s/o being mistaken for a man (now with 2 stories)

[meggers5]

This is a story written by my aunt, from her book about, as a butch lesbian, always being mistaken for a man. It's a really interesting book, so I though I'd share a story):

Once, Dorothy and I were on the ferry to Salt Spring Island. It was the weekend so the boat was pretty jam-packed with travellers. We were heading for the women’s washroom, very engrossed in conversation as we went.

As we turned into the washroom, suddenly a loud male voice bellowed, “Hey!” I kept making my point to Dorothy, hearing the commotion sort of but not thinking it had anything to do with me, till the same angry, by now guttural, voice yelled, “Get out from the women’s washroom!” Then I knew he was talking to me.

We turned to see a family, sitting with two kids on one pair of seats facing a woman on the aisle and the screaming man next to the window. He was struggling to get out of his seat. His wife was pulling on his arm trying to restrain him, and the two young teen children looked terrified and like they wished they were anywhere else.

“I’m not a man.” I tried speaking over his rage. The sound of my voice made him even madder and by this time he was on his feet and trying to lunge over the wife who had by now attempted to insert herself completely between him and the aisle. The daughter, about twelve or thirteen, was leaning forward helping her mom block him off. His face was really red and I’m sure they thought he was going to have a stroke right there on the ferry.

“You’re no woman! You’re no woman!” he kept saying as he tried to get past the wife and daughter.

By this time Dorothy was explaining in a calm, but assertive and “raised above the din,” voice that her friend was not a man and furthermore (and she really said “furthermore”) he was making a fool of himself and scaring his children. By this time, he had subsided back into his seat, pushed there and held there by his wife, still muttering.

With that we marched into the washroom like we were entitled, only to be met by the frightened stares of all the women and children clustered in solidarity around the sinks. Alerted by the commotion, they were waiting for the entrance of the interloper. And they weren’t disappointed I could tell. I felt like a cat among the pigeons. They looked at me literally wide-eyed and kind of drew themselves together against the big bad dyke. I tried to lighten my voice, not like into falsetto or anything, but just up from the depth of tense I knew it was at.

“I’m not a man,” I assured the crowd. “He was mistaken.” I gestured towards the commotion they had just heard, smiling friendly-like. Nobody said a word.

We took our spot in the line-up for the cubicles. Still, nobody said a word, to us or each other. Women continued to look at me, but sneakily, and try as I did, I didn’t manage to catch even one woman’s eye.

We did our business as quick as we could and when we got outside, the family were gone. But hanging about right outside the door were three or four young guys. They nudged each other as we passed, one saying, “There’s the freak there.” We just kept going and I was puzzled about their presence, but after we had gone a ways and looked back, they were being joined by young women emerging from the washroom. Clearly they were on guard to defend the honour of their girlfriends.

As we were watching this scene, two people, a woman and a man in ferry uniforms, arrived at the washroom. They wore the fancy kind of uniforms, not the deck worker kind, and we could see them talking to the bozos and their girlfriends. They were pointing at the washroom and towards where we had just gone and were still lurking, at which point we decided to move away from the scene.

We talked about it after, of course, and we were both shaken and at moments scared by the incredible rage and violence that poured out of that man.

For me, however, having Dorothy there made all difference. She was outraged, but totally at the man, the women, the jerks, not at me. We were in it together. I have so often felt that vibe of “What do you expect?” Not so much now—trans awareness has made my lot easier—but this was back then. I’d like to think that if it happened now, we would make it a point to speak to the ferry people rather than be as loathe as I was to have to explain myself.

[cst2cst]

That is so awful. I can't imagine having to defend your existence to threatening strangers. She has a great voice. Thanks for sharing this.

[sharknado]

What is the name of the book?

[mnirishgirl]

Wow, what a jerk (the man). I guess it's a sign of how far I think (I hope) we've come that I can't believe no one said anything to help her. I like to believe I would have at least said something kind to her if I were one of the women in the restroom. I can't believe the man wasn't embarassed and ashamed.

Your Aunt's writing voice is really powerful. What is the book's title?

[cheeseandcrackers]

[onomatopoeia]

Wow. I was hoping for a "and then the woman said 'Oops, I believe you're in the wrong washroom!' and I said 'No, I just have short hair!' and then we both laughed" sort of story. I can be naive like that.

And really, even if your aunt *was* a male that man's response was way over the top. It kind of seems like he knew your aunt was female and her appearance and apparent gay-ness was his issue (or am I being Captain Obvious here?).

I'm sorry your aunt and her friend experienced that. It's not right. I'm sure it means little to her to hear that from an internet stranger, but I just wanted to say it.

[aprilsails]

What a powerfully written piece. I can truthfully imagine the scene, which is none too pleasant.

My family is often quite backwards (from the valley) and my grandfather still says disparaging remarks about the married lesbian couple who bought the cottage beside my Mom's. The younger generation have all tried on multiple occasions to explain to him that his comments are crass and inappropriate but he's 85 and hides behind his religion. I could easily see him doing something like what that man did when he was younger.

I'm sorry your Aunt had such unfortunate experiences to write about.

[meggers5]

This is one story of very many.

I'll find another to post.

It's fascinating the visceral reactions people have to things that are different.

[meggers5]

Here's another:
When barbara and I went to Ottawa last month, to visit my mom, we had to fly, it being the only way to get there. Airport security has always been a bit tense for me, though picture I.D. has saved me from questions like: “Who’s identification is this and where did you get it?” or comments like: “It is illegal to use another person’s identification.” It’s better since, when push comes to shove, my I.D. does match how I look. But we never get to that point without several rounds of “SIR” which I feel I have to correct because it’s airport security and I try not to look like I’m trying to trick anybody.

