TB's Diary: Gender Fix + Inside Gender's Machinery (Short Story)

A little while ago I went to the DMV (here in NJ it's called the MVC) to reconcile a past mistake. Under the "sex" section of the form they give out I had put "M," leading to my license reading "Gender M."

Later, after reading "Gender Trouble," a YouTube comment informed me that Judith Butler identifies as non-binary and had their documents changed to reflect that, the option "X - unspecified" being available in their state. I did some research and the unspecified specification is available in my state, too.

I recall some minor confusion during the process. One of the MVC employees was a bit nonplussed, asking me whether I identify as a male or a female. I told them, "The third option."

Anyway, my new driver's license came in the mail today; see above.

Not sure why I'm sharing this with my pseudo-private diary. I haven't discussed it with family or friends. Not because I think they'd react poorly (they wouldn't), I guess it's just not that important to me. Or maybe it carries a different kind of importance than that which I'd discuss with others.

Now that you've read my blog you might also like this relevant short story.

Inside Gender's Machinery

by T. B. Johnson

       A gender irrationalist walked into a bar. It didn’t want to arrive too early, so it spent the extra time wandering the city center. It watched the beggars make their rounds and contemplated propaganda mind viruses. It decided not to wear its mask– it couldn’t drink with the mask on, after all. Finally, the time to get there fashionably late arrived.

       It met up with those it already knew. It felt more comfortable around individuals it had met prior. Not because those individuals would be more tolerant of its condition– they wouldn’t– but because they'd have more of a basis to maintain the thread of a conversation, something it found difficult.

       A female presenter introduced it around. It spoke to her male-presenting offspring.

       “I heard you make offensive stuff,” it said.

       “Well, I wrote a thing about QAnon. But it’s a satire,” he said.

       Satire, it had been taught, was a difficult genre to “make it” in. It couldn't guess which genre was comparatively easy.

       “Most people,” he said, “they just see that it’s about QAnon and they’re like, ‘Hell no.’ They don’t get that it’s satire.”

       It had also been taught that one must locate oneself in one genre to avoid the disaster of failure. It had been given much advice. The overseers of the event forced it to think about its work very rationally. When a female presenter tried to place the genre label “dark romance” on its work, it expressed baseless resistance.

       “It has sex, but no romance.”

       But that wasn’t the truth. The pair– romance and sex– are inseparable, after all.

       It mentions this to the female presenter. It feared the revelation could be interpreted as a flirt, so it broke away from the group to get a drink.

       At the barside, it found another familiar female presenter and a familiar male presenter.

       “Thanks for the comparable,” it said to the female presenter.

       According to her, its work was evocative of an instant cult classic stop-motion animated film– Mad God. It wondered how she could sniff out its madness. It hoped she wouldn’t tell on him. While it waited for its drink it listened.

       The female presenter said, “A long time ago I met (a famous, female-presenting author).”

       “That’s great. You should reach out to her,” he said.

       “I would, but she had a nervous breakdown,” she said.

       “She must be better by now,” he said.

       “No… it never really ended,” she said.

       “Eh, doesn't matter. Whatever you’ve got, go after it full force,” he said.

       It wondered about the legitimacy of that advice, but it said nothing, for it couldn’t think of the right words. Expresso martini in hand, it joined another group. It noticed a male presenter using his cell phone, detached from his surroundings.

       “Anything interesting on there?” It asked.

       It knew it would often use its own device to avoid uncomfortable social situations. It would later wonder if its words were any help or if it should've held its tongue.

       Suddenly, a commotion. Through the second-floor bar’s wide windows, it witnessed a line of protesters waving flags and “Free Palestine” banners, followed by an even longer line of police cars. Another male presenter– different from the last mentioned– used his phone to make a personal recording. It liked recording people record things, so it asked for permission and took a shot of both the protest and the man for its social media feed.

       “Just don’t tag me, OK?” asked the male presenter.

       “OK,” it replied, never intending to do so.

       “My (crowd of people) doesn’t like me to get political,” he said.

       As the night progressed it listened, it spoke, and it did its best to appear normal. The conversation carried itself to work philosophy. It found so many lies all too easy to fall back on.

       “Politics scare me,” it lied. People got killed over politics, it knew. But people who had nothing to do with politics got killed by it, too, so fear is futile.

       “I love writing about celebrity culture, but I don’t know if I could handle being one,” it lied.

       “Maybe I like writing female characters because I like exploring the other,” it lied. It liked writing about women for the same reason it liked playing video games as body type B.

       “I’m a horror guy,” it lied. It also wrote adventure, drama, political satire… It had read a male-presenting author’s words against remaining confined by genre¹ and took them to heart.

       With regards to “guy,” here I must address the elephant in the room. Our hero was male-presenting due to the testosterone coursing through its veins since childhood. It remembered a time when it felt uncomfortable in its masculinity. It remembered a time when it felt uncomfortable in its femininity. But in that present, the gears of the genre system had ceased to squeak and creak in its core.

       A male presenter showed it a photo of himself in a yellow and silver jester costume with an elaborate Venetian mask.

       “I'm gonna need some context there,” it said.

       “You're into masks,” he said.

       Nothing that night made it more scared of collapsing into insanity than that image.

       The crowd died down. People began to leave. A male presenter with apparent connections to the media production industry made his way out. It shared some parting words with him.

       “Sorry I mixed up your name,” it said. Though it did its best to memorize all of them it was exposed to, it held no love of names, constantly and confusingly shifting its own between at least three.

       He smiled. “Oh yeah, (male name), (other male name),” he said and left.

       With nothing more pressing to occupy itself, it stayed and talked with a male presenter and a female presenter for a long while.

       “Give it ten years. Being trans will be just like being gay,” the female presenter said. “Nobody will have a problem with it.”

       “I’m all for trans rights,” it said, tipsy, “but don’t you think the movement represents an even greater level of submission to the existing gender hierarchy?”

       “No,” she said, “because anyone can be who they want to be.”

       That shut it up. It wondered, What do I want to be?

       Exhausted by a night of socialization, it decided to retire. It dismissed itself and headed for the unisex restrooms. The lock on one of the doors was broken, leading it to walk in on someone. It apologized and waited for the male presenter to finish up, then used the bathroom itself. It felt safe– though it did warn the next, female-presenting bathroom user about the lock’s broken status.

       Finally, it left the bar and returned to peaceful solitude. Only there could it reascend into what it truly was– an unimpeded spirit, genderless.