Gender Issues

Last night, whilst I was looking for a poem, I clicked on a link to an essay by a professor of English whom I never had as an instructor (but reckonized his name). Yes, the essay is more than a year old, so it is not as if this is a new concept he is writing about, but ... well, it was new to me:

A site that can tell you, based on a sample of your writing (500 words minimum, for optimal — or is it optimum? — results), whether you are female or male.

So, me being me, I had to test it out. I submitted this sample first, and then this one, and finally this one.

And on every sample, according to the site: I am male.

: o

Which is kinda funny in a sorta-not funny way because there was a time when I was a kid, when I was such a tomboy, that I really did want to be a boy. It feels a little odd to think about it now, but I really did pray and try to make deals with God to turn me into a boy, mostly so I could be just like all of my (boy) friends. I have no concept of exactly when these feelings went on, or how long they lasted, although I am pretty sure I accepted my girlness by the time I was in 4th grade.

All of which enhances my belief that gender identity and how it relates to sexuality is really a very fluid ... I dunno, characteristic, for want of a more precise word (and complete lack of a thesaurus within easy reach, and no desire to surf to an online word-finder at the moment). It also reminds me how really difficult life would be for someone who truly is gender-confused or misidentified or transgendered, especially when outside forces are trying to keep this person from being who she or he really is.

Which is part of the reason I so love Boys Don’t Cry, maybe because a not-so-small part of me understands Brandon. And because the story itself, and the film, is such a wonderfully tragic tale, and at its heart: a love story.

And I am certainly not the most girlie of girls, but I love being a girl. And I love that occasionally, I get all choked up over sad movies, and the fact that I am, at this very moment, watching/listening to Terms of Endearment for the 2nd time this month, knowing FULL WELL that it makes me cry and cry at the end (after laughing throughout).

And that I remember, in a hazy, vague glimmer of a memory, that it all started with Balloo sleeping and me crying because I thought he was dead.

Yes, I enjoy being a girl. I guess I just don’t happen to write like one ... whatever that means.

(What the heck, though: I don’t throw like one, either!)

: )