Since having three joint replacements, it has become more complicated because if you set that bleeper off, and emptying your pockets doesn’t fix it, you have to be frisked by a guard with a “wand,” a thinnish electronic billy club. There were two guards, a woman and a man, and the man stepped forward and told me to raise my arms out from my body, he would need to “pat me down.” I repeated, for the third time, that I was a woman and wanted to be patted down by a woman. They stood frozen, looking at one another and kind of furtively glancing at me.

Only when barbara strode into the tableau saying, “This is my partner and she is a WOMAN,” not loudly really but very firm, that the man guard turned away with a shrug, smirking with relief, and went on to his next traveler pat down.

The woman guard was not happy and obviously not convinced. She approached me with very hostile “Fine then, have it your way,” kind of resolve. She pressed her billy-club over and over my bleeping joints—-hip… knees…back to the hip…back to the knees and then suddenly, right up between my legs and hard into my crotch. We can all only guess what she was thinking to find there. (snort).

I felt that scalding sting of humiliation, but I didn’t protest, just stayed standing there with my arms still stretched out wide in a bizarre caricature of “welcome with open arms.” Then she started on my upper body and again pressing hard and repeatedly over my chest and breasts with her club and hand…like she can’t believe they really are breasts. Finally she finished.

She never met my eye and didn’t speak till she pointed to a nearby chair and said, “Take your shoes off.” She left me there and went away with them. I waited obediently till barbara found my shoes over on the x-ray conveyor belt and brought them to me.

We bolted out of there as fast as we could. I was shaken way beyond my usual crabby relief to be done with that particular joy of travel.

I felt humiliated, and I felt like a failure for feeling humiliated. I’m supposed to have a handle on that stuff now. It’s not supposed to bother me beyond annoyance or impatience, and all with a real feeling of it being “their” problem, not mine. And, of course, with my wit still intact. I have a lot of support and very active acceptance in my life. At these moments I feel shamed at having let that support down.

But this episode has kept coming back to me. And always with a ping of failure which I realize is the humiliation still hanging on.

I realize, too, that there is a certain level of their disbelief that makes me feel that I AM a freak. It’s like a line gets crossed and at least I have to wonder what is so unbelievable about me being a woman? What is it these people see?

Sometimes I think that my own sensibilities on the subject might cause me to over-read the “You couldn’t be a woman” message, but on this one, barbara got the same hit from the whole thing. As barbara put it, it was like the guard never really believed it and felt she was being “had” in having to pat me down. Really, the kind of humiliation that a scenario like that would evoke, would account for her abusive level of anger. All brought on by her own trans phobia, thinking I was really a man who had suddenly decided that HE was a woman,”like they do nowadays,” and trying to pass. Though I must say I don’t see my style as one that most would chose to that end. But it is maybe proof of the increase in trans consciousness: she thought I was trans and in the old days she would have just seen me as a more unspecified, free-floating weirdo.

I prefer the stories where I score the perfect “bon mot,” and leave my challenger feeling sheepish or embarrassed, and me looking witty and completely together about who I am and how I look. And just when I think I’m impervious and won’t get stung, it jumps up and bites me in the ass.

gay lesbian butch transgender LGBT Queer gender Not that I really thought that would happen, the being impervious part. But writing the stories in Mistaken Identity and having them published and having this blog to add chapters whenever have given me a whole new power over the potential insults and a whole new joie de vivre in the flaunt of it. I almost look forward to potential theater for good “copy”; I hone my witty comebacks. So much better than a state of semi-dread that I might need a washroom, not a pretty picture for a woman of my middle, post-menopausal age.

[emsumm]

Those stories make me mad.
My sister (who is gay, but who I would not describe as butch (she's quite feminine), was labeled a boy many times as a child. I still remember being about 6 (she was 8) and having boys taunt the "boy in the dress."
Assholes.

[Deleted]

Your aunt has a wonderfully articulate and clear writing voice. I'd love to read more of her writing.

[emsumm]

I honestly think that if something like this happened to my sister or her wife in front of me, I might fly into a rage. They're used to it, but I'm not. I have never, as an adult, seen anyone say or do anything to her in person. On FB, I managed to reject half of my dad's side for a chick-fil-a love-fest.
This is brought to you by lunchtime champagne and incoherent thoughts, but stay with me.

[WOT?*]

What is the name of your aunt's book?

Not my story except as a witness but back in high school there was a girl, D, who always dressed in male clothing, kept her hair short, hung out with the guys and was frequently mistaken for a boy (including by me TBH). I remember one of our first days of high school when we were in gym class and somebody started yelling "There's a boy in the girl's locker room!" I don't know who did the yelling but always assumed it was someone from one of the other middle schools that didn't know her, and I don't know whether she seriously thought D was male or if she was bullying or taunting or harassing or whatever, but I felt so horrible for D. I looked around for the boy and only saw D, cringing but standing her ground with strength and grace, calmly changing into her gym clothes. My response, with others, thank goodness, was "Stop it! That's *D*!" She had to have been an amazingly strong person to hold her own against years of that kind of abuse. I wish I knew where she was and how she's doing now. Because reading these stories makes me think it never really stopped for her.

I'd love to read your aunt's story. She's a gifted writer.

[goaskalice]

Yep, we experienced that when my wife went through a boyish phase - really short hair, more comfortable in boy clothes. It was humiliating and infuriating at the same time. I will admit, there is a part of me that is really glad she decided that wasn't actually her style. That may be flameful.

[janiejones]

I've mistaken a woman for a man in a washroom before. I'm still mortified by it because she knew and called me on it. I was travelling and frazzled and had rushed into the washroom so immediately upon seeing her thought I was in the mens room. I'm still humiliated by it.