I don’t care if they got a body like Nicki Minaj with their boobs pushed up to their chin and wear more pink and ruffles than a unicorn in a tutu. If they tell you they’re nonbinary, then they’re fucking nonbinary.
I don’t care if he’s got the highest, prettiest voice and wears dresses and pink glittery nail polish and high heels. If he tells you he’s a boy, then he’s a fucking boy.
I don’t care if she looks like the Hulk and talks like Morgan Freeman and has a beard to rival Thor and the hairiest chest and legs ever and wears a suit. If she tells you she’s a girl, then she’s a fucking girl.
Deal with it.
Riding public transit shortly after Caitlin Jenner introduced herself to the world, I heard two men in their sixties with thick Southern accents turn conversation to ‘this whole Jenner business.” I braced myself for something ugly and considered moving further down the train; I’m glad I didn’t.
“I just don’t get it, ya know?” one of them began, shaking his head. “I mean, you bump into somebody in the supermarket and you say, ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ and hear back, ‘actually, it’s ma’am,’ then you say, ‘so sorry, ma’am; my mistake’ not ‘I’LL CALL YOU SIR IF I DAMN WELL FEEL LIKE IT!!!’” More head shaking. “What’s the matter with some people? They just got no manners.’
“Couldn’t agree more Hoyden.”
Got off that train with a big smile on my face.