Patience and Self Empathy

Today started out as a good day. And one absentminded comment from a stranger unraveled me.

This morning I prepped work for my Mom and I for me to deliver to a local gallery, freshly showered, mask on face, clean clothes—pants and all. Big deal. After dropping off some art and catching up with one of the owners I bought a handmade happy mug and my annual pysanky egg ornament. Then I left to run a few errands, one of which was to swing by the bank to deposit all of my loose change.

I’m not sure it’s this way with all banks right now, but my bank’s lobby was closed due to the pandemic and all business has to be done online, via mobile, at ATMs, or through the teller window or chutes. I certainly appreciate the safety for everyone involved, so I stayed patient and kept listening to an audiobook. After maybe 15-20 minutes my car made it to the front of the line and I saw one of my regular tellers. I explained what I wanted to do. She said “all good” and sent me a few coin bags, told me what to do, acknowledged that it would take some time for me to do it so they said they’d redirect anyone who pulled in behind me to other open lanes.

I’m working on my bags, I’ve pre counted and sorted everything, written everything down for reference. A car pulls behind me, they redirect, and few minutes later I overhear an impatient woman in the lane next to me
(same woman who had pulled in behind me) complain to the tellers through the intercom, “I’ve been waiting behind this guy for 10 minutes.”

I’ve been waiting behind this guy for 10 minutes…

For some quick background, for those of you who don’t know, Crowing Hens Bindery is owned and operated by one woman. Me. I’ll be 37 in a week. I’ve never felt more secure about how I look and feel about myself. It’s taken me a long time to get where I am.

So… I’m cashing in my counted and bagged change—everything from my dollar coins to my half dollars that I collected so I wouldn’t spend them (it seemed like a good idea that year). Everything except my $7+ worth of pennies because about the time Ms. Karenconvenienced misgendered me, my sandwich bag of pennies ripped open, spilling out my diligently counted coins onto and under my passenger seat. I eventually finished my business—minus the pennies and thanked my teller. I drove off and side-eye glared at the woman in the next lane (she didn’t notice). I get home and start hunting for pennies in car crevices and tried to go about my day.

But I kept thinking about what happened and wanted to figure out why it still bothered me. “I’ve been waiting behind this guy for 10 minutes.”

Was it being misgendered? Yeah, that hurt. To be honest, it happens a lot, mostly by strangers, mostly in social settings, sometimes at the 2nd job I had before the pandemic. Last year I was even followed into the bathroom at work by a woman who thought I wasn’t supposed to be there, who insulted me and gawked at me until I left. The potty police. That had never happened before. And yes, I reported the incident.

I’ve been misgendered for well over half of my life, ever since I was a kid. Even when I had long hair. The options for responding are varied based on the situation, but are typically compassionate because I can tell people usually realize they’ve made a mistake. They’re embarrassed, they correct themselves, and apologize. Sometimes I don’t correct them because I don’t like confrontation and it doesn’t feel like it’s worth the chance of making it worse. Sometimes I find it funny, but most of the time it hurts. And it’s been hurting a lot more lately.

“Are you a boy or a girl?” Letterpress printed linocut and metal type, 2017.

It hurts to be misgendered. It hurts to be viewed through the eyes of a community that filter “femaleness” as a narrowly defined category of features that exclude me, especially in my hometown, which has been voted one of the “friendliest cities” in the US. It’s one of the main reasons why I started my “Tomboy” series of self-portrait linocuts in 2017, especially after I felt the country was continuing to shift to an atmosphere of discrimination and intolerance towards people like me. I had never before felt compelled to make any art that felt personal until I began to process my own experiences of gender, sexuality, and otherness in my art.

I wish I knew this would eventually stop being a theme in my life, but I know it probably won’t. Sometimes, and especially when I was younger, people would say, “well, why don’t you just do this and that to ‘look’ more female. You’re pretty, why are you trying to hide?” Here’s the deal: I’ve tried that. I went through painful years—both as a child and as an adult—trying to express myself as more outwardly, stereotypically “feminine” to try to fit in, to try to avoid being misgendered (even at a time I didn’t know that term even existed.) I grew my hair out, I wore jewelry, I suffered through cosmetics, I bought women’s clothes in colors I didn’t like that never fit me well. I learned to be less assertive, I grew quiet. I was very unhappy, and most of the time I didn’t know why.

“You have nice hair. Why cut it all off?” Letterpress printed linocut and metal type, 2019.

I’m tired of being told that if I only looked a certain way, or acted a certain way, or wore this color, or that thing that I’d be less likely to be mistaken for a man, or a boy, for that matter. I’m tired of being told that it doesn’t matter, that I should just shrug it off. Because it does matter. Being gendered correctly matters, because it’s a sign of respect. It’s an acknowledgement of my dignity as a human, and I am deserving of respect.

And I honestly don’t know what the answer is. Our society and language (most of it anyways) is evolving to acknowledge, accept, and help define this ever-present diversity and fluidity of gender and sexuality faster than people can adapt. Sometimes it’s a struggle to find one that fits just right. I see a lot of young people struggling to find a definition that fits them perfectly, and all I can say is it can be a life-long journey for some people. And sometimes just one identifier isn’t enough to describe us. And I guess that’s ok. Sometimes I’m ok being a female question mark. Most of the time I’m sick and tired of being called a man, and at a loss of how to respond and stand up for myself. I am tired of feeling invisible because of my perceived otherness.

“I miss your long hair.” Letterpress printed linocut and metal type, 2019.

It’s a weird time for most of us now, we’re all just trying to live day to day. And I’m sure if I’d have confronted that woman, ( like I’ve imagined on replay,) she may have been mortified that she made a mistake, or that she hurt me. She probably just saw short hair in the driver’s seat—and even though she had short hair—she thought “dude.” The thought doesn’t make it hurt any less. But I don’t know how to deal with this when it happens every time it happens. I don’t know how to stop it from happening at all or how to change the way it makes me feel.

All I can say now is just continue to be patient with people, and try to remember that everyone is dealing with far more stress than they normally would be experiencing. Try not to be an asshole. More importantly, be patient with yourselves. Feel what you need to feel without minimizing your emotions. Give them space to breathe and sit with them, process them without indulging in them. And show yourself a little more self care, whatever that looks like. Write in a journal, take baths, stare at bugs and flowers in the garden, take naps, and make bread and eat it (even if it’s ugly.) But remember that there’s nothing wrong with you. None of what is currently happening now is normal. But you are not abnormal either. And how you’re feeling is not abnormal.