawling humiliation. The only thing that really stops that feeling has to be myself. Has to be writing it down. Has to be finding others like me, and being able to ask to speak it all out loud. Has to be knowing there’s nothing to be ashamed of.
