What’s So Hard About They/Them?

The minute I walked through the doors of my new school on the first day of 9th grade, I knew that here, things would be different.

At my middle school, I hadn’t felt comfortable sharing my true identity with my teachers and classmates. There were very few queer kids in my grade, and I didn’t want to stand out.

Going into high school, I was determined not to hide anymore—and luckily I no longer felt the need to. I saw other kids with brightly dyed hair, atypical clothing, and pride flag stickers on their lockers or pins on their bags, just like me. Instead of standing out, I fit right in.

“Welcome everyone!” My teacher exclaimed brightly on the first day of class. “I’m passing around blank papers that you can use to make a little ‘name tent:’ fold the paper in thirds so it stands, and write your name and pronouns on it so we can all get to know one another.”

I followed her instructions, but my hand quivered as I slowly traced out “they/them” on my paper.

I first started to question the concept of gender a few years earlier. I remember staring in the mirror and thinking, “you’re a girl, you’re a girl,” as if to convince myself. When my family called me “daughter” or “sister” I wanted to scream that those were the wrong words. I knew I wasn’t a boy, but I remember the euphoria I felt when I cut my hair short and a stranger on the subway platform called me “he.” 

I wanted to abstain from the two boxes society tries to put us in, so I finally landed on they/them pronouns. But in order to go into high school as my real self, I had to tell my parents. Just before 9th grade, I worked up the nerve. I put my identities, flags, and explanations on index cards, and left the cards on my parent’s bed before I went to bed. I tossed and turned, sick with anxiety.

The next morning, my mom gave me a card that said my parents loved and accepted me no matter what. I’ll never know if that was their first reaction, but I’m glad I gave them the time to write that card.

And now, here I was, sharing my identity in a group setting for the very first time. Once my name and pronouns were displayed, I scanned the room for another name tent that looked like mine.

And there, across the room, I saw ‘they/them,” delicately written with care and attention. I looked up to see warm brown eyes staring back into mine.

I smiled. They smiled back. Maybe I could be OK here.

A Welcoming Space?

I soon learned my new friend’s name was Aeryn (they’d chosen it themself; “I wanted to make the most pretentious spelling I could!”), and we had far more in common than just our pronouns. We liked the same books (“No way! You’ve read They Both Die at the End too?”). We liked to play video games (“Have you heard of Zelda?”). But most importantly, we had nearly all of our classes in common.

With Aeryn by my side, my usual anxiety about being understood seemed to fade to the background. When classmates would occasionally misgender me, or teachers would address the class as “boys and girls,” I had someone to turn to, someone who would giggle at my exaggerated eye roll, yet also understand the hurt behind it.

For the most part, the microaggressions were manageable. Most teachers and students got my pronouns right, and Aeryn helped me tolerate those who didn’t. I felt safe being myself around Aeryn—and most importantly, I trusted that they respected my identity and cared about me as a person.

But I was still constantly searching for welcoming places. And by the second semester of freshman year, I thought I’d found another.

I signed up for a theater course, and my time in that class was full of engaging activities and lots of laughter. Even better, though, was the fact that the teacher was the first openly queer teacher I’d ever had.

Although he wasn’t trans, I thought he would be more understanding than my other teachers. I assumed he would know where I was coming from, and thus would be more sensitive about my identity.

When it was time for our first performances, I stood by the stage, waiting to be introduced. Finally, my teacher said, “Next up is Elena—everyone give her a round of applause!”

As my classmates’ claps filled my ears, my teacher’s words looped in my head. Her. Her. Her. Caught off guard, I stumbled through my monologue, trying to push aside the betrayal I felt and focus on what I had been practicing for weeks. 

When I finally finished, I thought I could at least get off the stage and try to calm myself down. Maybe it was just a mistake. A fluke. But my teacher required students to give feedback after each performance, so just as I was beginning to move on, he spoke once more. “Okay, so what did Elena do well in her performance? And what were some things she could have improved?”

