Distressed non-binary ramblings

I’ve recently come out as non-binary (or enby, I like both terms) and it should be a cause for celebration. Transitioning, or as I like to say, “making my packaging match the product inside,” ought to be joyful. And it is – until others get involved.

Don’t get me wrong, I want them involved. I want them to be happy for me. Part of coming out was not having to be alone with this stuff any more, at least in theory. But they haven’t had the time to sit with this the way I have.
I’ve always felt out of place, not a real woman but not a man either. I’ve had years to think about it. I’ve participated in LGBT+ discourse and educated myself on all things gender and sexuality. Over time I’ve grappled with the fact that maybe I’m not just a passionate ally – maybe I care about this stuff so much because it applies to me. But the people in my life don’t have this familiarity. When I’ve spoken to them about trans and non-binary issues, it wasn’t in the context of my life. Or us. It was abstract.

To them, this is new. Uncomfortable. Maybe even a bit scary.

I want to celebrate finally growing into my true self, but when I bring up things like binding and pronouns, I’m “being weird” and “no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

When I’m caffeinated and strong, I know why I must do this. I am in a position of privilege. If you want to see a change in the world, you have to be that change, and I don’t risk anything by coming out. At least, I don’t risk my career. I can’t be sacked for being non-binary. I’m not going to get thrown out of home. My church won’t excommunicate me. I live in a progressive community, so I’m fairly confident I’m not going to have issues with other parents on the playground. My being different isn’t going to be used against my children. We are safe.

I hope. I still get scared. What if I’m too much for the people in my life? What if my queerness drives them away?
Back when I was “just an ally” I used to think about how cool it would be if there was a wider range of personal pronouns for people to express themselves with – and also to write with. (If you don’t think pronouns are important, try to write a lesbian threesome. It gets confusing real fast. Clunky too.) Then my kids started coming home from school with assertions like “boys like cool things, girls like cute things” and shame for liking “boy” TV shows and I felt suffocated. I kept asking myself “What about the kids who are neither? What about the kids who don’t fit in?” When I sit in at their award assemblies I can’t see a place in any of it for people like me.

It’s like we don’t exist. Which is a whole thing of its own. To a good deal of the population, enbies are invisible. No one makes space for us. There are few resources for us. For a child, that can be stifling. And yes, enby kids do notice! They do exist. Children have a firm idea of gender expectations, expressions and identity by six years old and they know whether they fit their assigned box or not. The reason you don’t hear all that much about non-binary kids is simply that they don’t have the language to express their gender identities. Nor do many adults. This is why we have things like Non-binary People’s Day of Visibility.

When people like me who can safely come out and advocate for ourselves do so, we make space for vulnerable kids. We show the people in our communities that we are just people. We’re parents and workers and artists and couch potatoes just like everyone else. We’re not scary. We’re not perverts. Non-binary and trans people are just as successful and loved as cis people. By being my weird self, I educate the people who come in contact with me so that the next enby to come along doesn’t need to. 

Yeah, it’s really damn hard to learn new pronouns the first time you have to do it. The first time you’re exposed to neo-pronouns you are going to stumble, you are going to have to stop and think, it is going to take effort. Teaching yourself to use singular they/them is going to feel like “bad English” at first. That first friend or family member or co-worker is going to bear the brunt of all your mistakes and fumbles. You might need to get together with a few mates and actually practice using the correct pronouns for your nibling before they come over for next Sunday’s roast. But like everything else it gets easier with practice. It’s only weird and hard at first.

That’s the normalest thing there is! Think, the first few months of cooking vegan food or gluten-free food is a nightmare. You eat a lot of strange combinations and you fail many many cakes. A year later that kind of cooking is routine and you don’t think about it any more. When you first enrol at the gym, it’s weird. It’s uncomfortable. The clothes are different and your body hurts and how the fuck does this machine work? But if you keep showing up, soon you’re teaching the new guy the ropes.

Having thick skin and being willing to be misgendered all over the shop is a thing I can do to bring our world closer to the world I want to live in. A loving inclusive world where people can be their authentic selves and no one acts like puppies are being murdered when they gently remind “I’m not my genitals.”

Sometimes, however, I’m not caffeinated. 

And then I wish I never came out.

I am terrified my spouse will leave me.

I wish I had one person who was genuinely excited for me; not just tolerant of my diversity but embracing of it. 

I wish I was normal and gender issues were just news, far removed from my daily life.

Sometimes I hate myself. I hate how good I feel when people can’t tell what my sex is. I hate how much of a burden I am on the people around me.

I hate being difficult. Asking for weird pronouns (ne/hir, thank you!) and gender-neutral terms (sibling, parent, enty, spouse.)

I hate how nobody sees me for me and that I have to beg them to do so, and then they say “just be yourself,” but when I’m myself they flat out ignore me until I stop.

They say, “yeah cool,” but nothing changes.

I hate that a small part of me dies every time my kids draw a picture of me with long hair and a dress because that’s what mothers look like.

I hate that I was born as this thing that “doesn’t exist” and that I didn’t learn the words to even describe it until I’d given birth myself.

I thought that coming out would make me less lonely, but I’m more lonely than ever.  Now when people shove me toward the pink box it’s not because they don’t know that’s not my box. I’ve told them. I tell them as often and loudly as I can without being a harpy. They know! They just don’t care. They don’t see who I am, they see who they want me to be.

I don’t want to be annoying. Or a burden. I don’t want to cause anyone stress, they’re all stressed enough with their own lives. I just want to be seen as me. Spoken to and about as who I actually am.

On a macro level, I wish people like me didn’t have to fight for basic respect. Because that’s what it boils down to. If you won’t use a person’s new name or you say things like “I’ve always known you as he I’m not going to change,” that’s a flashing neon sign that tells the world “I don’t respect non-binary people”. 

But on a micro-level, I just want to feel loved and understood. I want to be WORTH understanding and loving and embracing.

But I’m not.

It’s going to take a lot of caffeine for me to deal with that today.

To end on a positive note, here’s a video my husband sent me. It healed a bruise on my heart, perhaps it will do the same for you. I don’t know why it’s so huge on PC, but you can pop the video out to watch it in a more manageable size.

Miriam Cumming spends all hir waking time writing novels, parenting hir three small humans, and main-lining coffee. If you like to talk about books and planning, you can find Miriam’s Instagram here, and if you have a friend who could benefit from reading this post, please share it.