Alright mate.
“Are you a girl or a boy?”
I don’t turn around because I know they all know the answer. They ask again and laugh a bit louder this time. We got a minibus here and I wonder how long it is until we can leave. Can I just sit on the bus? After they go my friend tells me it’s just because I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “Girls don’t wear jeans and t-shirts to parties.”
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“I think your one is over there.”
I ignore her. I really need to pee. I can sense her following me wanting to say something else, something to make me turn around, but she doesn’t. She thinks that I’ll soon realise my mistake, I’ll be embarrassed and I’ll slope off to the place she thinks I should be. The men’s bathroom. Now we’re in that tiny space between the basins and the cubicles she realises that she’s made a mistake. I stare at my feet hoping she gets locked in there. She doesn’t and we have to wash our hands standing side by side. We leave. I feel bad. She probably never thinks about it again.
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“Tickets and passes please sir.”
Ok. This time I’m wearing a fleece so I guess that’s what threw him off. I respond with a confrontational “excuse me?!” while my girlfriend quietly pleads with me not to make a scene in a packed carriage. He corrects himself and says “errr tickets please MADAM”. I shove them at him and stare indignantly. He moves on and my girlfriend breathes a sigh of relief. I immediately begin writing an angry email to Cross Country Rail which starts with me telling them their service is an homage to Margaret Thatcher and ends with me saying they are the reason we need to renationalise the railways. My girlfriend tells me to think about it before I send the email. She’s right. I don’t send it.
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“Sorry that guy thought you were… a guy”
I wonder why all the people who have never misgendered me are sorry about it and all the people who have don’t seem remotely apologetic. It’s probably not their fault I think. I guess it’s my voice, my clothes, the fact I don’t wear makeup, the fleeces… 100% the fleeces. Then I feel bad, for feeling bad, because if as a cis woman I can’t use the bathroom without my gender being questioned by people who feel it’s their job to police the space then how the hell do trans people make it through the day? I donate money to a trans charity, read an essay about gender nonconformity and think about cutting my hair short.
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“Alright mate… I mean… love? ”
The man on the gym desk gives me a long look after he corrects himself. Maybe he’s worried that I noticed he called me mate. Maybe he’s trying to work out if he was right the first time and now he’s just called a man ‘love’. Imagine that. He watches me as I walk towards the changing rooms. I stop between the two. Does he think I’m deliberating? I move towards the water fountain and think about asking him why he thinks he can only call men ‘mate’. When I’m doing deadlifts later I realise that this probably isn’t helping and I add some more weight to the bar.
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“Hi Sir, we’ve been to your property and no one is home.”
“Please don’t call me sir, I’m not a man. Someone is at the property please try again.”
“Sir, I’m afraid we’ve had to leave. If you call the delivery team they’ll be able to help you… Sir.”
I tell the guy to fuck off then I hang up. I think about how my voice is pretty deep and yeah I have a gender neutral name but Jesus H Christ, what about me telling him I’m not a man does this guy not understand? I put a call in to Warren Evans head office and tell them what happened. They redeliver my order. They don’t mention the fact their delivery driver called me Sir after I told him not to. I hatefully sleep on the mattress. I promise never to buy anything from them again. Warren Evans go bust. I sleep much better.
