What you’re really saying when you don’t use someone’s pronouns

The isolation of the pandemic has had few blessings for me. It’s been an earthquake, causing upheaval as the opposing needs of connection and staying healthy ground together like tectonic plates, then parted, separating me and my loved ones from our supports and leaving troughs of emptiness in their wake.

I’m eager to find community again. As much as I’ve tried to connect through the virtual world, it doesn’t work as effectively as being in-person, in the same room, as others.

I went to a writing conference this summer, my first in-person conference since summer 2018. In 2019, a family emergency meant a last-minute cancellation. The next two years were online, faces in boxes on the screen. This year, we’d all be together again — masked and vaxxed. Finally.

When I signed up, my eyes were lit with smiles. But as the date got closer, dread filled me, creeping into my belly, filling my stomach, seeping its acid up my esophagus and into the back of my throat.

I began easing my way out as nonbinary in 2018, after that last in-person conference: changing my Facebook pronouns and my email signature to they/them, adding my pronouns to my name tag at events. I tested the waters, using both she/her and they/them pronouns, for a long time. It didn’t feel safe to be trans, and I wanted to know who was in my corner.

I quickly learned that if you offer the pronouns associated with your assigned gender at birth (she/her for me) along with the ones you actually want people to use (they/them), almost all people will keep right on using what they feel comfortable with. They won’t change. They won’t voluntarily create new neural pathways.

Allies will, as well as other trans folks. They’ll let you try things out, see how it feels, allow you to get comfortable yourself with this shift before you set boundaries with the world.

By the time I was using exclusively they/them pronouns, I’d stopped being with groups of people in person. We sheltered inside our homes. We moved into zoom rooms. I isolated in many ways, taking care of teenagers whose needs couldn’t be met by online school and fear of a virus.

But I didn’t stop transitioning. I didn’t stop becoming more myself, internally and externally. And while part of that transition included shortening my name, changing my pronouns in all my social media and book bios, and putting (they/them) after my name on every zoom call, it didn’t seem to prepare people to interact with me again in person.

The first time I was with a group of people who’d spent time with me pre-transition and then hadn’t seen or heard much of me for a couple of years, it was rough. It was at a memorial service at a spiritual center I used to belong to.

It wasn’t so much the double-takes — those were reassuring that I was definitively altered from the past me they remembered yet still recognizable as me.

It was the virtue-signaling immediately following the misgendering.

They couldn’t figure out the singular use of “they.” It went against grammar rules, yadda yadda yadda. One person thought I was male, asked if I was still married, then if my spouse had “switched teams” too. They didn’t understand the difference between gender identity and sexual orientation.

And then, “I have a gay daughter.”

I wonder if people of color feel something similar when they hear someone say, “Oh, I have a black friend,” right after that person says something racist?

I left that gathering exhausted, feeling defeated and othered. I’d spent time and energy educating, and maybe I’d made a difference — my friendly, known face patiently explaining and answering questions, fielding inappropriate inquiries, and offering suggestions to make using my pronouns easier.

As the days counted down to this year’s conference, the messages about volunteer shifts and responsibilities kept pinging my phone. I’m an active volunteer and chair of my local chapter, so I’m happy to help out and do my bit at the conference. Having a writing community keeps me going through the hard times.

But rather than getting increasingly excited about seeing my writing peeps in person again, I got more anxious. I remembered the memorial service and wondered if it would be another round of people asking me if I’m a “them” now or what’s in my pants. So I took a deep, heart-racing breath, and asked for support, for people to have my back and correct others when they hear me get misgendered, and to step in and do some of the pronoun educating for me.

The responses were incredible. Affirming. Supportive. Grateful I’d brought it up. I relaxed and packed my bags.

Then I arrived, and the misgendering began. By the very people I’d asked for help. And it continued. Conference faculty. Attendees. On and on. I didn’t even try to keep track of how many times I corrected people. I did correct them, though.

“My pronouns are they/them,” I’d say in a gap between their sentences.

Gender-neutral pronouns aren’t new

Some people looked at me blankly. Others dismissively. Most made excuses. It’s hard, it’s new, it’s different, they’re not used to it.

