My classmates stared at me as I proceeded to tell them that I was going to go by a different name and use different pronouns during my junior year of high school.
It was not my choice to stand up in front of them, red-faced under those terrible fluorescent lights like a show-and-tell piece. My English teacher at the time didn’t know how to address the fact that there was a “Julien” in Group 3 when there had previously been no “Julien” in the class at all.
Apparently, I had not timed my coming out perfectly.
To this day, my worst fear around my identity is having to come out to a group of people when it’s not my decision to do so. I time these things. Unless someone asks me what my pronouns are, I won’t tell someone I’m nonbinary unless I’ve sussed them out first.
I’m not ashamed of who I am by any means, but for safety’s sake, I like to know that someone will be cool with the fact that I fall into this little category.
If we’re doing the activity in class where we’re all introducing ourselves, I usually like to pull the Band-Aid off with my classmates all at once by giving my pronouns along with my name and life story. In some classes, I don’t have that opportunity.
It’s been eight years since that incident in high school, yet some things never change.
My undergraduate degree was in film and television production. I’m queer, and my best friend is too. They’re also Middle Eastern. We’ve often had conversations revolving around the representation of marginalized communities in the media and the stereotypes that seem to follow different groups of people.
I wanted to be a part of the change. My films always revolve around people in the LGBTQ+ community or deal with people handling mental health issues.
When I decided to get into journalism, I wasn’t even sure what type I wanted to pursue. I figured I would at least be able to use what I learned to dig deeper into other people’s stories so that I would be better able to represent them in my film work.
I’m starting to figure out what I want to pursue now, but my anecdote about representing marginalized groups was still my go-to on the first day of one of my classes, when my professor asked me why I wanted to pursue journalism.
I went to jump into the anecdote, which I always have to preface by saying, “Well, I’m nonbinary.” I couldn’t even get through my next sentence before my professor asked me to explain what that meant to the other students in class who may not know.
Once again, I could feel all eyes on me, as I locked gazes with my professor to gauge if she was seriously making me do this.
This is one of my least favorite things about being queer. I’m not Google.
Personally, I’m usually okay with explaining something when people have never heard of it before. It’s education. I want people to learn more. The more they know, the more accepting they can be of others.
However, there’s a time and place, and the context is important. Maybe I should start carrying around a pin and make it seem like I’m part of some secret society. Being nonbinary is a very personal thing to me, and I don’t want to have to explain what it means to me unless you’re someone I’m very close to.
I quickly gave a little “it just means that I don’t identify as a girl or a guy” description and added that I use they/them pronouns. As soon as I was done talking, my professor immediately referred to me as “she” — and continues to do so to this day.
And this, my friends, is why I suss people out before telling them anything about my identity. I’d rather be misgendered because I stayed silent than because someone ignored what I said.
Everyone comes out in different ways at different times in their life — over and over again. Sometimes people will be confused, and you have to go the extra step, but that’s okay.
The lesson isn’t that people have to stop asking questions — it’s that they need to start asking themselves when and why they’re asking. People should still be able to feel like they’re the ones steering their own stories.
