A close friend recently joined me to watch my eldest child play in a local Little League game. As she approached, she scanned the crowd for me and exclaimed, “Thank goodness you’re here! Everyone looks so similar except for you.” After 15 years of friendship, her honesty is refreshing.
Her comment struck a chord; I understood what she meant. I don’t fit the mold of a typical sports parent. When people picture a soccer mom or a baseball dad, they likely don’t envision my appearance. With my short hair and gender-nonconforming style, I often blend more with the dads but differ in physique. I find myself navigating between categories, as a queer and gender-fluid person who embodies both masculine and feminine traits.
The crux of this discussion lies here: I sometimes struggle with feelings of being an outsider at school events, among mom groups, or during dad conversations. This discomfort is rooted in the heteronormative barriers I frequently encounter. Generally, I am outgoing, confident, and knowledgeable, capable of engaging with anyone. Yet, my appearance and identity can bewilder others, leading to a need for understanding and respect that can make some people uneasy.
This dynamic forces me into a position of choosing which battles to fight, many of which may seem minor within the broader context of LGBTQ issues. For instance, when someone refers to me with feminine terms like “lady” or “girlie,” it stings. Yes, I identify as female, but I also encompass male traits. I resist being pigeonholed into a binary, especially when educators address a class as “boys and girls.” Such distinctions marginalize those who do not identify strictly with their assigned gender, including individuals like myself who may identify as both or neither. It’s unjust and unnecessary for their learning experience.
Gendered language can be painful, yet I hesitate to voice my discomfort, fearing it may distract from larger issues affecting the LGBTQ community, such as bullying, mental health, and suicide. I often wonder if my concerns over language are worth the risk of making others feel awkward or defensive. However, when I am feminized, I cringe, and when referred to by male pronouns, I feel a sense of deception. When individuals realize I have breasts, they often react as if I’ve tricked them, leading to an awkward attempt to “correct” their language.
I appreciate that not everyone knows how to ask for preferred pronouns, and so the most vital correction I seek is not about pinpointing the “right” pronoun but rather releasing the need for labels altogether. It’s unnecessary to categorize individuals by gender—kindness should be the default.
When I feel uncomfortable, I remind myself that a less assured adult or a timid child likely feels the same way. I find the courage to speak up, even if it makes others uneasy. I refuse to allow my feelings or those of other queer individuals to be sacrificed for the comfort of the majority living in a heteronormative world. Thus, I advocate for inclusive language in classrooms and social settings. Simple phrases like “Hi, friends!” or “Good morning, team!” can replace gendered terminology without losing meaning.
I invest significant effort into providing resources for my children’s teachers, including a list of literature featuring LGBTQ themes and families. I offer to read these books in class, even offering to purchase them if budgets are tight, though I emphasize that inclusion should always be part of educational funding. All children deserve representation—including those with two moms, two dads, transgender parents, and non-binary identities.
The lack of LGBTQ representation in media, parenting literature, and educational materials is a constant battle I face. While I am generally confident in my identity, it’s disheartening to feel marginalized. I seek acknowledgment, not just acceptance, and I am committed to advocating for visibility. I choose to confront these smaller battles, as each instance of discomfort—whether it’s being called “lady,” encountering another traditional family narrative, or facing gendered language—fuels my determination to create an inclusive environment.
The reality is: your discomfort with my request to alter a few words is not my concern. The LGBTQ community has endured too much discomfort, pain, and loss due to the ignorance surrounding our identities. If you find it challenging to adapt your language to respect me and others, that is your issue to address. I feel a responsibility to educate, and I am willing to help you learn.
I am open to the fact that you may not fully grasp my experience as a queer person, but I am eager to collaborate with those who wish to become better allies. I strive to be kind and approachable, recognizing that mistakes are part of the journey. While I don’t expect perfection, I do anticipate progress. The discomfort we all experience can catalyze the changes necessary for true acceptance of LGBTQ+ individuals.
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In summary, the journey towards LGBTQ acceptance is filled with daily battles that may seem small but are crucial for fostering an inclusive society. By advocating for language that respects diverse identities and pushing for representation in educational materials, we can work together to create a more understanding world.