I Get Misgendered Because of my Voice. I’m not changing it.
“I think what he means is…”
I jump in. “Oh! She, her, please!” It’s more of a chirp than a bark. Like I’m somehow surprised that my coworker has misgendered me, again, while I am sitting right next to her. I reflexively slide a hand under the strap of my dress to pull my bra strap back over my shoulder, just to give the awkward twinge somewhere to go. And, I’ve told myself, maybe if I squirm a little my coworker won’t lay her hand on my arm in a gesture that means “I’m sorry” but is indistinguishable from “Bless your heart.” My voice gave me away again.
I’m not going to pretend that I flawlessly pass. I abandoned that concept before I dropped the first estrogen pill under my tongue. My shoulders are broad, and will always be. Ditto for my arms. If I want to punish myself, I can stand in front of the mirror and find every hard line and boxy angle. Practice has led me closer to perfect with eyeliner, I’ve got legs to die for, and my breasts are more than a handful, but I know that at a glance I’m betwixt and between. And yet even people who know better — friends, coworkers, and even my therapist — have reflexively called me “he” and then gone wide-eyed enough that I have to then offer them reassurance that everything’s fine. The slips always come after I say something. I know it’s my voice.
