MINDING MY MANNERS

It’s at least once daily that I catch myself. A surge of self-correction surfaces. This morning it had to do with how I held my laptop case as I walked to a café to write. I carried it with my elbow bent, the case tucked into my chest. It brought back an admonition of old: This is how a schoolgirl carries her books. Stop that! And so I did. I extended my left arm downward so the case was in line with my shorts. A manly pose. Or my attempt at such a thing. 

 

I stepped into a café and hesitated. Most of the indoor seats were taken. A large fan hummed but did little to address the heat that had already seeped in by ten o’clock. There were a few seats outside in full sun, not an option for me since I long ago battled melanoma and have no desire to get more chunks of skin cut out of my body. Scars don’t have the sex appeal of tattoos. 

 

I walked on, taking a shaded alley to another nearby café. But I found myself resuming the schoolgirl stance again. Another correction. Silly. The alley was empty. Any intonation I was acting girly was 100% self-imposed. Really though, that was a technicality, a literal reading of the scene. Others had gifted me this “girly” designation. I went through childhood, adolescence and even my twenties being ridiculed by schoolmates and strangers as a sissy, a fag, a Nancy. Back then, being gender-nonconforming wasn’t an option that came with a nod of approval or a mere shrug. It got noticed as fodder for taunting. 

 

In general, I got off easy. I had feminine behaviors, but others were easier targets. For them, self-correction wasn’t even an option. Their glorious selves were naturally effeminate. In some ways, I was grateful for them, just as I might be while assessing my chances of survival when encountering a grizzly on a group hike: as long as I could outrun one person, my chances of being attacked would be less. People like Jay, my first gay friend after coming out, must have had a brutal childhood. Still, if ridicule from others was less for me—and, surely, it was—I filled in the gaps, berating myself upon every effeminate posture, pose or voice inflection…at least when I noticed. There was no carrot for changing my behavior; it was all stick. This was about survival. I had to whip myself into a more masculine persona.

 

Masculine? 

 

Me?!

 

So laughable…and tragic. It was as futile a goal as virtually every New Year’s resolution I’ve ever attempted. My pinky has always been averse to making contact with a glass or mug. What was the point of ordering a bottle of Bud—in my mind, a manly grog—when my tiniest finger was always sticking out? I’m also seriously challenged with keeping my legs apart, both feet flat on the ground, while sitting. Inevitably, one leg yearns to cross over. I have no idea why. Even telling myself, This is how you get varicose veins, hasn’t been enough of a deterrent. I heard this once as a kid and I refuse to learn otherwise from a quick Google. I continue to do a seated dance—cross, uncross, repeat ad infinitum. (At fifty-seven, my leg veins appear unnoteworthy. Whew!)

 

As much as I bemoan the fact you can’t call up a friend anymore—alas, it’s text, reply, text, wait hours for another reply—there is one silver lining. I don’t get called ma’am as much. Most telemarketer calls I get now are automated and in Chinese. Still, whenever I do have to call a business or customer support, there’s a fifty-fifty shot I’ll be immediately misidentified as she/her. Back when calls were a regular part of life, I tried to have a Ted Baxter newscaster voice at the ready for phone calls. It was futile. I’d still get salespeople asking, “Are you the woman of the house?” It made hanging up on the caller slightly less guilt-inducing. Bad manners, but I hadn’t asked for the intrusion or the gender blundering in the first place. 

 

Such a stylish statement!

Once a sissy, always a sissy. At least, that seems to be my mindset. It’s utter nonsense that I continue to fret over my mannerisms. Every day, I see people who have no regard for gender norms. It’s glorious! The Jays of the world can just be. More than that, they can celebrate what diverges from tired gender-role expectations. Effeminate behaviors appear unbridled. Hear me roar (or scream)! Watch me flutter! Swathe me in bold florals! I assume every action comes with an exclamation mark and a desire to stand out. They want to be seen when all I wanted in my youth was to be unseen. I survived but now they thrive.

 

It's a simplistic view. I know people who don’t conform to expected gender mannerisms—and, yes, expectations remain, at least to many in society—are subject to putdowns and snarky laughs. But now there are allies, defenders and others who flaunt their true selves. (Imagine!) I’d love to let my pinky finger do whatever the hell it wants, my voice nest a half register higher and my legs flirt aggressively with the prospect of varicose veins. Maybe one day I’ll allow myself to just be. Maybe I’ll even paint my nails as half the guys under thirty seem to be doing. So brazen!

 

On the way home, I found myself walking with the laptop case tucked in high, up to my armpit, as one might carry a purse. Leave it, I told myself. And I did. For perhaps ten paces. Then, another self-correction. Times have changed, but I can’t seem to.