The Bathroom Police

She called me “he/she/it” from behind a mask, emboldened by the anonymity.

Sure, I get strange looks occasionally in women’s bathrooms when wearing a mask and a hoodie. Sure, the employees at the VA called me sir three different times in five minutes on Saturday. But those are manageable and fairly innocent — if ignorant — oversights.

Yesterday I was called “he/she/it” and “that thing” by a bathroom bigot on a self-righteous mission to police my genitals.

I am a cisgender woman. Yes, I’m six feet tall with short hair and wear mostly men’s clothes.

From the time I was a little kid, other kids called me “tomboy.” I always preferred boy’s clothes to skirts and dresses, GI Joes to Barbie Dolls, Eminem to Spice Girls. Kids — especially mean little girls in the bathroom at the elementary school — would insinuate about my sexuality. (Turns out they were right.)

My gender itself has never been in doubt. It matches my biological sex and I give it no further thought. I’m completely content being a woman as long as I never have to wear a dress or assume traditional gender roles. I will wear men’s clothing and full makeup and there is no contradiction.

I am a woman, full stop.