i don’t always correct people when they misgender me

does that make me a bad queer?

“We’ve Been Alone Since the Start” by Felicia Chiao

i have a confession to make—

i’m a they/them, and i rarely correct people when they use she/her pronouns to describe me.

yes, this comes from a fear of confrontation—and sometimes, out of a necessity to keep myself safe from perceived danger in any given interaction. and yes, this also comes from a cultural place of having been raised not to be a burden to those around me, even if it comes at the price of my own comfort or happiness.

but i guess what i’m wrestling with most is, am i supposed to feel ashamed for not correcting people when they don’t use my pronouns?

or rather, am i forsaking my responsibility to not only stand up for my authentic self but also for the dignity of other trans, nonbinary, and gender non-conforming people of the world?

i feel it’s important for me to note that when others get misgendered or have their pronouns dismissed in front of me, i’m quick to swoop in and correct on their behalf. call it a savior complex or martyrdom, what have you, but it’s much easier for me to advocate for others than it is to advocate for myself.

in fact, when i’ve had friends correct people when they use she/her pronouns to describe me, i always feel somewhat ashamed—ashamed that they are so willing to step up on my behalf when sometimes, i’d much rather leave it alone.

i don’t know if this makes me a bad queer, a messy queer, a complicated nonbinary bitch, or all of the above. but i’d rather air out the truth of how my body reacts to these moments than try to come across as a know-it-all.

because most of the time, i feel like i know absolutely nothing.

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recently at work, we had a zoom call with a speaker who was going to present to our entire organization his historical take on this year’s black history month theme, “african americans and labor”. this was a prep call, so there were only a few of us on zoom land, all of whom happened to be woman-identifying—except for me.

i’m grateful that it’s common practice at my workplace to include our pronouns in our zoom names. but as this speaker commended our efforts to continue incorporating DEI into our workplace culture, he continually offered his praise with, “keep up the good work, ladies.”

now, a few caveats—first, this was a 30-minute zoom call; it was quick and to the point, and we were running on a tight schedule trying to land this call in the first place.

second, because of the fast-paced nature of this call, the speaker may not have seen our zoom names and pronouns to begin with.

third, even if he saw my pronouns were they/them, it’s also entirely possible for someone to identify as a woman and use they/them pronouns—i’m sure there are many.

but caveats aside, i hate being called a lady. i have always had a physical repulsion to the word—so don’t call me a lady and don’t tell me to be ladylike unless you want to see me retch and gag, and not in a sickening way.

i didn’t say much on the call. there wasn’t too much for me to say. but afterwards, i got a slack message from a coworker apologizing for the speaker’s use of the word “lady” and for not speaking up on my behalf.

this is where the guilt sets in—it’s hard for me to accept community care when i made the decision not to say anything myself. i replied to their message, thanking them for thinking of me, but reinforcing the fact that i said nothing as well—and that was mainly due to the nature of the call being so fast and focused.

but it’s situations like these that make me realize, perhaps i’ve missed an opportunity to queer the norm. not that all queerness has to be a disruption, but by definition, it asks us to expand our understanding of what has been normalized and reimagine and implement new ways of being and relating to one another.

most of the time, i convince myself that i don’t speak up because it would take too long. instead of just saying, “i’m not a lady, thanks”, i imagine i’d end up derailing the conversation into a studio pitch for my biopic, explaining and exploring the nuances of gender identity that i’ve come to understand as an extension of my truth.

but is it realistic of me to worry that the conversation would automatically shift into this high-definition gear?

or is it really just as simple as, “these are my pronouns, thanks!”?

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i firmly believe that i do not owe everyone my story.

i recognize that it is a privilege to know me and to value my worth and experience.

if i corrected people every time they misgendered me, whether knowingly or not, i’d never stop fucking talking.

but i keep asking myself, can self-advocacy actually be malleable enough to bend both ways—to encourage me to strengthen my voice, and also take ownership of moments where i choose to protect my peace?

— misao

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