Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women and nonbinary writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find in this column, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.
Recently I was waiting in a local taco shop, when a mustachioed cashier spotted me and said, “I can take your order, sir, whenever you’re ready.” A moment later the mustachioed cashier was called away to deal with some tortilla-based problem, and a new cashier took over. They smiled at me while ringing up my regular bean-and-cheese order, and then said, “Will that be all for you, ma’am?”
I allowed myself a small smile, as I always do in situations like this. Baristas, teachers, corner-store employees — none of them knows how to address me, though it usually goes in the order of “sir,” then “oh, sorry, ma’am,” paired with an embarrassed grimace.
I want to tell them that being called “sir” is a highlight of my week, that I will likely text a friend or two saying, “Guess what! It happened again!” In fact, the person’s obligatory correction is exactly what I don’t want. It makes things awkward for both of us — and besides, I like looking like a boy.
Looking boyish gives me confidence, because looking like a girl often puts a target on my back. From being sexualized as I developed to being mocked for weakness, obvious physical signs of my sex have always been a hall pass for others to treat me as weaker, inferior, stupider or less qualified — anything less than what I am. There’s always been something uncomfortable and stiff about womanhood. I wore femininity like an itchy glove, one size too small.
In late high school and into my early 20s, I have found that bending the rules of gender expression has allowed me to feel better about myself. I don’t want to look like a woman, or a man. I look how I look — a small, short-haired person with curves and hairy arms and legs.
In my exploration of gender identity, I have found that language can cage you into expectation — but in a new and exciting way, it can also free you. This is where the term “nonbinary” emerges for me. While a relatively new term when it comes to gender, “nonbinary” has quickly entered the mainstream lexicon. It is a term that allows for the dissolution of gender expectations. When someone uses it as a label, they are declaring to the world that they are not to be held up to the stereotype of a man or a woman; they are only themselves.
I despise showing my curves, so I dress in non-fitted T-shirts and loose pants, paired with dirty sneakers. I have thick eyebrows, a light mustache (as many genetically female people do), and a few stray beard hairs that I pluck out. I wear red checkered boxers and cherry-red nail polish. I shave my face with shaving cream and I use a sugar scrub on the tougher parts of my skin. I wear heeled boots and suit jackets. I do not stray from the gender binary. I run from it.
It is astounding how my life has changed since I started presenting in a more androgynous fashion. I feel more confident and safe than before. I also feel more like myself, less like someone who is pretending.
For me, being nonbinary has little to do with my biological sex or my body, and much to do with the expectations of others and how they treat me. However, gender expectation remains — and it’s everywhere. I find it at dress-coded events, at swimming pools, doctor’s offices, family reunions, parties, sorority hangouts and shopping malls. Trying not to stand out while being androgynous can be exhausting. What if we don’t want to break any more glass ceilings? Is it really that difficult to see each other as we are, to exist without expectation?
Shedding a female label has allowed me to feel uninhibited in character expression. I dress how I want, act how I like — all without worrying if I am living up to the part of “woman.” This is the power of the nonbinary label: If others do not expect me to be a woman, I feel no pressure to be one.
It is not all peaceful. I use the nonbinary label only among certain groups of people in my life, with the knowledge that sharing it with some would do more harm than good to my psyche. I get nervous when I reintroduce myself to my parents’ friends and faraway family members, fully understanding that the way I look now is quite different from just a year prior. I stumble through correcting old friends in their references to my identity.
But shedding gendered labels has given me confidence in experimentation and uncertainty. When I fall, I fall back upon myself instead of a pinup version of someone’s girlfriend or daughter or the girl next door.
It is all worth it. Each day, I am more myself than I’ve ever been.
