If you met me, you'd probably ask what pronouns I use. You'd ask me because my gender identity is not that clear-to you, at least. I wear light makeup and paint my nails and, depending on the occasion, might be in a slip dress with a kitten heel. And yet, if you heard me speak, you'd probably assume (correctly) that I was assigned male at birth (AMAB, in the current jargon; I was also, of course, assigned the name Brock). You might assume, based in part on my voice and disposition, that I date and sleep with men, like a gay man (also correct). And so you'd ask what pronouns I use because it's considered the polite thing to do now-an accepted part of our perilous new social-justice social contract-and you don't want to offend me with your ignorance and you do want to flatter yourself with your deft ally-ness, all the while probably thinking, especially if you're over 30, Oh goodness, the world so different now.
And I'd politely respond, They/them is fine, with a smile. Maybe a somewhat forced smile, because I've come to dread this whole interaction. If I'm feeling game, I might even ask for your pronouns, though chances are, unless perhaps you're my age or younger-I'm 24-they will be exactly what I'd expect. By the end of the ten-word exchange, I'd be a little exhausted and you'd be a little on edge. And if I had to guess, you'd still probably fuck up my pronouns the next time you use them. You almost certainly would when I'm not standing right in front of you.
This story is from the June 20-July3, 2022 edition of New York magazine.
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This story is from the June 20-July3, 2022 edition of New York magazine.
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