The Two Times I Was Mistaken for a Girl
From the age of 7 to 10, I had long hair. At least that’s what I like to say. But in reality, if I’m being perfectly honest, I had a mullet. Total business in the front and party in the back.
(Not Third Grade Me, But Close)
My hair was down to my shoulders, and for reasons unknown, the ladies loved it. I’ve never been more popular with the opposite sex than when I had my hermaphrodite haircut. However, although there were benefits to looking like a young Debbie Gibson, there was also a downfall: gender identity.
I knew I was a boy. My classmates knew I was a boy. My teachers knew I was a boy. But there was a group of people that not only weren’t aware that I was a boy, but also didn’t believe me when I informed them of this fact: the elderly.
Although there may have been many times in my childhood where I was accused of being a girl by an old person, there are only two times in particular that I can remember clearly.
The First Incident Occurred During An American Legion Christmas Party.
Since my grandparents belong to the American Legion, my family was allowed to go to their Christmas party. I was nine at the time, and any kid 12 and under was eligible to receive a Christmas gift. All I had to do was go up to the old man that was handing out the presents and tell him my age. Sounds easy, right? Not when you’re a little boy that looks like a little girl.
I walked up to the gentlemen, said “9,” and stood there. He stared at me for a moment and then handed me a present labeled ‘9/F.’
The “F” stood for female.
I got a girls present.
I looked at it for a moment and said, “No, I’m a boy.” He responded with, “No you’re not.”
It’s tough when an elderly man accuses a young boy of lying about his gender. This person is older and wiser than me, and since I was always told to respect and trust my elders, it made me question myself for a moment. Am I a girl? My older brother had always called me a girl, but I had always figured that he was joking.
After reassuring myself that I was a boy, I stood my ground.
“No, I’m a boy.”
His response: “Really?”
I guess after a certain age, politeness gets thrown out the window.
“Yes.”
“That’s surprising.”
Holding back tears, I received the present that I wished I had never asked for.
The Other Time This Happened Was On My Paper Route.
When I was in second grade, I shared a paper route with my older brother. On a night when I was collecting the money that my customers owed, I went up to the door of a large white house and knocked. A man in his nineties answered.
“Hello little girl. How can I help you?”
I didn’t feel like correcting him. I told him that I was the paper boy and I was collecting for the Daily Courier News. He went in and got some money, and when he returned he began some small talk.
“Didn’t your sister deliver our paper the other day?”
I figured he meant my mom, who occasionally frequently delivered papers for me when I would complain too much about delivering them myself.
“That was my mom.”
“No, I know your mom. That was your sister.”
I was confused. At the time my sister was probably 6 months old. I wasn’t around her all the time, but I was pretty sure that she wasn’t sneaking out of the house and delivering papers for me, especially since she couldn’t walk yet. Then it hit me. He was talking about my older brother, who shared the same feminine haircut as me. I was happy to know that I wasn’t the only child that struggled with gender identity.
I smiled and said, ”Yes, that was my sister.”
Old people are adorable.