Let’s ignore the reams of factual evidence that pronouns outside the binary of she/her and he/him aren’t actually a new thing. (The singular “they” goes back to the 14th century.) OK, they’re new to some people. Fair enough. But how new? And how long does it take for folks to figure it out? A 2018 Pew Research Survey says most Americans know something about gender-neutral pronouns. Did it take you more than four years to figure out how to use a cell phone when you first got one? Or to post to Facebook when you signed up for an account?

No. No it didn’t. Because you cared about that. It mattered to you.

This? Me? That apparently doesn’t.

The burden of teaching

I like teaching people new things. I like learning, getting deep into things — how to sprout lentils for chickens, build hugelkulture beds, develop your intuition, dye yarn with plants — and share that knowledge with others. As long as they want to learn it.

Trans people are supposed to be OK taking on the task of educating people how and why to use our pronouns. To give them tips like “pretend I’m two people, both male and female, that way I won’t be grammatically incorrect in your brain,” or “pretend I have a mouse in my pocket,” all with kindness, patience, and a smile. While feeling unseen, unsafe, and othered.

Do you know how exhausting that is? It’s like teaching a child to knit while hiking up one of Oregon’s buttes through a windstorm. Pushing against the wind, helping them not drop the yarn and get it through the loops, praising them the whole time.

It’s OK to make mistakes

I don’t mind mistakes. I don’t expect perfect gendering at all times.

I make gender mistakes myself. I don’t misgender myself much anymore, but I’ll occasionally get it wrong for a friend. I correct myself and move on. No self-flagellation needed (although I’ll have a think later about why I’m messing up — is it internalized transphobia, trouble seeing my friend as their gender, or just getting confused by too many names and pronouns in the conversation?)

What I mind is the resistance. The complaints that it’s too hard. They’re too old. They’re not used to it. They’re trying.

My response? Practice.

You don’t learn to ride a bike by looking at it and saying, oh, I’ve heard of those, they’re interesting. They’re kinda new aren’t they? My sister’s kid just got one.

You get on the bike and push the pedals and wobble around. It feels odd and uncomfortable. You feel foolish. Awkward. You probably fall off. A bunch of times. Maybe someone holds the back of your seat and runs along beside you, holding you up aways and giving you encouragement.

Eventually, you get your balance, your muscles learn how to make the movements smoothly and routinely, and you glide away, free from the constraints of your feet on the sidewalk.

Learning to use gender-neutral pronouns is much the same.

How to practice using someone’s new-to-you pronouns

I’ve got two options for you: do it in the moment or practice on your own.

I’ve had some great gender-related interactions lately where the person I’m with has been open and willing to practice using new language with me.

At a get-together with fellow writers, during a conversation with two people, one person misgendered me, and I corrected them explaining that my pronouns are they/them, rather than she/her. They apologized and said something along the lines of, “I’m just not used to it, I’m not sure how to use it. How do I do that?”

An opening. “Let’s practice,” I said, smiling.

I attempted a role play, using the other person as a stand-in for me, but then got confused myself as to who was supposed to be who in my overly-complicated scenario. It was funny. We laughed. The other new writer friend took the lead.

“When you talk about Jo,” she said, “you say, ‘I’m really glad I got to meet them today. They’re really interesting.’”

Understanding ensued. She tried it out.

“Yeah, I’m glad I got to meet them, too. I like their hair.”

I asked her if she kept a daily journal. She nodded.

“When you write about this BBQ, write about me, using my correct pronouns. If you initially write she or her, just scratch it out and write they or them. It just takes practice. You can do it.”

She said she’d try. And I thanked her, letting her know how important her effort is to me.

I met with a work friend recently. He referenced seeing me in the news a couple of years ago and relayed he’d said to himself, “I know that lady!”

“It turns out I’m not a lady, though,” I said.

He looked at me. “Oh yeah. Hmm. Well, I know that human!”

“That works. Thanks for practicing. I appreciate that.”

Then we got our caffeinated beverages and had a good chat.

If practicing in public feels too nerve-wracking, talk about me when I’m not there. Bitch about me even, using my correct pronouns. Here’s a script:

Person 1: Oh, that Jo. Why are they always going on about their pronouns?

