A teeny little thing happened recently and has been niggling
away at me ever since. It's not even a thing that happened really. It's just something someone said. A single word in
fact. A throwaway single syllable that has left me in a state of… I don’t know
what ever since. See what you make of this.
I've been trying out a new garage recently. Or should that
be motor mechanics? Garage is a weird one for Brits; it's the little room where
you put your car, it's the place where oily people in overalls make your car
better and it may even be a place where petrol and/or diesel for your car is
obtained. And even some sort of music, I am given to understand.
Anyway, this is beside the point. I took my car to a new
garage for to get it serviced and MOT'd. MOTted. Motted. Signed off as
roadworthy. The main person there, we'll call him John, was friendly, did a
good job on the vehicle and didn't charge me a fortune. So far so good. But he
did also call me love.
Now, whoa there. Easy. Before you jump ahead, this isn't
your common or garden casual sexism article here. Though it may well include
casual sexism, and probably does, that's not the whole of the story. So let's
return to our tale.
Yes, so he called me love
a few times. Just casually in that sort of way he almost certainly says mate to other sorts of people, naming no
names and gendering no genders. It was delivered, I have no doubt, with
absolutely no thought of perpetuating the patriarchy, keeping the sisters down
and or even a doomed attempt to flirt with the customer. The Ocelot is not at
home to Dame Flirt in any case. It was just a throwaway term that he probably
uses on lots, if not all, female humans.
Now, standard practice would be for the recipient of the
aforementioned love, in these days of zero tolerance to casual sexism, to dwell
upon John's love as the tool of oppression it is, and rightly so Maybe have a
word with him about what century this is. Maybe quietly seethe about it to
friends later. Maybe write an overly long self-regarding blog, I don't know.
But your friendly neighbourhood Ocelot was momentarily pleased, for the Ocelot
is differently gendered from the vast majority, and thus constantly frets about
being accepted as female in day-to-day transactions, and not chased across the
moors by outraged citizens wielding torches and pitchforks. And for someone who
is regularly 'sirred' on the phone (usually by overseas call centre operators)
it was thus a strangely validating incident, and yet one that was also, of
course, a bit sexist.
So I am, much like Natalie Imbrugliuglia, torn. I should be
irked and annoyed and peeved at John's sexosity, but I am also a bit grateful
that at least one stranger that day accepted me for my apparent gender. Of
course, one cannot possibly know how others see oneself in terms of gender
identity, not without engaging the services of a first-year psychology student with
a clipboard and a questionnaire who constantly follows one around at a discrete
distance and asks anyone that one has encountered on the street or in a shop what
they made of one, genderwise. Incidentally, I have no idea why I have started
using one all of a sudden. It may be
in an attempt to use a gender neutral term that avoids the foulness of it, the plurality of they and bonkersness of zhe.
Many among the differently gendered strive for total
transition. 100% confirmation of the gender to which they identify. Sometimes
this is called passing or going stealth or simply fitting in. Some folks achieve this goal
with great success, either through luck of genetics and physical features, transitioning
at a young age (something increasingly common, though perhaps a bittersweet
pill for older folks who switched sides later in life after the ravages of
puberty had left their mark), or simply through massive amounts of practice,
therapy, medication, surgery and ongoing cosmetic treatments. Some others are
happy to exist somewhere in between the monolithic poles of M and F, and this
self-identification as gender non-binary is an increasingly acceptable option
in recent years, and rightly so.
But for a lot of the differently gendered, an occasional
confirmation that society accepts who one (there I go again) wants to be is a
welcome pellet of encouragement. In a life where one may be constantly fretting
about walking funny, talking funny, looking funny, it's nice every now and
again to get a bit of a thumbs-up from someone, though they know it not, who
says yes, you're fitting in. Even if it is a bit of casually sexist chitchat
from an oily fossil who's just been fiddling with your sparkplugs.
It's a weird situation. I am literally holding two opposing opinions
of the incident at the same time. Which might make me some sort of philosopher.
Or nut. Or vacillating wuss. It's like Schrödinger's Casual Sexism. Or maybe
Causal Sexism. It both is and is not insulting. Both is and is not validating
of different states of being. Or transition. Or identity. Argh.
I do know it's bloody confusing though.
Actually, now I come to think of it, he may have called me sweetheart. Is that better or worse?
