Half the people at the table roll their eyes. By now I’ve learned not to take that personally.
We’re studying in a coffee shop a couple of blocks from the Yard. It’s a Thursday night, and the place is so full we had to sit at the counter for an hour before Nance noticed this spot was free. Now six of us are gathered around a table meant for four in the corner next to the handicapped entrance. Eli’s laptop doesn’t fit on the table, so he’s balancing it on his knees.
“Have you thought about just using nonbinary?” Inez asks. “My friend Luis uses it. They say it’s really freeing to get away from people’s expectations of defining yourself as just one of two genders.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “That’s a contender, too. Lately I’ve been giving more thought to labels, and I think I might’ve been underestimating their importance. I’ve been focusing on pronouns, but I think the labels people choose for gender identity matter more. I can’t believe I only just thought of this, but you know, at my high school, I founded our Gay-Straight Alliance. That’s what it was called, the GSA. I left everyone else out of the name—bi people, asexual people, intersex people. I even left out trans people. I mean, come on, I put in straight people but I left out myself. If that doesn’t show labels have power, I don’t know what does.”
“Every high school calls it the Gay-Straight Alliance,” Derek says. “That’s the default. You calling your group that is unlikely to have any deep hidden meaning.”
“Besides, all those group names leave someone out,” Andy says. “The UBA does it, too. It’s got gay and trans people in the name, and even intersex and asexual people, but it leaves out aromantic, questioning and pansexual.”
“And hijra and two-spirit,” Inez says.
“And genderqueer and genderfluid,” Derek says. “And a ton of others.”
“Acronyms always fail,” Nance says. “Because it doesn’t matter how many letters you include. It only matters who you actually represent. That’s why GSAs don’t bother me, because they use gay as an all-inclusive term. But the GSA at the school I volunteer at does way more work with different kinds of people than the UBA does here.”
“For real,” Derek says. “I can’t remember the last time the UBA ever did anything remotely helpful for bi people.”
“They barely do anything for trans people, for that matter,” Andy says.
I expect one or both of the trans outreach cochairs currently sitting at the table to argue with him, but nobody does.
“Well, I’m just going to say, I agree with Tony,” Inez says. “Labels matter more than they probably should. If someone told me they were gender variant all I’d know is that they defined themselves somewhere outside the traditional boundaries. I wouldn’t have any set expectations for their gender identity or expression.”
“See!” I say. “She gets it.”
“By the way, way to work that terminology, my cis-het chica,” Andy says, tipping his hat to Inez.
Derek grins at me. He and I haven’t talked about what Nance said, either. If he thinks I’m a sycophant, he seems okay with that.
I decided to try using gendered pronouns full-time as an experiment. I thought it would be hard to get used to, like saying they and hir was. So far, it’s actually been way easier. I don’t have to stop halfway through a sentence and figure out what word to use. You forget how much simpler life is when you can just talk without thinking about it.
I’m leaving tomorrow for my interview at Oxford, and I’ve decided to spend the whole weekend presenting as male. I’m spelling my name with a y instead of an i. That’s what I asked my friends to do anyway. I haven’t changed my name online or anything extreme like that.
I have a ton of work to finish before the weekend, though. So does everyone. That’s why we’re here. We aren’t actually supposed to be talking. Everyone’s probably annoyed at me for getting us into yet another group debate on labels and queer theory. Pretty much everyone’s smiling, though, so I don’t think they mind too much.
“Hey, you guys,” a familiar female voice says behind us.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. It’s Lacey, my teaching fellow.
“Hey, Lacey,” the others chorus. Nance snickers.
“Join us,” Derek says to Lacey. “We can fit one more chair.”
“I will, but only for a second,” she says. “I’m supposed to meet someone.”
Lacey pulls an empty chair into the narrow space between me and Eli. Eli moves over to make room until he’s basically sitting in the aisle. Everyone smiles except Andy, who’s typing furiously on his laptop, muttering, “Hang on, hang on.”
“Hey, Tony,” Lacey says. She’s speaking so low the others wouldn’t be able to hear unless they try hard. Which they all seem to be doing. “I heard about you and your girlfriend. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I know it’s got to be rough.”
“Yeah,” I say.