in their own words

When I was a sophomore in high school, I announced to my Rainbow Alliance club that I wanted to change my pronouns from she/her to they/them. I almost didn’t tell them because I was scared that they wouldn’t accept me or make the change into a bigger deal than it was. These thoughts plagued me throughout the meeting, but eventually, I built up the courage to tell them. I slipped it into the announcements at the end of the meeting so that nobody would have the chance to interrogate me for more information.

But rather than make a big deal about it or question me, my fellow club members simply nodded their heads and left to go to class.

When it came to me being non-binary, my peers “got” it. My parents... not so much.

Granted, nobody in my family ever thought that I was straight. When I was in elementary school and had to dress up for a recital, I chose a blue button-down shirt while my twin sister chose a frilly dress. My mom was supportive of my choices, paying for the shirt without protest. She never pressured me to dress or look a certain way as long as I appeared presentable.

Given my love of sports and few female friends, I think my mom was convinced that I was just a really butch lesbian. My mom never talked to me about gender or sexuality. She did this out of love. I know she wanted the best for me and was trying to show that she was in my corner. Still, it was clear that it was easier for her support a kid who fit into a single gender box, whether that was boy or girl, than a kid who didn’t.

When I was 15, I told my mom that I preferred they/them pronouns. We were sitting at the kitchen table after dinner with my twin and older sister. I was young and naive. Growing up in the Bay Area had sheltered me. My hope of immediate acceptance was dashed when my mom responded to my request by saying, “that’s not grammatically correct.” Which was pretty unexpected for a woman who had let me express myself freely in a small town where judging others was a common pastime.

Her reaction was one of the better ones. My older sister argued that I was alienating the straight community by being so imposing and not showing enough “compassion.” Even though I told my mom I did not want to have the conversation with my dad, she sent him an e-mail anyway. He has never broached the subject with me, nor I with him.

After those initial conversations, I was too scared to bring the topic up again. My family was uncomfortable with the subject and thought that I had gotten over it, that my pronouns were no longer an issue and that I didn’t mind being referred to as a girl. They still refer to me as their sister and daughter, and each time, I hide my cringing discomfort.

At this point in my life, I don’t know what’s right. But I do know what’s wrong. I’m still the same person, but I am not their daughter.

My communities at school and work have always been supportive of my pronouns. I think that my family has evolved with their acceptance. I’ve had several mini coming-out sessions with my twin sister, where I give her updates on my journey to an identity. As for the rest of the family, they’re trying. Especially my mom. I only wish that their effort translated into actual results. But for now, it seems as if I will have to comfort myself with their attitude rather than with their actions.

It’s been two years since my “coming out” as they/them. I’ve grown a lot since then. In the intervening time, I’ve tried not to think about my gender identity. And as I get ready to head to college next year, I’m leaving myself open to the possibility that my gender identity could continue to change. I am, after all, only 17.

* Since the original publication of In Their Own Words, this writer changed his name from Malia to Peter and now uses he/him.