The practice of assuming gender happens daily for most of us. I’ve tried to minimize the attention I pay to analyzing bodies in front of me to figure out the gender of other people, but it still happens. I find that I need to snap myself out of this ingrained behaviour. It’s just something that happens automatically. I think, why the hell am I still doing this to people, especially considering everything that I know about gender? Did I really need to decide if that person that I just met was a woman, a man, or non-binary? Did I really need to say “woman” while explaining my experience with a person to make my story more clear or understandable?
There is absolutely no reasonable explanation for the need to analyze the gender of my neighbour, my co-worker, or the stranger who just passed me on the street. But I do it anyway, so there must be something preventing us from seeing the full spectrum that actually exists instead of just “man” and “woman.”
What happens when you can’t figure out a person’s gender? For some, feelings of deep curiosity, confusion, or frustration arise. We need to know more, so we fix our gaze to find the solution to the “problem” presented by their mixed gender presentation. It’s a problem that dictates the harsh way people judge each other. And, let me tell you, I am definitely a visible problem for some people! Yet I am also invisible. Here’s the thing that might seem odd at first: I am both visible and invisible.
It’s unlikely that you would miss seeing me when I’m walking down the street. If you saw me, you might look. I visibly disrupt the way you might assume people should look, either as a man or a woman. I look like something else, or at least I like to think that I do, and the gaze of others is often overwhelming. I find it funny, though, that people read me as a woman because they don’t want to think about me in a way that might challenge their own ideas about sex and gender.
I get a lot of “sir”s and “madam”s interchangeably: someone might refer to me as “madam,” then quickly revert to “sir” when I speak, or vice versa. People are literally mixed up by my presence in person because my gender expression does not register with what my voice or my forms of identification lead them to assume my gender is.
My grandfather has a cute reaction when it comes to reading my gender on a visual level. My grandfather always saw me as a boy, and then a man, until, in recent years, physical changes initiated by my hormone replacement therapy, and my appearances in the press, shifted his understanding of my gender. Pop now, for the first time, addresses me with words of affection typically reserved for women, like “darling,” “dear,” and “sweetheart.” He uses them constantly in conversation with me, and also when he’s talking to other family members about me. He also uses both he/him/his and she/her/hers pronouns when he speaks about me, but more often he uses she/her/hers, because I think he actually reads me as a woman, or as I am, even if he doesn’t have the correct language to refer to my non-binary identity. His use of she/her/hers pronouns makes it clear that he sees me. My dad finds it funny and cute that Pop calls me “darling” or “dear”; he laughs and smiles because it just seems so natural to my ninety-three-year-old grandfather to say this to me. It’s a loving kindness he shows to me, to see me as I would like to be seen. Recently, when I was sitting nearby and searching through my purse for something, he asked my dad, “What is that beautiful lady doing over there?” It is such a feeling of relief to know that my ninety-three-year-old grandfather recognizes me in the way that he can. He isn’t trying to see me; he is seeing me through a lens of love, and I wish more people could see with love instead of fear.
Some people see me as a trans woman or a woman because I express my gender on the feminine side of the spectrum. Using feminine in reference to who I am suggests that my gender expression might be affixed to the binary. The language to understand gender expression beyond feminine, masculine, and androgynous isn’t available yet, or I’m not familiar with it. You may have heard “femme” or “masc” as descriptors for trans identity, or gender altogether. I don’t consider myself to be a trans-femme or a non-binary femme. I certainly have an unmistakable femininity, but I prefer to think of my gender expression as being non-binary, not altogether feminine, masculine, or androgynous — a mixture of it all.
My long hair, makeup, and lack of facial hair immediately suggest to many people that I’m either a trans woman or a woman, but I’m not always feminine, or dressed in a feminine way. I don’t always feel feminine. It might sound funny, but when I sit with my legs spread apart without realizing (a rare occurance, honestly), I panic a bit, and sometimes cross them immediately to avoid unwanted stares that come from presenting a mixture of masculinity and femininity with the way that I look and how I position my body.
