Double Door

As my old friend Regina could tell you, I’m usually able to appreciate a good pun. But there’s one pun-based riddle that has always annoyed me: “When is a door not a door?” The answer is, “When it’s a jar (i.e., ajar).” When I was a child, the riddle was incomprehensible and hence not funny, simply because I was unfamiliar with the word “ajar.” Even when the word eventually entered my vocabulary — in a house shared with cats and kittens, a door that’s ajar can be a bad thing — the riddle still irritated me, because its premise is clearly untrue. When a door is ajar, it doesn’t stop being a door. It’s a door and it’s a jar.

As unintuitive as it seems, two seemingly contradictory things can be true at the same time. The difference lies in the context. For example, in the context of ethnicity, I’m Jewish. In the context of religion, I’m not. A Nazi would say that I’m Jewish, a Hassid would say that I’m not, and both would be correct.

I belong to a chorus whose music, with few exceptions, is arranged for soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. My voice would normally be classified as baritone, but that’s not one of the options, so I found my home in the tenor section. In the context of the chorus, I’m a tenor; in the context of solo singing, I’m a baritone. Both can be true at the same time.

These examples — to me at least — feel uncontroversial. So I wonder why cases involving gender can’t be equally straightforward. My chorus (if I may use it in another example) used to include, in each season’s repertoire, one song performed just by the men and another performed just by the women. There’s a long tradition of this in choral music: Men’s voices and women’s voices have such distinctively different qualities that songs are often arranged for one or the other. (Think of the contrasting sounds of the Mills Brothers and the Andrews Sisters.) But a few years ago, we permanently dropped the men’s and women’s songs in order to avoid discomfort for gender-nonconforming people.

I’m all for sparing people unnecessary discomfort. But is it really necessary to eliminate entire categories of music? Just about every person I’ve ever met, regardless of their gender identity, has what is traditionally considered a man’s voice or a woman’s voice. Can’t we say to someone, “In the context of society, you’re a trans woman/nonbinary person/gender-fluid individual, but in the context of choral music, you’re a man”? (In cases of people whose voices are not neatly categorizable, they can choose the group that they fit into more comfortably, just as I, a baritone, chose tenor over bass.)

I hesitate to wander into politically disputed territory, but can’t we say the same thing about restrooms? I’m a great fan of urinals. They use less water, take up less space, and require fewer surrounding walls than toilets. Practically speaking, it makes sense for anyone who can physically use a urinal to use one. Perhaps one day there will be one big room where everyone can urinate into the fixture of their choice, but for now, urinals are almost universally found behind the door marked “Men.” So can’t we say, if only for environmental reasons, that — strictly in the context of elimination — anyone who can make use of a urinal is considered a man?

I understand that there is more at stake here than practicality. I can see how for someone who has been has been maligned, demeaned, threatened, or attacked for not conforming to traditional notions of gender, the idea of being asked to accept a label that they have so long fought against would be abhorrent. But if we could break from the habit of assigning a single label to each person, to recognizing that everyone can have multiple labels in multiple contexts, the meaning and force of any individual label would be reduced. If a door can simultaneously be a door and ajar, can’t a person simultaneously be a man and a woman, depending on the context? And wouldn’t that then be true of most of us?

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Form-Fitting

I recently was filling out a screening form for a Google research study, answering questions such as how much I trust tech companies to protect my data (not much), and how much I worry about that lack of protection (also not much). In the section where they ask for demographic data, I checked off my age (alarmingly, everybody over 55 is assigned to a single age category, which I suppose is known within Google as “going to die soon”) and my household income (which probably isn’t enough to interest marketers, given that our household consists of two retired people and an unemployed 26-year-old).

When I got to the question about gender, I checked off “male,” as I always have, despite the fact that there are now multiple options such as “non-binary” and “prefer to self-describe.” This had always seemed like a routine question, but this time, it suddenly occurred to me: Why do they want to know that?

As we’ve all come to learn in the 21st century, sex and gender are more complicated than many of us had previously accepted. What if, instead of routinely selecting “male,” I’d chosen “prefer to self-describe”?  I’d probably have to write a whole essay in the blank line that followed that option.

I remember the first time I was called a man. I was probably in my late teens. I was knocking on someone’s screen door, and a young child peering through the screen called out, “Mommy, there’s a man at the door!” I was so jarred by that description that I almost turned around to see whether anyone was standing behind me. Despite the fact that Jewish tradition had declared me to be a man at age thirteen, I’d never really adopted that identity. I still haven’t — being called “a man” still feels strange to me. I’ve always thought of myself as a person who happens to be of the male gender.

I’m attracted to women, but that attraction has always felt more like-to-like than opposite-to-opposite. As a child, I would have loved to hang out with girls — they were smarter, more feeling-oriented, and less physically aggressive — but that wouldn’t have been acceptable (particularly to the girls). I’m still much more comfortable in the company of women than of men. A gay woman friend of mine once gave me a sticker that said “Honorary Lesbian,” and oddly enough, I truly felt honored.

At the same time, in a society that until recently assumed everyone to be either male or female, I’ve never had any trouble being male. I’m perfectly comfortable using men’s bathrooms, wearing men’s clothing, and checking “male” on questionnaires. I have a man’s body, complete with a beard, male pattern baldness, and male genitalia. That’s always felt perfectly natural to me.

So I’m confused and intrigued by the now-mainstream idea that people can be non-binary. After all, we’re all non-binary to some extent. I once took an online test that purported to tell you to what degree you’re masculine and to what degree you’re feminine. I came out half-and-half, which seems about right, but I doubt that there are many people who would come out 100% on either side. Yet most people, like me, don’t feel the need to declare themselves non-binary and ask to be called “they.”

The difference, so far as I can tell, is in the level of comfort with and acceptance of one’s assigned gender. I’m still uneasy with being called a man, but I have no trouble with maintaining that role in society. The non-binary and trans people that I’ve talked to do have trouble — they don’t just have mild uneasiness with their assigned gender role; they have painful, deep-in-the-soul discomfort: This isn’t me. I don’t know where that acute discomfort comes from, and why they have it and I don’t, but I can certainly accept that difference without having to understand it. So, I guess I would have had to write all this in the little space on the Google form next to “prefer to self-describe.” That brings me back to my original question, though: Why do they need to know my gender? I suppose it’s because marketing is statistics-driven, and that there’s some discernible pattern by which self-identified males prefer one thing and self-identified females prefer something else. They don’t need to hear about what’s going on in my mind and body; they just want to know where I fit into the pattern. In which case I say: Google, you’re not worth the trouble. I’ll just check “male.”

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