I’m gender queer.
My mom laughs whenever she tells the story of how I wander around my preschool and proudly declare to the other children, “I’m a boy!” And being unphased by their responses of doubt and certainty of, “No, you’re not you’re a girl.” But little Bri never backed down, “No, I’m not I’m a boy.” My mom revels in the humor of how long I’d argue until at least one would finally say, “Okay, you’re right, you’re a boy.” At which time, I’d smile and laughingly reply, “Haha, no I’m not, I’m a girl.” And scamper off back to the playground for more pressing 3 year old matters. I could never recall these occurrences. But I always believed her. Initially, I knew it was true by my embarrassed response to her telling these stories, by the shame that would shadow over the landscape of my inner world. How my thoughts would be riddled with the voices of, “See.. You’ve always been different, you’ve always been wrong, who does that? Everyone knows how fucking gay you are. How fucked up is that?” Hearing these stories was always unpleasant for me, but I could see that for my mom, they were stories of the specialness of her dear little Bri, her unique and powerful tiny human she loved so much. I could see it logically, but some part of me never understood it.
It wasn’t until I finally chopped off all my hair and started styling it in the way I used to beg my little brother to let me style his before school in the morning. He never really cared to put product in his hair and style it in a way that made him look like he was fucking rad… But I did, and I couldn’t do it with my long hair tied up in a ponytail everyday. When I honorable killed my own ponytail, and began to spend those neurotic moments in front of the mirror with the hair I was envied my brother for having, I realized how long it had taken me to realize what I’d been missing. And when I started tighter sports bras that didn’t necessarily hide my breasts, but certainly to pronounce them, with my flannel shirts, my button up shirts, my zip up hoodies and dark colored t-shirts, I felt a little bit happier, a little bit safer, a little bit more proud. But the fear of being misgendered haunted me. I’d flashback to being in 3rd grade and going to the bathroom at school, wearing my basketball shoes which I peed in the stall, and heard whispered from other girls, “There’s a boy in here!” Horrified and mortified, I’d wait for them to leave first, but when they didn’t I sprinted out of the bathroom and across the school hoping they never saw my face.
So it surprised me when I began to be misgendered, and my response was a mischievous giggle. When little children would ask me, “Are you a boy or a girl?” And I would smile and respond, “What do you think?” When old ladies at the grocery store would tell me I was a kind young man and were surprised at my lack of engagement. Suddenly I was that same little Bri in preschool, finding enjoyment in the fact that not many people could see me, how so many people see the world that they know, how hiding had it’s benefits for me, and how walking around the world as some kind of modern-day shamanic trickster, satisfied me on a deeply fulfilling level. How, the few times, some genuinely and authentically would ask me, “What pronouns do you go by?” And I’d smile, but feel stuck, and in all earnestness say, “I don’t have any preferred pronouns, but you can call me Bri.”
Brianna is my birth name, and I do love it. I’ve come to believe that it is a pretty, beautiful name. But it is one that’s reserved for the ones who truly see me, and how I know deeply and authentically love me. There’s only a handful of people on the planet who can call me Brianna, and I feel rushed with a warmth and connection most days I often long for.
My queer-dom equates to confusion, and I resent those who reflect back to me that “All this transgender stuff is just so confusing.” Really? It’s confusing for you? How the fuck do you think it feels to be trans? Not transsexual, or blatantly male or female in mind, heart and soul, but to be somewhere in the middle. Somewhere in the spectrum that goes beyond language. To be everything and nothing in the gender binary. Some days, I hate being called a woman, even within a generous and kind compliment. And somedays I hate it when I’m addressed as “Sir”. ANd I never know which days I’ll hate it and which days I’ll enjoy the mischievous giggle of my inner trickster and feel proud of the fact that no one can figure it out.
I have dreams where I’m a man. I have dreams where I’m a woman. I have dreams of being with women. I have dreams of being with men. I’ve had dreams where I’m a man killing a woman, and dreams where I’m a woman killing a man. Even my inner underworld is riddled with light and dark, peace and struggle. So what feels safe to say?
I am everything and I am nothing. I was born into a female body, and for the most part, I don’t hate it. Body dysphoria is not a pointed part of my experience, I’d probably call it more of an ambivalence and an indifference of sorts. My name is Brianna, but you can call me Bri, that fits me better, but somedays, it doesn’t fit either. And as for pronouns.. Fuck ’em, just call me by my preferred name, and see me as a person, a human, an androgynous one who simply doesn’t want to be trapped in a box forever.
And as for my step-children, the beautiful boys I have the pleasure of raising. They just call me “B”. Mama or Papa, doesn’t need to be attached to that. I’m just their “B”, and it’s probably the best identity I’ve acquired thus far in this crazy journey, and I’m grateful that for them, man or woman, it doesn’t matter. I’m just their “B”.
I honestly thought one day I’d just have one coming out story, but here I am 28 years into the journey and realize that my coming out story is simply my story, a subplot in the entirety of my existence. Because my sexuality and my gender are only parts of who I am, but their intrinsically interconnected with all the other parts, I can’t completely separate them. My gender identity, my gender expression, and my sexual orientation are not something I can extract from my experience in an objective, logical way. They are the lense through which my grey eyes can see, and the pump in and out of my heart with each beat. So here I am. And we’ll see what happens as all these fractured parts of me find their way back to each other, and reintegrate themselves into the wholeness that is my true and authentic self.
So if you happen to see me in the female bathrooms, just do me a favor, and keep your thoughts to yourself… I assure you, I’m just trying to pee.
Just Wandering 