Excuse Me, Sir
On gendered nomenclature and their unintended ramifications.
It is nearly midnight, late summer, and save for distant traffic it is quiet. I walk down my front steps, two Shorkies in tow, and head towards the corner. A voice, enthusiastic and slightly intoxicated, punctures the white noise of a sleepy city. My dogs lift legs in unison over their favorite patch of weed and dirt while the voice, now a figure, pauses his phone conversation and addresses me.
“Let me ask this fine gentleman right here,” he says. “Excuse me sir, where am I?”
“Where are you?” I mutter back awkwardly.
“Yes, what street am I on?”
I respond with the number street and cross street. He repeats it to his phone. At this point, one of my dogs is curiously sniffing his ankle. He looks down.
“Cute puppies,” he exclaims smiling, slightly swaying back and forth by the weight of his dimples.
“C’mon,” I nudge the leashes and the three of us walk away.
I’m not a gentleman or a sir, I say to myself repeatedly, on rhythm with each step until we turn the corner and stop again at another favored spot for sniffing and weeing.
I reluctantly identified as male for thirty-two years. Male was all I knew that I could possibly be because of my own ignorance, denial, shame, indoctrination, and numerous other debilities, both internal and external, self-inflicted and culturally induced. Identifying as male was, simply put, not right. I am not a man; I am non-binary.
Before I said those words aloud for the first time, before the tears of acceptance and solace cascaded down my cheeks into my shaking hands, I had one last creative act of release to experience. “All that I have kept inside, all the things I was not ready to release, and all that I am came out through painting this piece.” I wrote days later, when I posted my work online. “I cannot hold onto what is not real; I can no longer claim to be something that I know I am not. I can barely put words to it. I put words to everything; that’s what I do, but I could not put words to this. I put paint to canvas instead and I found truth.” In conclusion, I wrote for all who follow me, “Identifying as male does not make sense anymore. It does not accurately represent the me you already know. It really is that simple.”
It was not until after I made this — fairly recent — declaration, did I realize how often I am referred to as male.
It stings each time.
Almost every time this occurs the inflicter has no animosity in mind, but intentions do not matter. Intentions are not an invisible shield, warding off potential damage to our psyche; intentions do not obstruct the harm words or actions elicit. No, they are merely a bandage for afterwards, a dressing to suppress and protect the wounded piece of flesh and bone and body and soul.
Many people, myself formerly included, use gendered nomenclature (e.g. sir, dude) as gender-neutral terms of endearment or respect. It is difficult to change patterns of language we use on a regular basis. I still struggle with various terminology and slang. However, using the excuse — for that is what it is, an excuse — of not meaning it this way or that has nothing to do with me. It is not for me; it is for you. It is a rationalization created by fragility and dislike of change. When you use a male-specific term in addressing me, internally I scream I am not a man! every time.
Anne Curzan reminds us in her TED Talk (What Makes a Word “Real”?):
“If a community of speakers is using a word and knows what it means, it’s real. That word might be slangy, that word might be informal, that word might be a word that you think is illogical or unnecessary, but that word that we’re using, that word is real.”
The effect that word has on others is just as real as the word itself. Too often, we forget or ignore this. When I or other trans individuals say that a word is hurtful or frustrating or offensive, whether it be a slur, an incorrect pronoun, or a gender-specific title, please listen. The urge to defend or argue intentions do nothing for us. Words hold power. Let’s not abuse it.