But what do these words, masculine and feminine, even mean? Well, they don’t mean the same thing for every single person around the world. Gender is not determined by things like clothing, hair, and makeup, or by the words, masculine and feminine. Our gender expression can be determined by these things, but not necessarily our gender. However, we still see these gender cues, and they register as signifiers for gender altogether. I can pass (so to speak), if I want to, with my long hair, makeup, and lack of facial hair. That means that some of the time I can be read as a woman, and I can pass in line with the binary, and how our culture codes gender through specific signifiers like makeup versus no makeup, long hair versus short hair, dresses versus pants, and so on. All of it is conventional and based on very simple ideas that divide people into two categories.
I had an illuminating conversation with a laser hair removal technician (while they were zapping the hairs off my legs) about how my expression automatically tells my gender identity. This type of conversation increasingly happens with people who assume when they meet me that I am a trans woman or a woman. The technician expressed curiosity about my non-binary gender identity. It’s likely that they (and, I’m using they/them for this technician because as this chapter suggests, assuming their gender is something I don’t want to do) were also intrigued by my gender expression, and how our contradicted assumption makes us question if we truly know everything when it comes to gender. They told me that they had assumed I was a woman, a cis woman(!), when they saw me for the first time. Until I started to speak. My voice disrupted their comfortable assumption of my feminine gender. I have a moderately deep to low voice, so hearing me speak is usually the point at which people suddenly switch from “It’s a woman” to “Oh, it’s actually a man!” The technician declared, triumphantly, “I had no idea you were trans!” as if to suggest that the contradiction of my aesthetic and my voice confirmed my trans identity for them. I found this experience intriguing and also a bit upsetting. They had switched their thinking about my gender based solely on the contrast between my gender presentation and my voice. I was reminded of how we often think in a very simple way about gender that reduces people to their expression before they can introduce their own identity.
I’m quite visible as a six-foot-tall non-binary trans person with the signifiers that I’ve shared with you. I’m also invisible as a non-binary person. The truth of my identity is invisible to most people in society. Most people label me as they want to see me just based on my expression, without ever wanting to know how I actually identify. It is impossible for many people to actually see me because some people don’t even know non-binary gender exists, or consider it to exist. The person that automatically read me as a woman couldn’t see me beyond being either a man or a woman. They read me first as a woman and then as a man, even though they came to realize that I was a non-binary trans person when I explained my identity.
The technician and I ended up having a casual and comfortable conversation together, but when I’m in public, the focused gaze on me is not always as safe as that. There is real danger associated with the gaze when people view me as a monster of sorts that scares or disgusts them. I can make people scared or fearful just based on how I look. Being thought of as a monster doesn’t necessarily upset me. I find it kind of fun — it’s as if my appearance scares the bullshit out of people that we carry around about gender. A lot of it is made-up crap that we’re force-fed from a young age. So, I don’t mind scaring the shit out of the gender binary with my expression.
Each day, my gender presentation has to be carefully measured depending on who I’m seeing, where I’m going, and how I’m feeling. I wonder how far I can push my presentation and how much I can be myself. I wish that I could be who I am every single day, but it just isn’t possible. Isn’t that a sad thing? Perhaps I’m not so alone here. In fact, I know that I’m not. Perhaps you can’t always be who you are, either. I’m sure that’s the case for many people. As I’ve said, we are all more similar than we are different.
It isn’t always safe to be who I am, or to let my truth be reflected on the outside of my body. I am simply overwhelmed at times by the forces of the gender binary and the pervasive transphobia that can quickly transform the joy that I achieve with my aesthetic into something painful and even dangerous. The gaze that cis women, trans women, and non-binary people — all people affected by various forms of misogyny — face in public can present unsafe scenarios ranging from mild to deadly. I likely don’t have to tell you that misogyny is real, or that it affords cis men with a powerful privilege. Some cis men can stare without restraint. And cis men, more often than not, exist without being objectified themselves, unless they are queer and present a gender expression outside the norms of masculinity. The staring of cis men sometimes evolves into unsafe behaviour — gazing breaches the boundary between looking and unwanted verbal and physical advances. Many other people have made the point that I’m going to make here. Our expression as women (trans or cis), non-binary people, or gender-nonconforming people never warrants the unsafe gaze, verbal harassment, and violent physical behaviour that some cis men practise. We don’t have a responsibility to reduce the risk when the gaze upon us turns sinister by policing what we wear, how we walk and move, even how we dance.
