Scanning for anomalous gender

I stripped away anything I thought might trigger an alert, including my boots. I fully expected the usual admonishment. But I had a rejoinder ready for “You may leave your shoes on”. However, no one addressed me until I was at the front of the queue at the airport security checkpoint. “Step through,” she beckoned. I wondered if I had removed enough metal as I walked through the free-standing frame. Unusually, she studied the jewelry at my neck as I walked. Was she speculating about my gender? Would it haunt me if I ended up needing a pat down?

The green tile positioned high at my neck shared a three-letter word, an integral part of my identity, albeit one not a soul had uttered in my presence during the entire trip.

First, I replaced the bracelets which did not otherwise ever leave my arm. Then, after zipping my boots, I strode toward my gate. I passed some lavatories, considering whether I needed a stop. Instead, I popped in the adjacent restaurant and ordered a frappe.

As I sipped, I peered into the laptop I’d pressed into video-streaming service. The flick of choice was a particular episode of a long-ended show that a lover had commented on. A non-recurring character who was central to the episode stood up against her androgynous race, losing herself rather than lie about her gender. At the end of the show, I was rife with emotion. I paid my check and backtracked to handle biological needs before boarding time.

I found my way back to the bathrooms: one pictogram with pants, the other a skirt. I looked down at my tight pencil skirt as I towed my bag into the restroom behind me.

I’d spent considerable effort updating my documents. Passport, license, social security card — each bore the ‘F’ I’d so coveted when I began the process. But as pages fell from the calendar it has become apparent to me that ‘F’ was only marginally more correct than the ‘M’ had been, an idea already broached but put aside over ten years earlier. My truth was simply not an option bureaucracy was interested in recognizing, let alone the designers of the 8 year old air terminal.

After availing myself of the water closet, I stepped past someone as I moved to a sink and washed my hands. The blue-haired pixie who returned my gaze in the silver surface ahead of me blinked under inspection, until my eyes settled on that small green square hanging just above my jugular notch. Was I selling out my own identity by not asking for it to be recognized? I chided myself: at least they weren’t calling me “he”.

I looked once more, knowing the purple tile hiding beneath what I could see offered a suggestion more people might understand without explanation, but it wasn’t me.

My name is Daria. I am a non-binary transfeminine individual. Today, for National Coming Out Day, I will stop letting this identity be glossed over, hidden, made invisible. My pronouns, as before, are zie and zir, and sharing that with you is as much about asking for your respect as it is about respecting myself.