Person 2: I know! What’s so important to them about it anyway?

Person 1: I don’t know. I don’t get it. They do have cool hair, though.

Person 2: True. That purple hair is pretty awesome.

Person 1: And that accent. I bet they’re smart, too.

Person 2: Do you think they’d give us tips on how to dye ours?

Person 1: Hey, look at us, we’re doing it!

Please, complain about me and my pronouns all you want behind my back. Just use the right ones.

It really just takes practice. Using a singular they becomes normal after a while. Your brain rewires itself and you, too, might find the unexpected freedom of having a default option for people. You might stop having to shove everyone you see into either an M or F box. You can just not know and use they/them pronouns for them until you do. It’s wonderfully freeing for a tired brain to have one less thing to compute.

I know this because I’ve been there. I’ve had people close to me change their pronouns. I’ve gone through the initial stumbling and fumbling, trying to get my brain to catch up with what I want my mouth to say.

When you don’t use someone’s pronouns, this is what you’re communicating

When I talk to other transgender folx, especially nonbinary people who use gender-neutral pronouns, we get the distinct impression that cisgender people want us to think it’s too hard to learn to use something other than binary pronouns for us.

But what people who continually misgender us and then say things like, “Oh, I’m trying but I’m just not used to it, it’s hard for me to get the hang of,” are actually communicating is this:

“You don’t matter enough for me to make the effort.”

“My reluctance to learn something new is more important than your discomfort and pain.”

“I don’t respect you.”

“You’re not safe here.”

You may not mean to be communicating this. You may not believe these things. But that’s what you’re telling them.

When you keep misgendering someone, it means you’re not trying, you’re not paying attention to your words, you’re not keeping it in mind. When you do, your language changes. You get better at it.

My feelings are valid

Someone recently said to me, “It’s hard to know intent” when someone misgenders me. It’s not, though.

The intent of someone who wants to use the correct pronouns for me, but isn’t adept at it yet, goes something like this:

“Hey, have you met, Jo, she writes books about… I mean, they, sorry. They write books about…”

Or it goes:

Them: “Have you seen Jo’s writing shack? She’s got a composting toilet.”

Me: “My pronouns are they/them.”

Them: “Right. Yes. Sorry. They’ve got a composting toilet.”

They actually try. They practice. They mess up, they hold themselves accountable, they correct, and move on. They keep trying. They actually do it.

People whose intent is to ignore my pronouns, dismiss them, disrespect them. They make excuses, they “forget,” they don’t try at all.

I can tell the difference. And I trust what I feel. Those people who used my pronouns, or who were sincere when they screwed up, or who sought me out to apologize afterward or offer support. I felt it. I know who you are.

Part of what I’m learning on this journey of healing and becoming whole is to listen to myself, to my feelings, to my inner voice. You can try and invalidate my feelings, gaslight me, and make me question myself. I’ve spent about four decades questioning myself, and I know when I’ve come to my truth.

So, please, hear this truth.

• Pronouns matter. If people used different pronouns for you than the ones you use for yourself, it’d feel — at best — weird, awkward, and invalidating, right? Possibly even insulting.
• When you don’t use someone’s pronouns, you are actively telling them they don’t matter to you to put in the effort to get it right.
• It’s OK to try and mess up. Catch yourself, or let yourself be corrected, quickly apologize (don’t make it about you and how hard you’re trying), repeat what you were saying with the right pronouns, and just keep on going. Your efforts will be noticed.
• It gets easier. It really does. Keep practicing.

(Not covered here, but worth mentioning: they/them, she/her, and he/him aren’t the only pronouns out there. There are lots of options. Google “neo pronouns.” I don’t actually like they/them all that much, but the effort of getting people to recognize and use that is so huge that I don’t have the energy within me to roll out a neo pronoun of xe/xem/xer.)

Resources:

(there are a lot more, but these are a good start)

Pronouns.org — https://pronouns.org/

Gender Spectrum — https://genderspectrum.org/

This is the fourth article in Nonbinary Notebook, a series exploring my experience transitioning as a nonbinary person in midlife.