Pronouns

Before you read the piece below, a few important details: I'm non-binary and use they/them pronouns. If you didn't know that, now you do! If you're not sure what that means, or have a question, shoot me a message. We're all learning, me included, no well-intentioned question is wrong to ask!

The below is not a jab at people who get it wrong, far from it. I'd like to thank and celebrate people who try despite not being perfect at it. This is intended to be an explanation of how it feels (for me), and will hopefully help people understand why I'm so bothered.

Cloggy, a place to empty the bag

I’m not very good at telling people when they get it wrong. I might drop a little hint, occasionally make a polite correction, or usually just leave it. Those who do realise they’ve tripped up fall into two categories: some just correct themselves, moving on with the conversation; and others apologise, or ask for clarification. The response I give to the latter camp often involves the same line; "Effort over execution”

Not my words originally, but succinct and with dual purpose. It soothes those who are stumbling, reassuring them that I know it takes time. It’s hidden side is the reminder it serves to me: they’re trying. You’ve got to give them time, patience, and room. The reason I need that reminder is because of one simple truth: It hurts. 

I go through life with an open, empty rucksack on my back. Imperceivable at first. It’s an interesting pattern on the bag, as only those closest to me, the ones who have put in the effort and whom I hold most dear, can see it. And they are not the ones who make me notice it. It’s invisible to all others, or so it seems.  The journey of life is bumbling on, and then it happens. A trip up, a mistake, an innocent accident. 

“He’s over there”

The first pebble is thrown in. As big as an acorn, I barely notice it’s presence in the bag. Conversation, life, work, fun, they all continue. No point in correcting it, don’t stop the flow, only one pebble. 

“This man will be your instructor today…”

No harm meant. Awkward to bring up in the moment, I make a mental note to have a chat later (I won’t). For some reason, this rock feels slightly bigger, more like a golf ball. I hear it clatter with the other one in the bottom of the sack, but it’s weight is still not registering. I know where this is headed though, so I make sure my armour is in place. Give my pronouns with my name when I start the session, readjust the “They/Them” badge on my chest, all little moves to deflect the stones from the bag. The clients are very new to this though, I tell myself, so although there are a handful of stones thrown in throughout the day, they’re small enough that the effect stays minimal.

My phone buzzes, a message. “Cute brother and sister photo lol”

Typed, 'you had time to correct' I hear my mind say.  It goes unedited. That one feels like a house brick. Initial impact of it falling into the bag is worse than the settled weight, but I start to notice it on my back. Not all the time, just when I think about it, but it’s there. They didn’t mean it, they’re still learning, don’t project intention.

Some more small ones are thrown in. “Hello young man”. “He’ll be fine on this route”. “I’ve worked with him before, sorry, with them before”. That last one is different. The stone goes in, but the same hand pulls it out again. I’m grateful. It’s starting to ache. 

“Well if people can identify as whatever they want, I’m a banana…”

It’s a breeze block dropped from height. I’m incognito here, not the place to start trying to engage rationally (Or call them a four letter word like I want to). They're just a twat, ignore it. Breathe. It’s crushing by now, making it tiring to move. I’m dragging this bag with me all day, and it’s slowing down everything. One of the close ones can see. They notice how full it is, how slow I’m moving. The see one of the stones being thrown in. 

“Did he lead the pitch, or did you?”
“They, not he. And they lead first, I followed after them”

There’s an emphasis, a protective bark, a flash of love. They’ve reached in and taken a handful out. I give them a look, a silent thank you, a voucher for a hug later on. I don’t need to worry around them, put up the guards, or count the stones. Of course they’re human, and mistakes happen, but rarely, and never without a correction. Genuine effort, they care that they get it right, because they can see what it does. 

More and more get thrown in. Some big, some small, sometimes gradually, sometimes randomly. As the weight becomes unbearable, I stumble. Shed some tears, write some angry words, listen to sad songs. Don’t they care? Do they want me to feel like this? I want to throw the breeze block straight at the one who threw it in. When I get up to move again, the weight is still there, dulling my movement and my joy. Moments of distraction are welcome.

At some point, I empty the bag. This isn’t easy, and usually involves a climbing adventure; dancing the night away; beautiful nature; wonderful friends or probably all of the above. I release the emotions, throw the rocks onto the beach and continue; full heart and light feet. Eventually, the bag will refill however, it’s straps will bite into my shoulders, and I’ll feel my dance through life be slowed, more laboured. But I continue, and each time it takes a little longer for the bag to fill.