By the end of the ten-word exchange, I’d be a little exhausted and you’d be a little on edge.
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. Maybe a somewhat forced smile, because I’ve come to dread this whole interaction. 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 is so different now.Īnd I’d politely respond, “ They/them is fine,” with a smile. 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 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). I wear light makeup and paint my nails and, depending on the occasion, might be in a slip dress with a kitten heel.
You’d ask me because my gender identity is not that clear - to you, at least. If you met me, you’d probably ask what pronouns I use.
