Sunlight and Dirt: My Journey into Gender and Acceptance as a Nonbinary Person
Written by Quinn Terry - Editor and Contributor
My mother took a lot of photos of me as a child. The fridges in our family used to be covered in contrasting images - a child who wore a Queen Elizabeth costume on halloween, all gold fabric and fake jewels, placed next to a “tomboy” wearing overalls and a junior tool belt. I loved that tool belt. A second look was often required to realize that the pictures all showed the same child.
I got an Atlanta Braves jersey as a gift one year, and it took a lot of fighting to get me out of it. The tutu that my grandmother got me lay unused in the corner of a closet for years before they finally decided to throw it away. There was no use in getting me to wear it. I was lucky, growing up. A lot of little girls don’t get to run around in the woods, so I ran for them. My long hair streamed behind me, collecting leaves and small twigs in my tendrils, a testament to where I’d been.
The adults in my life were forgiving of the rules. For many little girls in the southern U.S., pink is encouraged. Bows are placed in perfectly styled hair. I remember my grandmother shouting from the back door as I ran to the oasis of the woods that bordered the property, “brush your hair! You look like nobody loves you!”
She never meant it. She was smiling the whole time.
I existed on the fringes of what society would call a “tomboy,” enjoying the rituals of femininity just as I embraced the grease and dirt associated with boyhood. Evenings would find me watching reverently as my grandmother painted her nails while she watched TV, and the early mornings filled me with awe as she followed the protocols of beautification. Chanel No. 5, mascara, curling irons, perfectly lined lips, hand cream. These are the things I loved about my grandmother. Similarly, my mother routinely filed her nails into perfect almonds, something I always admired. But when it came my turn, I couldn’t stand the feeling of the nail file. The otherwise pleasant smell of curling irons turned acrid when I became their focus.
Perhaps the confusion came from my grandfather, my personal hero. Papa didn’t wear makeup, and he looked nice in a suit. Why didn’t women wear suits? Even when they did, the pockets weren’t big enough so they had to carry those big purses. Why did I have to wear an itchy dress to church when the boys could wear comfortable pants and baggy shirts? Dresses weren’t good for cartwheels, and I always got yelled at for getting dirt on them.
Why did people listen to Papa more than my grandmother? Why did all the women in my life, powerful and strong, seem to take up less space when men entered the room? Why couldn’t men wear skirts? Why did men fear being called feminine? No one had answers for me, and I instinctively knew that I shouldn’t ask these things.
As I got older, femininity became something hungry. It grew sharper edges. It made boys look at my chest and treat me like an object. I began to admire the “woman” aspect of myself, not for my own benefit, but for the attention it could bring. I tucked the inner child away, the one who’d loved the smell of moss-covered trees. Dirt wasn’t becoming. Running wasn’t lady-like. I had boys to impress. I learned to ignore the aching pit in my chest that told me something wasn’t quite right.
When I looked at other women, I told myself the admiration I felt in my stomach was just jealousy. I didn’t let myself recognize it for what it was. I couldn’t look at women that way, I wasn’t a man. I also didn’t let myself think about how I felt better with a short haircut, or how some days I wished I didn’t have boobs.
Or how much easier it must be to be a man.
Gender had strict boundaries. They were different than they had been in childhood - I couldn’t manipulate them anymore, and if I did it wasn’t cute like it once was. No matter how I presented, eyes still stared a little too long. Hands touched where they shouldn’t. I became tired, I resented the male gaze as much as I strove to earn it. None of this is a revelation - a lot of women will identify with this story and see themselves in it.
When I came out as bi to my partner, I remember feeling fear. Not because I was afraid of his response (a simple, “well...yeah. I knew that.”) but because I still felt that something was missing. I was too afraid to dig any further, so I left it alone. The familiar dark pit grew, silent and cold in my stomach.
I love women. I love the rituals that come along with them - not just the hyperfeminine ones that defined my youth. I love the “angry” women, the “are you safe” women, the “fuck you” women, the “spit in the face of the world” women, the “I dare you to tell me I’m not valid” trans women. They are strong, they are beautiful, and they are a light in the world. But I do not belong with them. I thought I did for a long time, and I worked so hard to fit the mold that had been made for me long before I had been born.
No matter how I tried, the edges didn’t quite contain me. I couldn’t ever get comfortable. I wore the eyeliner, I pushed the boobs up, I wore the heels, the fuck-me-red lipstick. I made room for men. Through it all, I could never get a hold on that unsightly anger - the clawing in my throat that wouldn’t let me be. I never completed the façade.
I have always fought my queer identity. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I never felt valid enough. When I was bi, I felt invalid because I’ve chosen to share my life with a man. Once again, I felt the mold constrict. I couldn’t fit here, either. I struggled so long with being nonbinary. How could I be valid? I wear skirts a lot. I like makeup. My body is clearly “feminine.” I’m married to a guy. I can’t afford the cool androgynous clothes. I quietly put she/they in my social bios, secretly hoping someone would use “they” as a default. It never happened.
“She” and “her” made me feel...itchy somehow. I strained against the mold I still made a home in. Would my spouse still love me if I told him I’m non-binary? That little kid, with eyes full of sunlight and hair teeming with leaves, whispered to me:
We’re just us. Let go. Come run with me!
Their voice was getting louder with each day.
I’d been fighting my nature since I was a little kid. I was tired.
When I told my spouse, he looked at me once, nodded his head, and said “ok! I love you!” That was it. No struggle. No questions. I don’t know if he realizes how much this meant to me - for him it was just an inevitable conclusion. I’ve always been bad at understanding myself.
So, I let go. It’s still rather new, but every time I hear “they” or “them” come out of someone’s mouth, a tiny thrill shoots up my spine. I still worry if I’m valid enough. I still find myself in that mold sometimes, as if I’ve been sleeping and somehow made my way back to its constraining familiarity. Called back to a rigidity I’d come to expect. But I feel...light. I feel like I did back when I was just a kid and it didn’t matter if I liked dirt and also tea parties. I was just me.
I’m still at the beginning, but the sunlight feels nice here. I am prepared for this journey through the woods. I am closer to being me. Not a woman, not what society imagined for me. Just...me. Whatever I happen to be today.
It’s a good feeling.
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