A tearful tale, care of Kelsey Smoot, “a cultural and gender theorist, a writer, an advocate, and a poet”:
Terms and conditions apply.
Lately, I’ve been embroiled in what feels like constant conversations about pronouns. The wrong ones. The right ones. The preferred ones. Hint: That third category is defunct.
As a nonbinary trans person who uses they/them/theirs pronouns as my terms of address, I suppose I should be celebrating this influx of discourse on the proper usage of pronouns. Truthfully, I’m exhausted.
In the six years since I have “come out,” I’ve witnessed the concept of pronoun inclusivity shift from fundamentally Martian to hotly contested.
On the macro level, pronouns have become a cultural battlefield, an email-signature garnish, a token signifier of righteousness for organizations who want to rebrand themselves as politically savvy and inclusive. Personally, within several of my closest relationships, the fact that I require ungendered pronouns when referring to me in the third person has become the source of deep strain and disappointment.
I have lived a relatively transient life, undertaking several cross-country moves, and my friends and family hail from and are currently situated within a diverse range of locales ― large cities, suburban landscapes and small rural towns ― with varying political orientations. I have always felt fortunate to have found love and support in so many different places.
But I feel duped by some of the positive reactions from my friends and loved ones when I initially came out as transmasc/nonbinary. In retrospect, that was the easy part. I was the only one changing.
In the years since, I have come to find that I am in constant competition with my past. For a while, I flinched when I was misgendered but said nothing. Then, I began giving gentle reminders, followed by long-winded overtures of understanding. I felt guilty and embarrassed, and made sure to emphasize that effort was all that mattered to me.
Recently, though, I’ve begun pushing back: “You’ll have to do better” is my new refrain.
”It’s not that easy,” folks say. “I’ve known you for so long. I can’t just shift overnight.”
I am bitterly resentful of my resilient former self. Like a ghost, the memory of prior me looms overhead, my family and friends gazing upward longingly, seemingly desperate for a reprieve from my militant current iteration — the me who demands to be termed accurately.
“‘They’ is plural,” some argue. “It’s ‘incorrect’ English.” Or “What about the facts of human biology?” Or “Shouldn’t you also be concerned with my comfort?”
“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” they assert. And yet, they insist: “I mean no disrespect. I love you. I accept you. I’m trying. I need more time.“
I struggle to articulate what it feels like to be misgendered. There are dozens of relevant metaphors. A million tiny paper cuts, I decide upon. Individually, they sting. En masse, they can overwhelm the nervous system. Become infected.
However, it isn’t for lack of care, I’m reassured.
I recently shared a story with a close family member of having been misgendered by a friend’s partner. My friend had defended me, and a falling-out between the couple had ensued. I was genuinely crestfallen when my relative responded with, “You realize that you ruined their relationship, right?” I bit my lip and looked away, opting to change the subject.
While the interaction was hurtful, it also underscored to me that these interactions do not simply constitute slips of the mind or squabbles regarding semantics. What is central to these moments is an interrogation of personhood, not pronouns.
Read it all to understand how bad mental health is today.
www.huffpost.com
Terms and conditions apply.
If You Think My Pronouns Are Optional, We Can't Keep Being Friends
Lately, I’ve been embroiled in what feels like constant conversations about pronouns. The wrong ones. The right ones. The preferred ones. Hint: That third category is defunct.
As a nonbinary trans person who uses they/them/theirs pronouns as my terms of address, I suppose I should be celebrating this influx of discourse on the proper usage of pronouns. Truthfully, I’m exhausted.
In the six years since I have “come out,” I’ve witnessed the concept of pronoun inclusivity shift from fundamentally Martian to hotly contested.
On the macro level, pronouns have become a cultural battlefield, an email-signature garnish, a token signifier of righteousness for organizations who want to rebrand themselves as politically savvy and inclusive. Personally, within several of my closest relationships, the fact that I require ungendered pronouns when referring to me in the third person has become the source of deep strain and disappointment.
I have lived a relatively transient life, undertaking several cross-country moves, and my friends and family hail from and are currently situated within a diverse range of locales ― large cities, suburban landscapes and small rural towns ― with varying political orientations. I have always felt fortunate to have found love and support in so many different places.
But I feel duped by some of the positive reactions from my friends and loved ones when I initially came out as transmasc/nonbinary. In retrospect, that was the easy part. I was the only one changing.
In the years since, I have come to find that I am in constant competition with my past. For a while, I flinched when I was misgendered but said nothing. Then, I began giving gentle reminders, followed by long-winded overtures of understanding. I felt guilty and embarrassed, and made sure to emphasize that effort was all that mattered to me.
Recently, though, I’ve begun pushing back: “You’ll have to do better” is my new refrain.
”It’s not that easy,” folks say. “I’ve known you for so long. I can’t just shift overnight.”
I am bitterly resentful of my resilient former self. Like a ghost, the memory of prior me looms overhead, my family and friends gazing upward longingly, seemingly desperate for a reprieve from my militant current iteration — the me who demands to be termed accurately.
“‘They’ is plural,” some argue. “It’s ‘incorrect’ English.” Or “What about the facts of human biology?” Or “Shouldn’t you also be concerned with my comfort?”
“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” they assert. And yet, they insist: “I mean no disrespect. I love you. I accept you. I’m trying. I need more time.“
I struggle to articulate what it feels like to be misgendered. There are dozens of relevant metaphors. A million tiny paper cuts, I decide upon. Individually, they sting. En masse, they can overwhelm the nervous system. Become infected.
However, it isn’t for lack of care, I’m reassured.
I recently shared a story with a close family member of having been misgendered by a friend’s partner. My friend had defended me, and a falling-out between the couple had ensued. I was genuinely crestfallen when my relative responded with, “You realize that you ruined their relationship, right?” I bit my lip and looked away, opting to change the subject.
While the interaction was hurtful, it also underscored to me that these interactions do not simply constitute slips of the mind or squabbles regarding semantics. What is central to these moments is an interrogation of personhood, not pronouns.
Read it all to understand how bad mental health is today.
If You Think My Pronouns Are Optional, We Can't Keep Being Friends
"Year after year, I’ve accepted half-hearted apologies and nebulous reassurance from folks who claim to have a deep investment in my happiness."
