It’s a Boy!… or a Girl

Standing at a bus stop in Chinatown, a block from the "poorest postal code in Canada" and the city’s largest open drug market, after exploring the neighbourhood near my new home, I was approached by a guy looking for a cigarette.

Dude stumbles up along the street.
"You got a cigarette?"
"No, sorry buddy, I don’t smoke"
I look up the street to see if the bus is coming – no bus in sight. Dammit. The dude is still standing there about a foot away from me, looking right at me. I can feel his gaze and it makes me uncomfortable as I continue to avoid eye contact and take a large chug from my coffee cup filled with Neo Citron. I begin to feel uneasy and then he speaks again: "Are you a boy or a girl?"

I’m caught off guard – I’ve heard this question a million times over the last couple of years, always directed at lovers, friends, and work associates. Between the trannys and drag kings I hang out with I’ve come to expect this question when out and about with folks I know. I’ve heard the question analyzed to death in living rooms with coke spread out on the table, in bars by groups of drunken performance artists, and in classrooms by people with PhD’s in Women’s Studies. I’m aware of what a question of gender means when it comes to being trans, being genderqueer, or dealing with the potential for imminent violence. I just haven’t heard this question directed at me in probably almost 15 years – not since I grew boobs.

"I’m a girl," – the concept of explaining gender politics at this point seems a bit beyond what he’s really asking.
He laughs.
"Oh dude, I thought you were a boy. Sorry man," he lifts his right hand in a fist for the "pounds"-style handshake, which I meet.
"No worries, have a good day."
 
He stumbles down the rest of the block and around the corner into the alley, heading in the direction of the open drug market. I turn to the shop window and survey the reflection looking back at me: short cropped hair mostly hidden under brown fedora; men’s jeans; men’s zip-up sweater; men’s runners; brown corderoy bomber-style jacket; no makeup. When the bus pulls up a couple minutes later I take in the few people who watch me walk by and assess me as I sit down. Suddenly I realize why people have been looking at me a bit longer than usual sometimes, not sexually anymore, but curiously – instead of a sex object, I’m now an unknown. Male, female, boy, girl, something in between? They’re not sure, and that’s why they look as though they’re trying to figure something out.

There’s a first time for everything.