I am a cis female. Fortunately, I take no offense when someone calls me a guy.
Born a female. Older brother and an uncle between us in age, we grew up together. I had the best of both worlds. Pretty frilly new dresses and the boy’s hand-me downs. Dolls and mud puddles and football. I was labeled a tomboy.
I guess I was fortunate to have a family that encouraged me to do and be whatever I wanted. Ballet classes – go for it! Try out for football and wrestling – go for it. Be an “alter boy”? My mother was actually the one who put the idea in my head one Sunday that I could if I wanted to – and when I was old enough I did. She taught me that when it came to gender, it didn’t matter what others thought of me as long was I was happy in my own skin.
The only times I wished I were a boy was when I was told I could not do something because I had a vagina instead of a penis, and then it wasn’t because I wanted to “BE” a boy.
I have to laugh about on case of my mistaken gender. When my ex Al and I were engaged to took me to meet up with his sister at her bowling league. It was winter, so I was bundled up in a heavy camo jacket. My hair was almost in a crew cut (more sleep time instead of fussing with it for early morning military drills). My first name name is fairly androgynous. And I typically wore little to no makeup. One of the gals on my future sister-in-law’s team trotted up and said, “This must be your nephew.” I took no offense, and yet Al almost blew a gasket, “NO! This is my girlfriend!!!” Looking back, I wonder if his extreme response was due to his homophobia.
Thank you, Mom. Your acceptance of me contributed to my gender confidence.