[3] Amatuer nouns.

Pronouns are a bastard.

I’m putting it out there. They’re tricky little fuckers, and I like to think of myself as being reasonably enlightened. I have a loose and adaptable definition of gendery goodness that covers a pretty broad sweep of identities*, but one awkward pronoun is all it takes and wham, I’m flat on my back wondering what the hell I just fell over.

Y’know, figuratively.

I think the problem is habit. We have two sets of gendered pronouns from day one — assuming you’re like me and were raised on the Western, English-speaking side of the globe — and that’s all you’ve got to work with. He and she. Him and her. Oh sure, you have it and they and a couple other good ones (thine), but I’ve yet to meet a person who likes being called ‘it’. (Or ‘thine’, for that matter.)

Irregardless, you’ve got two blocks of language to work with, and you grow up applying them to specific people. Like my friend Nezu, who I’ve known for five years and is just starting to stretch out into a new transmasculine identity, complete with male pronouns. Which is awesome and joy-making and gives me a brother in arms: all very cool things. But I keep tripping over pronouns. I’ll mention Nezu to my friends, and I’ll say ‘she’. Actually, I’ll say “sh– h– Nezu– dammit“, and generally end up using a mixed bag of she’s and he’s until I lose track of what I was actually trying to say.

The problem isn’t my friend, and it isn’t that I’m being insulting or neglectful or stupid, it’s habit. It’s the name. Nezu equals she. Not the actual Nezu-in-person, but the name ‘Nezu’ has a little ticky box next to it in my brain marked ‘she’. Nezu-she. It’s like a little schema of misidentification tied around my tongue, waiting to trip me up.

And it’s happening with me, too. I’ve gotten an almost overwhelmingly positive approach to coming out so far, minus one or two blips. Neither one of my parents knows, and I want to keep it that way for a while. (Mom has Religion — and also, y’know, schizophrenia — and Dad is helping me stay financially stable, so I’m not planning on throwing a wrench into either set of spokes just yet.) But most of my friends know, my brother knows, and I don’t currently have a workplace to speak of, so that’s not an issue. I’ve gotten “That’s awesome!” as a reaction, and “Hey, cool, whatever makes you happy,” and “Dude, I’ll support you in whatever you want to do,” and “So does this mean you’re straight now?”, which I’m endlessly grateful for.

Pronoun-switching has not been quite so successful. Even my very trans-aware friends are having trouble, pretty much for exactly the same reason: habit. And I haven’t picked a new real-world-name yet to replace my very female one, so that also isn’t helping. Internet buddies call me DK, Deek, or Dark, which I enjoy, but it’s always going to feel a little like make-believe. Real world pals don’t have much choice yet except for what they know.

A lot of them are making a good effort, though. I get more she’s than he’s, but at least I’m getting some he’s. And a pleased little zing of glee every time it happens. My brother’s girlfriend, R, tries really hard and I love her for it. My brother… less so. And I need to talk to him about it, because it’s starting to get hurtful. He uses ‘she’ as standard, introduces me as his sister, and cracks jokes that’re starting to make me twitchy.

I know it’s harder for family, because it’s not just ‘she’ he’s having to lose. It’s the older sister he’s known me as for his entire life. And what I’m stretching into isn’t a completely new thing, because in many ways it’s always been me, but it’s different. It’s weird and sudden and, yeah, there have been a lot of warning signs, but family are pretty much required by law to miss out on those.

I spent a good chunk of today hanging out with the brother and R today, grabbing breakfast at an outdoor cafe, booking house-viewings for the flat they want to get together, watching Hancock and eating donuts and listening to Dylan Moran rant about pretty much everything ever from my slightly uncomfortable couches. R tripped on a pronoun when they were packing up to leave. Called me she instead of he, then laughed and apologized because she’s a sweetheart. And we joked that yeah, it’s not easy, but I don’t mind people taking their time.

Then the brother said, “Well, don’t look at me, because I’m not doing it.”

Wham. Flat on my back.

I took a breath, smiled tightly, said something about how he’d get there in the end, and didn’t hug him before he left. We always hug; we’re friendly, affectionate little weirdos. But not this time, because that stung like hell and I’m pretty sure he didn’t even realize.

I kinda hope that R gave him a good hard kick on the way home.

Pronouns. They are a bastard.

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*I’m not going to say ‘covers all identities’, because someone’ll come along in a nanosecond and prove me wrong.