Choosing the right bathroom
The adventures of a nonbinary blanket in a world of only two options
1984
When I was six years old, I sat on the floor of my bedroom and held my blankie in my hands. Light blue on one side, yellow, white, pink, and blue dot-matrix flowers on the other, fluff layered in between, that thing was my main source of comfort. It was so important that I decided to name it.
But what do you name a blanket?
Blankets are perfect in that they are exempt from the need for gender or pronouns. But they cuddle us and keep us warm, they protect us in the dark, catch crumbs when we snack in front of the TV, and become a variety of tools and forms to suit our every need.
This one was no different. And in that moment, where something else had transpired that I don’t recall, I turned to that friend and poured my little six-year-old heart out. I had been born a girl, but I knew I wasn’t one. And I also knew that there was no way I could ever be a boy. That wasn’t something allowable1.
I wanted – more than anything in that moment – for there to be a third gender. I needed a third thing that I could be. I lamented the lack of pronouns and words in the English language to support such a thing, but I knew it was real. I knew that was me.
If someone had approached me at that stage of life and offered me the truth about gender versus sex, if I’d been shown that it was, indeed, possible to be a boy, that I could have support to be whatever I was truly destined to be, I can’t tell you how I would have responded. Maybe I would have revealed that I was really a boy. Maybe I still would have longed for a different option altogether. But the world had already taught me that I didn’t have options at all. I was stuck.
I looked to my blanket and announced, “I’m naming you Sam. And that way you get to decide if you’re a boy or a girl. And you don’t have to decide if you don’t want to.”
Sam accepted those terms and began the life of the only nonbinary blanket I have ever been acquainted with.
If you know of any other transgender or nonbinary blankets, toys, or inanimate objects, I would love to hear about them.
Gender Journey
Many, many years later, news stories in the media started cropping up around me. Nonbinary artists were claiming their space on the stage and in the charts. Nonbinary actors were representing themselves in original works. This whole state of being nonbinary was real, and it was gaining attention worldwide.
Where the hell was this stuff when I was a kid?!
Anyway, I paid attention. This wasn’t exactly an egg-cracking2 moment for me, but I cared a lot about what was happening. I dove into those stories about nonbinary people with a keen interest, and I kept my mouth shut shut shut about it to anyone else in my life.
As an adult, I thought hard about what it could mean to have the option to identify as nonbinary. Was that me? Wasn’t it what I’d asked for when I was little? What could someone like me do with that identity? I was in my forties. I was married and had two kids, I’d been in the same career for two decades… People knew me. And they had always known me as female. How do you say to all of that, “Oops, hey, I think maybe something got screwed up along the way.”
Even with all of this attention to nonbinary identities, I did not elect to identify in that way until I had come out to myself as transgender first. That part of my life was the beginning of a journey to understand my gender. I am still traveling those roads, and I’m not sure there’s an end destination. As someone I spoke with recently explained, “I always knew that there were aspects of all people that change with them as they grow. Why should this not be true of our gender? Was my gender in my twenties the same as it is now? Definitely not. How can any of us expect something like our gender to be static when so much of ourselves is dynamic?” So for now, I identify as a transmasculine nonbinary person. I’ll let you know if that changes.
Interestingly, when I came out to my wife, to my kids, to the people who were first and most important for me to share that information with, I often said to them, “I’m not a girl.” I did not say that I was a man. I didn’t say that I was male at all.
But let’s be real for a minute. In this world, in American society and culture, gender is incredibly binary. Everywhere we go we face these two options, and every time we see them we make a choice.
Chances are good that most people gloss over this little detail without ever giving it consideration. But for me, I’ve stared at those two little boxes many times in my life, never really knowing the right answer.
This is the case for many transgender people. It’s also incredibly frustrating for anyone who is nonbinary, agender, ambigender, third gender, pangender, gender fluid, gender queer…3
I knew I was facing a problem. I knew it would be hard enough to explain to the world that I’m transgender. Getting everyone to understand my nonbinary identity was just too much to take on. I made the decision early on not to push that part too hard with anyone. If they were curious and receptive, I’d mention it and see how it went. If they reacted in a way that was confused or overloaded, I’d back off. It would have been great to know that my family and friends could understand and affirm that aspect of my identity, but I was trying to be realistic. I was trying to get to the crux of what I really needed, which was to be seen as NOT a woman. And in most eyes, that meant I was a man.
Considering pronouns was also a big part of my journey. They/them pronouns had been gaining momentum, and there was a solid base of support in published articles and news headlines. But when I closed my eyes and imagined hearing others refer to me as “they” or “them,” it didn’t resonate. It felt every bit as impersonal and inaccurate as “she” and “her” had always been.
I turned, of course, to “he” and “him” next, again imagining their use in my absence (oddly we tend only to hear our own pronouns when others have conversations about us). And… something inside of me felt better. It felt like finally being noticed in a crowd. It felt like hearing my name. It felt right.
And that was it. Problem solved. Right?
When you have spent your entire life wrapped up in trying desperately to be something you are not, you learn how to hide in plain sight really well. This is not to say that I was ever good at “performing female,” I just learned enough coping strategies to keep from drawing too much attention to myself. And after four decades of that work, I had found comfort in some of life’s predictable things.
Bathrooms
Always pick the picture of a dress even though you don’t wear a dress.
Be polite to others in the restroom. Do this by making eye contact. Say nice things like “excuse me.”
Wait in line. (This is a very female issue with public restrooms.)
Be prepared to pass toilet paper under the wall to the stall on your right or left if someone doesn’t have what they need.
