It starts out innocently: a tomboy phase filled with chunky sneakers, awkward haircuts (sorry, Justin Bieber circa 2011), ill-fitting checkered Bermuda shorts, and initials masquerading as nicknames. Seriously, mom, all my friends call me J. At first, parents accept or even welcome this change – anything to avoid boy craziness or hyper-femininity. You’re just “Daddy’s Girl,” but that phrase fits as poorly as those ill-fated shorts. Baby gender-benders deserve better stylists. Your mom still drags you to Girl Scouts or Girls on the Run or Bible Study or holistic healers (whoever will add some pink to your life the quickest). Your dad takes you out fishing and calls you “kiddo,” happy to have someone who (from a distance) reminds him of himself.
And then the activism begins. Political events spur you to take action for marginalized communities because you’re such an ally. Always an interested bystander, simply stating the facts to the dinner table. It’s what anyone would do, right? Right? Ignore the two sports bras under your button-down, squint, and you’re a little justice warrior. Wonder Woman would be proud. Suddenly, Girl Scouts meetings become “Girls in STEM” conferences and Malala books. Your mom mentions that she burnt her bra in college; she gets it. Your dad, confused, buys pink fishing rods. Your Patchouli-loving, compressed-sock-wearing, very single aunt takes a special interest in you. Everyone’s trying.
So here you are, at the National Women’s Conference, with Aunt Jennifer. “The two O’s stand for ovaries,” she whispers conspiratorially. Above the banner hang the portraits of female trailblazers that your high school English teacher has on her many “Girl Boss” mugs, but when you adjust your posture to fit in their silhouettes, your stomach turns. You retreat into the baggy, gray hoodie your mom calls your “security blanket,” and pretend that the obnoxious AC is what’s making you shiver. Not the implication that you are different – wrong. Un-feminist. Ill-fitting. Before you can process this ball of emotions, Aunt Jennifer grabs your shoulder. Her favorite niece simply must meet all of her “girls.”
There they stand: reflections of who you could grow into. Covered in wooden beads, hiking sandals, and RBG merch, they tower over you. Sure, you admire their warm smiles, crow’s feet, and handmade “Hands off my Uterus” pins, but when you imagine your future, the shape doesn’t resemble any of them. Instead, your future shifts and refracts, like a prism or your stomach after a roller coaster. You’re not sure what this means yet, but you know that “woman” may not be an apt descriptor for your future self – or your present, for that matter. Your perspective turns from eager not-niece to hoodie-wearing infiltrator of the conference. Your mission? Find out what this revelation means for you and your gender.
You strike your best “spy” pose (hands in your pockets, eyes alert, imaginary wire in your ear), and browse the internet while surveying the conference. As you make small talk with your aunt’s gaggle of Golden Girls, an article catches your eye: “I just came out as non-binary, here’s what that means.” Your eyes widen, and your aunt uses this opportunity to usher you to the snack bar. She hands you a skillfully frosted boob cupcake (that nipple is detailed) and asks how you’re doing. “You seem distant, honey. What’s up?” Armed with a few phrases from the article (what’s an “egg,” and what does it have to do with your gender? This better not be another ovary joke), you take a breath and evaluate whether you can trust Jennifer. With your next breath, you wonder whether you can trust yourself with this new information. With a third breath, the pause in conversation grows so awkward, that the words bubble through your lips: “Aunt Jen, I think I’m non-binary.”
The next phase of your life won’t be easy, but at least you can ditch the cargo shorts and discover who you really are. The car ride home from the conference will be harder, and you’re not sure that your aunt will ever forgive you, a non-woman, for centering yourself at a women’s event (on National Women’s Day, no less). Still, on the way out, your aunt swaps her “O” joke for a factoid that Louisa May Alcott preferred going by “Lou” and said that they had “a man’s soul.” Everyone’s trying. It’s a start.
On Coming Out as Non-binary on National Women’s Day
