Decades ago I went to a friend’s house for a cup of coffee and conversation. Her child and a new neighborhood friend came through the kitchen and stopped to visit. They were around seven to nine years old, dressed in jeans and t-shirts and sneakers. The new friend had a nongendered name, like Kelly, or Chris. We chatted for awhile and then they went upstairs to play.
My friend and I sat silent for a bit, in discomfort. Finally I asked, “Do you know if that’s a boy or a girl?”
“No, and they’ve been around too long now to ask.”
We talked about our discomfort, which we both realized was our problem. The child seemed perfectly comfortable in who they were; we were the ones who squirmed. And why? How could it possibly be our business what gender this child was?
I had been a feminist for some time by then, and this encounter shook me. I still had a lot to figure out. Why was this so disconcerting? I was still young enough to think I had it all figured out. Apparently not.
I knew, from reading, that we treat girls and boys differently, even infants. I knew that this different treatment almost certainly shaped their gender. I knew that this difference in how we behave as adults toward children was unconscious, and not easily disrupted.
But I did not expect to find it in me, so embedded that I didn’t know how to behave with someone (a child!) if I didn’t know their gender. How absurd is that?
I still experience this discomfort when encountering a person of ambiguous gender. I still know this is my problem, not theirs.
This is the first of a series on gender. To be continued …:
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