Shrug and say sorry when someone asks if you have a spare tampon.
Never leave without washing your hands.
Join in the group complaints when there is no soap or hot water for hand washing.
Tell the truth politely if someone asks about their hair/makeup/outfit.
If you’re in a conversation walking in with a friend, maintain the conversation through the entire time spent in the restroom.
Men’s restrooms? Oh, that’s enemy territory. The very thought of walking into one sent me into a panic. I didn’t know the code of conduct. How would I manage conversations when my voice hadn’t dropped? What if other men saw me in there and said something or gave me a hard time?
I left these questions alone while my transition progressed, hoping I could find a way to make peace with them later. But in the meantime – out as a trans person, actively asking others to use he/him pronouns for me, navigating the world with my protective layers shed – I found myself standing in front of bathroom doors unable to decide, unable to choose which one matched me best.
I was not a woman. I could not use the women’s restroom.
I was not a man. I could not use that restroom either.
I was unclassified.
Other.
Not that.
Something else.
Stuck.
“Hey, Robin,” you say in your nicest, friendly voice, “can’t you just skip public restrooms for a while? I mean, just hold it until you get home. Wouldn’t that be easier?” Hell yes, it would. Funny thing, though, my bladder feels very differently about restrooms than my brain.
Like so many others in this world, birthing children had some big impacts on my body. Don’t mind me while I cross my legs and sneeze. And I really enjoy drinking a whole pot of tea most mornings. I’m not always the smartest guy. Needless to say, I’m lucky to get through a grocery shopping trip without needing to make a pitstop. Public restrooms are just a way of life for me, and I couldn’t sacrifice them for long without terrible consequences.
After many months of deliberating over this issue in my head, I finally put a date on the calendar. Once I was past top surgery, I would force myself to use the men’s room.
Anxiety
My first foray into the urine-scented world of the male lavatory was at a park on the beach. Four weeks after surgery, free of the Velcro binder that had kept me safe and managed my inflammation, and with a chest that was flat and very masculine, I stood outside the men’s room. The surf behind me washed onto the shore in a regular beat. Squeals of children, sounds of birds, random snips of conversations as people walked by buffered me, and there I stood, frozen in panic and battling my urgent need to pee. I waited until no one else was inside (I hoped), and I ducked in, baseball cap covering my face. There was one stall and one urinal. I closed the stall door behind me and steadied my breathing.
Getting into a restroom is one thing. Getting out? Well, that’s not nearly so simple.
And this became my theme for weeks and months to come as I forced myself to use the men’s room over and over. I could get inside, dash into a stall, and then I would be trapped by a paralyzing fear of discovery. Someone would see me, my brain warned. They would see me, and they would know I don’t belong here.
*At no point did I actually encounter problems or resistance by anyone else in a public restroom. My fears were not based on data from my own experience, they came from stories in the media, mentions of other trans people who were harassed or attacked. That makes my fears no less real or valid. And this is important – my fear was so intense that I often found myself completely unable to open the stall door and leave the restroom unless I knew for certain that no one else was in that room with me.
Even after many successful missions into (and out of) restrooms for men, I still found myself approaching the threshold with trepidation, anxiously looking at my surroundings to determine how many men might be inside, if it was safe to proceed, or if I should look for another option4.
But what’s the other option?
Go back to the women’s restroom? Obviously, no. My facial hair, while practically invisible for it’s blondeness, is still there and can still be noticed in the right light. My voice is too low. My shape is ambiguous. And also, I am not a woman. That’s not the restroom for me.
Use the family/disabled restroom (if and where available)? Yes and no. If I am with my children, I’ll often suggest this for me and my youngest. Yes, I am using him as a cover to keep from having to go into a men’s room. But no, this isn’t always available, and it isn’t as socially acceptable to see a visibly able person walk in and out of these restrooms alone.
Being this gender can be hard.
I still stand and stare at bathroom doors. I look hard at forms that require me to declare ‘one of two’ genders. Language hits me from all sides; boys and girls; men and women; ladies and gentlemen.
Where am I in all of this?
Did I jump free of one box to simply confine myself to another?
Is my act of being also an act of defiance?
Now
Sam still waits for me in the bedroom closet (only for safekeeping – he is quite happy to be out as a nonbinary transmasculine blanket). He provides me comfort when I need it. He reminds me that little-kid-me had these same questions, and neither of us knows where to put them after all this time.
You might see me standing outside of restroom doors in a state of indecision. Maybe you’ll be the next one to ask me to fill in a form that gives me pause. I am forever absorbing these moments, these reminders that this western world hasn’t created space for someone like me.
But I’m still here, nonbinary blanket in hand.
Your trans friend,
Robin (and Sam)
I grew up in the Midwest in the 1980’s, long before Ellen was on TV and Melissa Etheridge was on the radio. No Caitlyn Jenner, no Elliot Page. There were no real-world role models for anything queer. In fact, the only mentions of such things were insults hurled around on the playground at school. And nobody wants to be an insult.
“Egg cracking” is often used to refer to the moment when a transgender person realizes they are transgender.
While I could list more options that don’t fit into a gender binary, it’s worth noting that there is a large and growing list of genders that would be difficult to capture in this way. Please also note that people who identify in nonbinary terms do not always identify as transgender.
The women’s room was no longer an option by the time I came out of top surgery. There was no going back. And at some point a few months later, I felt that my physically masculine presentation could actually endanger me if I chose to walk into a women’s restroom. So I didn’t try it.
Thanks for the insight into your world Robin.