There isn’t a day that goes by where at least one child and possibly even an adult addresses me as a boy in some way. This happened even before I chopped off my hair and started to look like a Buddhist nun. Yes, I am a tomboyish dyke, but my hips sure don’t lie. Nor do my boobs… Usually I ignore the comments or stares, but there are times when I just want to let go with the perfect response to shut down these narrow minded individuals who think that gender is determined by how you dress and act. Here are a few of my favorite responses that most of the time I keep to myself.

The most common question I overhear from some adorable little girl dressed in pink or handsome young man with some sort of vehicle on his shirt is, “Mommy, is that a boy or a girl?” My reply to the brainwashed brat would be such, “Actually I am a person and next time you wonder about my gender, I would appreciate if you address me as a human being rather than an object. Now get out of here you diesel dyke and fairy man!” Too harsh?

Just yesterday, a little boy came into the store with his grandparents and they told him “give your book to the lady so we can pay.” The lady they refer to is none other than yours truly. So the shy little boy hugs his book closer and says adamantly, “That’s not a lady, Grandpa.” My desired response was such, “Who told you? It was a one time thing, please don’t let it tarnish my reputation. I swear I am a lady!” Okay, I may not be a lady, but can I at least be a gentleman?

Bathrooms are the worst. I was performing in a concert one time and so I was dressed up with a great red shirt, awesome Christmas tie, slick black blazer, and I even still had long hair at this point. After the concert, I went to the bathroom and as I was washing my hands, a woman gave me a very dirty look. She opened her mouth and right as she was about to say something to me, I stared at her instead and walked out. What I should have said is, “Don’t you hate long lines in the men’s room?”

Another time I was in the restroom and when I came out of the stall, there was a young boy standing there. He was staring at me. I thought he was a little too old to be in the women’s restroom, but it was a shady part of town and I thought his mother probably didn’t want to leave him alone. So I carried on and went to wash my hands when I noticed in the mirror he was still staring at me. Then the question came, “You’re a boy! Why are you in the girls’ room?” This time, I did not hold back, “You’re a boy! What are you doing in the girls’ room.”

I don’t mind being called a boy, I mind that it is even a question. It doesn’t matter if I wear a dress or a tux, there will always be someone out there who questions my gender because it is more important to them to figure out if I have tits or a dick than to find out if I am a good person. Appreciate a person’s soul, not their anatomy.