My awareness of people’s interest in me has increased with my transitioning. The staring in an attempt to figure me out has become more pervasive as I achieve the hybrid body that I want as a non-binary person. The gender-testing that I was subjected to as a young child made me hyper-aware of other people dissecting me in a very inhumane way under their gaze. I became aware of other people looking, whether the looking was harmless or harmful. Both of my parents told me many times to “cool down” the way that I expressed myself. In a letter my mom wrote to me in 1998, shortly after I came out to her and my dad, she said, “We’re not always happy with how you choose to express yourself.”
I will never forget reading those words in the letter when I was sixteen, or hearing them spoken to me by both of my parents on multiple occasions. I wasn’t choosing to express myself a certain way. I was expressing myself my way, the way that I was comfortable doing, and the way that made me feel good and authentic. My parents thought that I was drawing unnecessary attention to myself. My mom sent this request from the depths of love she has for me, and you can read that in her words. She wanted me to be safe. It was a form of protection. But then, in the same letter, they also acknowledged that my gender expression was an essential part of my identity and that it’s “hard to be you most of the time.”
Being fifteen in Napanee and expressing myself truthfully in the matrix of my parents’ opinions, the opinions of friends, the bullying, and who I wanted to be all along was painful. It also wasn’t easy being told by my parents that I was trying to prove my difference by dressing a certain way or wearing makeup. This attitude is part of the problem when it comes to accepting non-binary people, especially non-binary youth, because it implies that I would be inviting unsafe attention if I dressed a specific way, and that this unsafe attention, and any consequences that might come as a result, would somehow be my fault.
My appearance has changed significantly over the years and both of my parents are increasingly comfortable with how I express myself. They are proud of my authentic expression, and their cautionary words were always about trying to keep me safe, and came from a place of love. There are some people in my family, though, who simply can’t accept me because of how I present myself and my identity, and that is a painful wound that I never thought I would have to bear.
Many parents tell their kids to dress differently because dressing the way that makes them feel comfortable might invite unwanted attention. If only I could wear blue jeans, a T-shirt, no makeup, cut my hair short, and walk with a macho swagger like some assigned-male-at-birth people — a ridiculous notion, I suppose, since not all cis men have to dress or express themselves in this way. Some members of my family (thankfully they are in-laws) have asked me why I don’t just live a quiet life as a “gay man” with my cis male partner, instead of coming out as a non-binary trans person and inviting so much attention. Goddess, then my life would be so easy! Why can’t I just be like that? Why can’t I just be an assigned-male-at-birth gay man who lives my life relatively quietly and peacefully?
Fuck that. It isn’t who I am. I’ve never been one to surrender to the notion that I should dress safely to prevent unsafe attention. And I’ve been through too much pain in my life from the dehumanization to accept someone else’s opinion about how I should express myself and my identity. In fact, telling me I should be someone else is a form of dehumanization that I never expected from people who I thought cared for me.
My parents’ mild protests about the way I dressed during my adolescence, especially when I first came out, have stuck with me, though. They weren’t trying to hurt me intentionally. I know that now. I had been sexually assaulted, was being bullied constantly at school, and was severely depressed, even suicidal, so why wouldn’t they try to figure out how to help me? And I do find myself wondering if they were right, for that time of my life and that time only, even just a little bit. Am I really saying this? Perhaps it’s the part of me that remembers how incredibly painful it was to deal with people’s responses to my expression. But this thinking isn’t healthy; it makes me assume fault, subconsciously, for the potential risks that I’m taking to be who I am in public. We aren’t to blame for the actions of others. We should all be free to be who we are if we aren’t hurting ourselves or other people. Of course, many trans, non-binary and gender-nonconforming people, especially people of colour, cannot express who they are because the risk for violence is too high.
I used to be scared to dress a certain way. I’ve faced some seriously unsafe situations in my life, some that you already know about. Yet I don’t want to be fearful of being myself. It feels so good to just be me. I think of it as a battle, which is why I feel like I’m a sorceress from some wondrous realm — a magical monstrosity come from another dimension.
There are many places that are too unsafe for me to visit. Like nightclubs and bars — I used to love to dance, to just move and connect with my body and the collective energy on the dance floor. The next time you are in a club or a bar, look around at the faces of people who are dancing. The pure joy and freedom on these faces of people, otherwise confined by the rigidity of culture and behaviour, and the expression of their bodies is infectious. Most people love Hallowe’en because it gives us a day to let loose, to enjoy the carnivalesque catharsis (releasing feeling and emotion) found in self-expression, and it’s so healthy. Dancing gives us a taste of this freedom that has held meaning in my life, to become less controlled with the way we feel inside and outside of our bodies. Dancing tells an energetic story about who we are and how much we know ourselves.
