By continuing to use our site, you agree to our Private Policy and Terms of Use. I looked back down at him and met his gaze, before quietly muttering to myself, "I don't fucking know. I don't feel prepared to assign myself any one gender label at the moment--it all feels rather trivial and unnecessarily complex for me.
That's not to say labels can't be good--if someone wants to call themselves a woman, they absolutely should, because they are, and vice versa. But in my case, I feel best letting anyone refer to me in whatever manner works for them: to the drive-thru people at McDonald's who have without fail addressed me as "ma'am" upon hearing my shrill, headmistress-like croak through the intercom, I smile and nod pleasantly, accepting their classification.
To my friend's little sister who asked me in high school, "Are you a boy or a girl, because you look like a boy, but sound like a girl," I say, "You're the first person who's ever said I looked like a boy, and I am both shocked and intrigued to hear more.
My fashion's evolved over time, as has everyone's: I went from an Abercrombie polo with Hollister cargo shorts in eighth grade to a houndstooth cardigan with a sailboat brooch later in high school to what I typically wear now, which can only really be described as, "my elderly female kindergarten teacher moonlights as a gothic twink.
I model myself after the gay ghost of Mary Todd Lincoln because it's what's fun and comfortable to me. Call me a girl. Call me a boy.