Each instance felt like a slap to the face. I sat frozen, unable to hear the advice my classmates were giving me, unable to think about anything other than what he had said. It’s not that I wasn’t used to being misgendered—I’d just never expected it from him. I thought he was on my side, but sitting under the bright black box lights, only one thought rose to the surface: He thinks I’m a girl. They all do.

Disillusioned and Disheartened

After that, theater class became a far less fun place to be. One day after class, I decided to talk to my theater teacher.

My heart was pounding as I approached him after class. I forced my feet forward until I reached his desk, where he sat working on his computer, acknowledging my presence without looking up—“Everything OK, Elena?”

Despite my nerves, I managed to stutter through the sentence I had been rehearsing in my head all day: “I, I just wanted to remind you that I use they/them pronouns, so if you could, uh, please try to address me using those going forward?”

At the mention of my pronouns, he finally met my eyes with a strange mix of surprise, embarrassment, and apathy. “Oh. Sure. Uh, sorry.”

And that was it. All of the pain I had felt, treated with three words and a stutter.

I wanted to feel relieved, but my faith in him started to feel misplaced. And unfortunately, that turned out to be the case: my teacher continued to misgender me in class. Each time I brought it up, I was met with an awkward apology, followed by a promise to do better—a promise he repeatedly broke. So I gave up expecting better.

“But using the right pronouns makes a big difference to most of us. And until teachers start to try a bit harder and care a bit more, many of us will still feel disrespected, uncomfortable, and unseen.“

I began to pick up on each “she” and “her” tossed my way by classmates and teachers alike, noticing the frequency with which people disregarded my requests. It felt as though Aeryn was my only ally. Around others, it seemed as though a bubble enveloped and obscured me from their view, leaving me unseen and isolated. I’d thought that, since NYC is such a diverse (and activist-y) place, stuff like this wouldn’t happen to trans kids like me, and I was afraid I was being proven wrong.

It hurt even more because, in high school, I had only ever introduced myself with they/them pronouns. When my parents or childhood friends made the occasional slip-up, I offered them grace, because they were trying to unlearn an old habit. These new people, however, were just disregarding what I had told them, and making an assumption based on my face, my voice, my clothes, or whatever physical aspect had led them to believe I was a girl. 

Each time someone deadnamed my friends or misgendered me, it wore down the initial excitement at the prospect of acceptance that I’d felt on my very first day. I had tried to keep an open mind, I had tried to advocate for myself, but nothing had worked. I didn’t know what to do, and I was tired—so I just stopped hoping that things would change.

Try to Try Harder

Now I’m a senior, and honestly, there’s still a very long way to go. In fact, the new cellphone ban has made some things even worse—our school emails had two-step verification, and since we can’t use our phones, we had to switch to our DOE emails. It seems mundane, but all the DOE emails have our birthnames, which for many of my friends, means having to use their deadnames—and the school has yet to find a way to change that.

About two-thirds of my teachers still misgender me consistently, but some make a very strong effort not to, and sincerely apologize when they mess up. I know none of my teachers hate trans people, or mean to cause me any harm. If I can tell they’re trying, it sometimes means even more to me than just getting it right without fail. But I don’t feel comfortable correcting teachers who continue to mess up without correcting themselves, and I don’t feel like it would make a difference even if I did. At a certain point, it shouldn’t have to be my responsibility to keep reminding them.

I don’t think there’s any one policy that will change the experiences me and my other trans classmates have had. I think change just has to happen on a person-to-person level. If teachers can remember my name, they should be able to remember my pronouns: it’s just a matter of whether they are thoughtful and sensitive enough to try, and I don’t think a rule can fix that. 

New York City is a place more accepting than most others, and I’m really grateful to go to school here. I’ve never been bullied or harassed for my identity, and I know that’s not a privilege all trans people have.

But using the right pronouns makes a big difference to most of us. And until teachers start to try a bit harder and care a bit more, many of us will still feel disrespected, uncomfortable, and unseen.