Clothing also tells a story. My clothes reflect my truth in a fluid way that can fluctuate every day. I dress up most days and put thought behind what I wear, because I want to feel it deeply. For too long, during my adolescence and early adulthood, I was suffocated by the fear of being who I was. I wasted too much time worrying what others would think of me. When I attend professional events — like film festivals, wrap parties for TV shows or films, or other industry events — I feel safe most of the time to dress as I am, since artistic communities can be inviting places for people like me. I feel a sense of deep happiness when I can put together delicious outfits that make me feel sexy, seen, and beautiful. I doubt that I’m alone in wanting to feel beautiful, so here’s a story about how my invisible visibility often makes me attuned to a gaze that isn’t always safe.
My outfit that night was glorious. I wore tight leather pants, four-inch platform heels, a transparent lace top with a black bra underneath, and a corset. This was the first time that I had worn a bra in public since my breasts had started to grow. I felt confident and awake, as though somehow my fairy godmother (probably one of my goddess-like grandmothers) had made a visit to bless me with wings for the night. It was a magical feeling. I was living Joshua on the outside, feeling completely free to appear as I am, unburdened by those who feel insecure and who take that out on me. I arrived at this film industry party with my husband, who wore a shiny black dress shirt that had red roses painted on the front. We arrived with flair, as though we were making an entrance at a posh event in an Italian fashion house, empowered by the way clothing can make you feel who you are unlike anything else.
The night evolved into dancing with other artists at the party. Actors often see me, my truth, and share their energy generously with me. This is the beauty of working in an industry where people connect with their own truths and the truths of others to tell a story on screen. I’ve found friendship with some magical people in the industry. It’s the purest joy to be around people who know who they are and who don’t see humanity in limited terms. The feeling of freedom while dancing was electrifying.
I became sharply aware that people were also looking at me.
While I was dancing, the staring happened in small waves, and then I began to really notice. There were suddenly multiple people, mostly cis men (because I know who they are), looking at me on the dance floor. They were staring intensely, with no awareness or respect for my space. I started to feel hyper-aware and nervous. Single men who were attending this party weren’t the only ones staring. Men with wives standing right beside them were staring. It started to overwhelm me. The staring increased as I became absorbed in the dancing. A few men started to make their way closer to me — many people know this feeling — and I was increasingly uncomfortable as they encroached on my personal space. I looked around me, head spinning like an owl’s. Was anyone else noticing what these men were doing? I looked at Florian, who was watching at a distance because he doesn’t dance (only once at our wedding!), and I couldn’t be sure that he was even noticing what was happening.
They started to converge on me. It felt wild and dangerous. What the hell was happening here, and how could this be socially acceptable? I suddenly became the object of desire instead of the monster — or maybe the monster had become the desired. One of these guys actually started to cross the line on a physical level with me. He began to touch my body from behind with his body. I can imagine that people frequently get away with this type of behaviour in clubs and bars. It was obvious that his touching wasn’t related to his dancing; it was being purposely directed at me and to my body. I knew what he was doing, and it was really gross and intrusive. I moved away from him and some of the other guys who were getting closer.
I danced with my friends a few feet away from Florian for the rest of the night. Florian later told me that he did notice the guys who were staring and moving closer to me, which helped affirm what I was feeling and experiencing. It was a relief to know that it had actually happened, that I hadn’t manifested it out of my own fear, and that this happens all the damn time to cis women, trans women, non-binary people, and gender-nonconforming people. I empathize with others who must deal with this constantly. This experience won’t change the way that I express myself through my fashion, but it has made me more aware of the public attention that I face as someone who not only visibly disrupts the binary, but who ignites a curiosity that some people invade my personal space to explore.
My relationship with being a visible and invisible person grows more positive as our society shifts to accept people like me. I want to be seen. But I also want to be treated like a human being, not an object of study, a sexualized trans body target, or the source of someone’s deep-rooted fear.
Pieces of you on me
the projections, the dissections
— they wound me,
yet they also open a space
a place for seeing me
Subject to reject the object
I am open
To be an agent of disidentification.
Stare. Look. Illuminate.
Be aware that I am human.