No, I Don’t Have Patience for Your Misgendering
Trans and gender-noncomforming people have been hearing “be patient” for years, I’m not patient anymore
It’s always the same person. It’s always the same person even when, in fact, it’s a different human saying it. “Please be patient.” It’s a request that makes my jaw tighten and requires a deep breath. I’ve been patient. It’s well past time for cisgender people to get their act together and actually show pronouns some respect.
Transgender, genderfluid, and non-binary people — like me — are not a new phenomenon. We’re not a trend, a craze, or a meme. We’ve been around for as long as there have been people, yet there are plenty of 21st-century folks who act as if we sprung out of the ground overnight like we’re here just to fuck with their sense of who should wear what clothes and demanding hormone replacement therapy.
Boomers are especially susceptible. “It wasn’t like this when I was young.” I know, and that well and truly sucked for gender-nonconforming people. Even becoming an icon, like Christine Jorgensen did in the 1950s, didn’t offer much insulation from trans- and queerphobia, and it would still be decades before society at large started to realize that using words like “tranny,” using sex changes as a cheap sitcom joke, and all the other crap surrounding our existence maybe needs more than a little bit of a reassessment.
Not that the people saying “Please be patient, I’m getting used to this” would necessarily consider themselves transphobic. Often they seem bewildered by the fact that gender is a construct, and that perception doesn’t always match reality. They may mean that they sometimes forget we’ve changed our names, pronouns, and appearances, and fear that we’re about to jump down their throats for honest mistakes. Don’t worry. I am not going to jump on a friend like a xenomorph because they accidentally call me by my old name or use he/him. And yet the demand remains, and there’s something ugly behind it. Something condescending and lacking empathy in the admonition to “be patient” when someone like me gets upset at being misgendered.
I’ll lay it out this way. A few months ago I was at an airport bar before my flight. I was wearing heeled boots, tight distressed jeans, a striped cami that made my breasts look great, and my usual eyeliner and purple lipstick combo. I felt great, and I felt like a happy, confident lady about to have a sip. Then along comes a waiter to say “Hello, sir.”
When this happens, I have to do a quick calculation in my head. I was in Texas, not exactly a state known for its progressive values. Was the “sir” an honest mistake, or was it a denial of my identity? Might I even be in some danger? I remember what it was like to be a server — “sir,” “miss,” and “ma'am” being standard etiquette — but, on the receiving end, my radar always has to be up. When I chirped “Oh, it’s miss, please,” I didn’t get an acknowledgment or apology, which is about how it always goes.
There are times when I’ve been in actual peril, like when I asked someone at the grocery store to please not shove my produce down the conveyor belt and I got offered a knuckle sandwich. There was no doubt that I was being threatened. I didn’t feel threatened as I ordered my margarita. But discomfort, much like gender, is not binary. The signal was clear. I wasn’t seen there. I wasn’t safe there. I was in a place where if I needed help or assistance, I couldn’t trust that I’d get it or generate much empathy.
Empathy. That’s often the missing ingredient. Cisgender people, and especially men, don’t seem to understand what it’s like to feel exposed and concerned about their surroundings. I didn’t for a large chunk of my life. It took a long time and a lot of listening for me to even start to understand the privilege I carried when I identified as a young, white, cisgender man. I didn’t have an inkling of how pernicious and awful all the little cuts can be when they add up to “You’re not welcome here.” It can be difficult to understand unless you live it, or, at the very least, listen.
Yet I’m supposed to have patience. I’m supposed to believe I’m asking for special treatment and that I need to earn such a reward by being quiet and respectable. When I say “This is who I am, please treat this with care,” I’m supposed to shrug off the insults and signals that say “I don’t know you but I don’t like you.” I’m supposed to absorb all those things and throw it on the pile with my dysphoria, depression, PTSD, and the rest of it, because after all, I chose to be like this, right?
I know the value of patience. I had to be patient with the maze of clinic phone numbers to find a doctor who would help me start transitioning. I had to be patient for my hormone replacement therapy prescription, and I have to be patient with the slow magic of estradiol and spironolactone that is gradually changing my body. I had to be patient with friends and acquaintances who thought I was just going through a phase or that I was making a mistake. Every step I’m taking requires patience and resolve, and the moment I try to make some space for myself and people like me… the answer is to be patient, to trust the people who have only let go of transphobia one finger at a time over decades.
Don’t be mad. Don’t get upset. Don’t tell me I did something wrong. I’m more than a little sensitive to those messages. They were the words that allowed years of emotional abuse by my father, and then my spouse. The only way I could survive was to ask little, to be grateful and to bend myself around someone else’s wishes. The act of standing my own ground, even if I remained completely still, was taken as an insult and insubordination. I’ve lost my tolerance for it.
It’s funny how “be patient” almost never comes with “I’m sorry,” or any other show of validation. It’s simply a command. It’s an admonition that people like me are asking too much of society, even as we’re thrown into the public spotlight by unjust laws, hate crimes, and conservative fearmongering. The order asks that we give up our voice and our autonomy, that we trust a broader culture that wishes that we never existed in the first place. It’s a defensive statement, said by people who feel attacked by the fact that the wonderful spectrum of varied genders is asking for equity, equality, and respect, a nudge to get in line and simply wait for our turn.
I can wait for what’s worth it. I can be patient for change. But I will not go back into my cage.
