As a kid, gender negotiations were always dictated by clothing. Clothing is genders first line of defense. That’s how we define men from women, by how they dress. For some reason, it’s extremely important to be able to tell the difference. Department stores are divided into what women are expected to wear and what men are expected to wear. It’s actually quite strange when you think about it but some people do get concerned when they can’t immediately tell the difference. They start asking questions. Wondering. Getting uncomfortable. Where do I put them? How do I treat them? What do I call them?!?
I went to a co-ed catholic primary school which means every now and then you are dragged into these rather strange rituals. The first in a series of weird symbolic gestures is called your ‘First Communion’. From what I understood ‘First Communion’ meant you were allowed to drink the cordial (or wine if you are lucky) and eat the tiny little bits of bread at church like the adults. This was instead of getting a boring old blessing from the priest. I had been admiring those little treats for years so was excited to finally try them. That was until they said girls had to get dressed up in a white dress at the ceremony. Once i heard that I panicked and told mum I might skip First Communion because I can just eat cordial and bread at home. Mum had been through enough gender negotiations with me to know what the problem was.
“What about if you didn’t have to wear a dress to communion, would you like to go then?” she inquired.
“Of course” I said, but I couldn’t think of any other options. According to the teachers you had to get really dressed up, like the most dressed up you have ever been. How was I going to get around that? “What about if you wore a little suit?” she inquired.
“But the teachers said you have to wear white” I exclaimed, my only understanding of a suit being the one that looked like a penguin.
“What about a little white suit then?” I’d never heard of a white suit but was curious enough to entertain the idea.
Mum took me to a formal hire shop and I listened as she talked quietly to the shop assistant. Sometimes she had to do the negotiations for me. I stared at the manikins of little girls covered in taffeta and frills and quietly dreaded what I was going to be made to wear.
Out came the lady with some white pants and a button up shirt. This isn’t the worst? I thought to myself as I put on the outfit. They were stiff and scratchy, but not all together offensive. Then the lady instructed me to put my arms out and she slipped a white suit jacket over my shoulders. I clasped the lapel over my chest and looked in the mirror. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The shop assistant asked me a question but I was so fixated by my own reflection I didn’t hear her. The next minute a little red bow tie was being fixed to my collar and that was it, I never wanted to take it off. I looked fucking awesome. I couldn’t stop smiling. It felt amazing.
A few weeks later the big day arrived and I was so excited about getting my suit on. I wanted everyone to see me. I let my cousin braid my hair to keep mum happy. I was beaming all the way there and had pretty much forgotten what the whole thing was about. Something about eating Jesus and confessing some secrets, whatever, look at me, I’m so handsome!
When we arrived people started to turn their heads. Some people pointed at me and laughed, others smiled, and some just looked confused. I didn’t give a single fuck because I felt so good. When the photographer came to get photos of the group he stopped in front of me looking puzzled. They were splitting us into boys and girls and he clearly didn’t know where to put me. A teacher came over to assist and eventually they decided that genitals trumps physical presentation so I was shoved up the back with the girls, hidden beneath a sea of of white vales.
Over time I got pretty used to people not being quite sure where to put me. I didn’t know where to put me. With such pressure to conform to a cisnormative narrative of male or female, masculine or feminine, I couldn’t figure out what my story was. Was it possible to be both? Or even more wild a concept, neither!?! It will still be thirty years before I discover non-binary is a gender identity. In the meantime, I just knew I was different.
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