Dill Werner

Soon, I’ll have to get a new passport. In the United States, I am not allowed to declare my nonbinary gender on legal documents, or any forms, to be honest. It’s all binary—male or female. My trans* binary friends can have their gender markers changes to reflect their correct gender, but I am not afforded this privilege. I, simply put, am not recognized. Like so many, I am misgendered on a daily basis. I go into the streets, plastered in buttons and laced with necklaces that declare my pronouns to be they/them and my ID as genderqueer. My armor, meant to protect, fails me. The voices echo, chanting, “Ma’am,” “Miss,” “she/her,” like bells I cannot silence. My brain screams for me to correct them. Tell them who you are . That comes at the high cost of possibly being assaulted or having to give an entire lecture on what the f— I am. A person. I want to be a person, devoid of your gender biases, your expectations wrapped up in pink and blue ribbons. I am purple, white, and green. I am