My youngest sister Saraiah is four years old.
On father's day, my stepdad took his son to a race track, leaving my mother, sisters, and myself to do whatever we wanted.
"Today's an all girls day," my mom told Saraiah. "It's just you and me and Selah and Shady!"
"Shady is not a girl," Saraiah responded emphatically. "Her's a boy!"
My mother was baffled. "...Why would you say that?"
Saraiah sighed angrily and folded her arms. "Because she is as tall as a giraffe, and giraffes are all boys!"
Our mother reasoned with her about how both boy and girl giraffes have to exist for the species to survive, and how Shady is neither of them, because she is a human, and then she pulled out her anatomy and physiology textbook and explained what made a boy and a girl, because that's who my mother is. Saraiah remained skeptical.
When she told me this happened, I laughed for a while, and then remembered a day about ten months earlier when I had told Saraiah I was a boy -- partly just to mess with her, and partly to see what she would do. She frowned, and said, "You not a girl?
"No."
"But I still a girl."
"Yes, you're still a girl."
Then she moved on and, as I had believed, promptly forgot the whole conversation.
At first we all thought she was just being silly, and would adjust easily to the new information regarding my gender, but throughout the day she would continue to bring it up, making sure. Even for weeks afterward.
We'd be lying in my bed, which she sleeps in since she's scared of the dark, and she'd be playing with my hair and then whisper softly, "Shady?"
"What?"
"You a girl."
"Yes."
Or while we're playing with my dog, "Shady? Calley's a girl. Her's a girl, right?"
"Yeah, she is."
"And you a girl!"
"Yes!"
"And me!"
"Yes!"
After all these conversations one would assume it would be enough.
But one day, we had a small family over for spaghetti and bread.
Half of my family is allergic to gluten: my mother and sisters. Whenever we do get supermarket bread -- a rare delicacy -- only my stepdad, brother, and myself eat it. On this day, one of the other little girls at the table picked up a piece of bread, and Saraiah gasped. "Mom!! Her's is eating wheat!"
"Saraiah it's okay, she's not allergic."
"But her's a girl!!"
I sighed, exasperated. "Saraiah, I'm a girl!"
Saraiah's eyes widened, fork held tightly in hand. She looked around the table, at the two separate pots of noodles, at the plates, at the faces of our guests. You could see how hard she was trying to understand.
I realized then what made it such a problem. If I was four years old, I would definitely categorize my family with my mother and sister on one side, and my dad, brother, and Shady on the other. It made perfect sense as a social binary. We all eat wheat. We're all tall. We all have slightly lower voices, all wear baggy pants and button-down shirts. None of us wear jewelry.
I had been debating whether or not to cut my hair off, but then realized at that moment, watching my sister try desperately to understand the world around her, it would only make Saraiah's life that much harder.
On father's day, my stepdad took his son to a race track, leaving my mother, sisters, and myself to do whatever we wanted.
"Today's an all girls day," my mom told Saraiah. "It's just you and me and Selah and Shady!"
"Shady is not a girl," Saraiah responded emphatically. "Her's a boy!"
My mother was baffled. "...Why would you say that?"
Saraiah sighed angrily and folded her arms. "Because she is as tall as a giraffe, and giraffes are all boys!"
Our mother reasoned with her about how both boy and girl giraffes have to exist for the species to survive, and how Shady is neither of them, because she is a human, and then she pulled out her anatomy and physiology textbook and explained what made a boy and a girl, because that's who my mother is. Saraiah remained skeptical.
When she told me this happened, I laughed for a while, and then remembered a day about ten months earlier when I had told Saraiah I was a boy -- partly just to mess with her, and partly to see what she would do. She frowned, and said, "You not a girl?
"No."
"But I still a girl."
"Yes, you're still a girl."
Then she moved on and, as I had believed, promptly forgot the whole conversation.
At first we all thought she was just being silly, and would adjust easily to the new information regarding my gender, but throughout the day she would continue to bring it up, making sure. Even for weeks afterward.
We'd be lying in my bed, which she sleeps in since she's scared of the dark, and she'd be playing with my hair and then whisper softly, "Shady?"
"What?"
"You a girl."
"Yes."
Or while we're playing with my dog, "Shady? Calley's a girl. Her's a girl, right?"
"Yeah, she is."
"And you a girl!"
"Yes!"
"And me!"
"Yes!"
After all these conversations one would assume it would be enough.
But one day, we had a small family over for spaghetti and bread.
Half of my family is allergic to gluten: my mother and sisters. Whenever we do get supermarket bread -- a rare delicacy -- only my stepdad, brother, and myself eat it. On this day, one of the other little girls at the table picked up a piece of bread, and Saraiah gasped. "Mom!! Her's is eating wheat!"
"Saraiah it's okay, she's not allergic."
"But her's a girl!!"
I sighed, exasperated. "Saraiah, I'm a girl!"
Saraiah's eyes widened, fork held tightly in hand. She looked around the table, at the two separate pots of noodles, at the plates, at the faces of our guests. You could see how hard she was trying to understand.
I realized then what made it such a problem. If I was four years old, I would definitely categorize my family with my mother and sister on one side, and my dad, brother, and Shady on the other. It made perfect sense as a social binary. We all eat wheat. We're all tall. We all have slightly lower voices, all wear baggy pants and button-down shirts. None of us wear jewelry.
I had been debating whether or not to cut my hair off, but then realized at that moment, watching my sister try desperately to understand the world around her, it would only make Saraiah's life that much harder.
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