I can’t seem to get through a day without some discussion of my identity:
… You’re not a woman. Give me a break!
… How dare you call yourself a woman! You haven’t a clue what we have gone through! You are hurting us politically.
… Honey, if you were really a woman, you would know that we don’t speak that way.
… Your hands are too large for a woman.
Such comments used to send me into a tailspin of self-doubt and sadness. Who and what am I? What do people find so offensive about me?
I hid in shame and resolved to improve.
Today, I know better: How people respond to me defines their identity, not mine.
When I finally came out of the closet, I presented the same “me” to everyone. I wanted the world to finally know me for who I really am.
In the process, I noticed something interesting: everyone responded differently to the person they saw. One colleague enthused, “you are so courageous!” Another dismissed me as a selfish coward. Some people had trouble seeing anything feminine about me. Others struggled to discern something masculine. I was a beauty to one person, a freak to the next.
Eventually, it dawned on me: If everyone was seeing something so different, their responses must reflect their identity, not mine. They were revealing their own assumptions and prejudices.
Only I can define who and what I am. What others make of me defines them.
This is not to pass judgment. My experience of womanhood is no more authoritative than anyone else’s. Like everyone else, I am simply revealing who and what I am.