Must my parts define me? Quit looking at me like that.

Words by: Tsarah Theodore
Art by: Tsarah Theodore

In the middle of a talk with my cisgender friend, they told me one of their growing anxieties — that the way they looked would ward off potential suitors. The grip traditional gender roles have on people’s perception of others is so deep-rooted, like claws stabbing through a skull, that something I’m usually crashing out over is a concern for cisgender people, too. How do you move past the gender or sexuality that you’re categorised as at first glance, and form intimate relationships with people who aren’t fixated on your long hair or personal style? 

We’ll never escape being gendered. Gender is an act as much as it is an identity, a matter of societal perception as much as it is a matter of the self. Ironically, we are gendered by others through how we express ourselves; even in our most ‘I’m in my peak form!’ moments, we are still perceived as if we’re a performance to be picked apart on Letterboxd. And in my experience, gender has always been something that has been done to me. 

Basically, I’m being f*cked by gender expectations. No lube, no protection, just raw dogging it all night, all day, from the window to the wall.  

Sorry about that. I needed to put a ‘haha funny’ in here somewhere, because this is about to get really depressing, really fast. 

I’m not sure what my gender is, but I’m a hundred percent certain it’s neither woman nor man. The nonbinary label feels the most comfortable, and the same goes for they/them pronouns. What I’m more certain of is my most comfortable style, which falls just short of hyperfem. Being Assigned Female at Birth (AFAB), this is what wards off potential suitors, just as my cisgender friend described. 

My first — and most sobering — experience was when I realised one of my ex-partners never truly respected my gender identity. Sure, the words “I view you as nonbinary” slipped from his mouth, but looking back on it now, I realise that was just one of the methods he found that could get his fingers between my legs. He could never look me in the eye whenever he called me by the correct pronouns. The more I think about it, the more it seems that he did all that out of obligation. His attraction to me didn’t encapsulate my gender identity. He was attracted to me in spite of it. Like my gender identity was something he could work to ignore, rather than something he was willing to accept. 

And I know this is the case with every person who approaches me, at least in a sexual context. What matters to them is that I look the part and I have the parts. Everything else is none of their business. 

So, I adjusted. I started looking at sex more casually, rather than as a form of intimacy. I’m cynical at every sh*tty pick-up line a guy throws my way — I throw it back at him all crumpled up, and when I’m feeling extra, I reveal to him that he’s queer, and proceed to dap him up in solidarity. Sometimes, if I’m feeling really nice, I even offer to help him come out of the closet. 

Being nonbinary and AFAB means I still get treated like a woman. The silver lining in all this is that I feel more connected to womanhood, and I’m starting to grow more comfortable with presenting myself as feminine. Cause hey, if it’s all going to be the same anyway, I might as well have a little more fun with it. Now, I actively talk about mediocre technique and vomit-inducing flirtatious comments with my feminine-aligned friends. We throw our heads back and laugh, with the occasional gag at the grand Instagram profile picture reveal. 

But in quiet moments, I feel the growing anxiety. The bitterness. The knowledge that my gender identity is possibly an impossible hurdle to overcome. The dehumanising feeling of knowing that for some, it isn’t even considered a hurdle to begin with. I changed my pronouns on my Instagram bio to she/they. I’m definitely coping — but hey, I’m getting free drinks.

Perhaps as I move along in life, I’ll find another silver lining in this. I can feel my comfort in my womanhood growing, blossoming like the first notes of spring. I feel the warmth in my female-aligned friends’ hands radiate into my heart when we’re stumbling down the street together. I now know what it feels like to be protected, for I am surrounded by those who share the struggles I once believed made me unlovable. Maybe this isn’t the intimacy that neither I nor you, dear reader, are hoping for, and I know for sure that the story you’ll write about this will be different.

But I can tell you this: on the day you open yourself up, people will find you, and with them your performance will become art, until you are no longer a spectacle but a play that is observed from all angles, and loved from every one of them. “To be loved is to be seen.” So always look forward, and you too will meet an unwavering gaze.