Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Discussion-based meeting (safe space)
The Gerber/Hart Library
Wednesday, September 9
NO MEETING. ENJOY FALL!
Discussion-based meeting (safe space)
The Gerber/Hart Library
Saturday, September 19
THEATRE ACTION/ Peter's birthday!
Stay posted for details
Wednesday, September 23
Film Screening- Movie is TBA (free and open to the public)
The Gerber/Hart Library
Wednesday, September 30
Discussion-based meeting (safe space)
The Gerber/Hart Library
The Gerber/Hart Library is located at 1127 West Granville Avenue.
The library is easiest to access from the Red Line Granville stop.
Meetings are free and open. However, the library has asked us to pass around a change jar in an effort to keep the lights on for us. If you can spare a quarter or two to help them keep this free community space open, please do. If not, that's also okay.
Group discussions are intended to serve as a safe support space for folks wishing to question their own gender identity/ expression, but folks who do not feel the need for such a space are asked and encouraged to participate in Genderqueer Chicago through screenings, activism, organizing, and education.
Questions and media inquiries can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
It’s funny, kind of, because I feel like I’m finally owning my queerness in a way that I never have before, using my language and clarifying my own thoughts and wearing my heart on my sleeve as I revel in what is becoming an increasingly important aspect of my life. But even as I feel myself moving towards a more openly and adamantly queer identity than I’ve ever embraced before, I’ve been getting this question with increasing frequency. While I’ve been busy mentally and verbally busy expanding my queerness my physical appearance seems to be moving in the opposite direction, and the feeling that my interior and exterior are at odds has rarely felt so palpable.
Right now, I have shoulder-length hair and generally dress somewhere between somewhat girly and somewhat androgynous, and I’m usually pretty readily identified as a female-bodied person. I’m okay with that, more or less. I look kind of dorky with short hair, and I’m actually rather enamored of the sheer physicality of this new, longer style. (I wrote a while ago that I feel rather like Oscar Wilde, those magnificent pictures of him with that wavy luxurious hair and that air of decadence, cane between his knees as he stares as the camera. If that’s not queer, I don’t know what is.) And I’ve never been a physically expressive person; most of my wardrobe is more or less designed to let me pass under the radar, to allow me to avoid drawing attention to myself and instead stay in the background. In unfamiliar settings I’d rather listen than speak, to figure out things for myself before I begin talking, and it feels kind of hard to do that while wearing, say, neon tights or a really awesome fedora.
Maybe it’s partially the people I’m around lately. I spent most of the past few years in mostly straight company and I was rarely asked about my sexual preference and never about my gender identity, probably because I code as straight. I do my best to out myself as soon as possible (I’ve lectured my straight friends, usually drunkenly, about everything from queer porn to oral sex, with at least a few other topics in between), because I’m fully aware that I pass as a non-queer person unless I bring it up myself. It’s irritating and sometimes awkward to have to identify myself as the queer person in the room, but in some ways that’s almost easier than having to out myself as queer when I’m surrounded by other queers. I assume that straight people think I’m straight; I want to be able to assume that queer people think I’m queer, but most of the time I simply can’t. While I’m infinitely grateful to have finally found a queer community, it’s jarring to come up against my own conundrums again and again.
I’m aware of the fact that this is the opposite of what most genderqueer people experience, and it seems horribly selfish to complain about how much it bothers me to not appear queer when so many of my friends spend so much time and energy dealing with a physicality that is continually being questioned by most of the world. But it does bother me, and I don’t know what to do about it. Because I’m not a physically demonstrative person, I know that it’s not as simple as changing my style; changing the way I look would feel highly uncomfortable, and I’d rather spend my energy on something other than worrying about how awkward I feel about what I’m wearing. But because my genderqueerness isn’t confirmed by my physical appearance, I feel like it’s constantly being called into question, not only by others but also by myself. If I were really genderqueer, wouldn’t I feel comfortable with shorter hair or some tattoos or a tie or something? If I look like a girl, how can I claim that I reject the rigidity of that definition? There’s a kind of fucked-up power to passing, and even while I want none of it I also know I’m part of that every day, just because of the way that I feel physically comfortable.
I hate being defined by something as trivial as my haircut or whether I’m wearing a dress that day, but the friction between those external details and what I can’t seem to help feeling I should be presenting as is disarming. A queer should not defined by hir clothing, but all too often that’s what people, myself included, use to set up categories and definitions. I don’t know what to do about my personal discomfort, but I’m trying to use it to inform my own readings of others, to not put people into those oh-so-convenient boxes until I talk to them and have at least a cursory understanding of where they’re coming from. I can only hope that the people I meet will do the same for me.
posted by a. broad
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
I firmly believe that a good, hard skate can cure just about anything. It can soothe an aching heart or rip your most miserable thoughts to shreds. Or it can drive you into the middle of an unexpected gender game.
I’ve never been any good at tricks, but give me a smooth strip of asphalt and I can tear it up. That’s what I did most evenings when I was sixteen and freaking out. With my board firmly planted under my feet, I knowingly passed as a guy for the first time and rolled into boyhood on wheels.
A group of gawky cisboys gathered in the park, swapping stories and cigarettes with slack jaws and chapped knuckles. They hunched over their smuggled smokes with their fists shoved in their pockets, assuming the awkward teenage boy stance of overstated masculinity. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I moved like those kids when I was on my board, knees and chest swaying with the semi-circles I carved into the pavement. I was dressed like them, too—baggy jeans and a hoodie protecting my ears from the wind. Not feminine, but functional.
I was swerving my way around the corner when the kids looked in my direction. Teenage boys have ears for skateboard wheels like nothing else. “Damn, he’s fast,” I heard one of them say.
He? Stunned by the slip of an unfamiliar pronoun, I skidded to a stop. A kid with a crooked baseball cap jerked his chin in my direction, the skaterboy nod of solidarity. “Dude, how’d you get so fast on that piece of shit?” He gestured to my $20 board with a righteous feminist fist stenciled on the grip tape.
“I dunno. I never had a good board—I got used to it.” I consciously lowered my voice and slurred the syllables together, totally unaware of why I was playing along.
“Impressive. Wanna smoke?”
“Uh. No thanks. I gotta go.”
I propelled myself away as quickly as possibly, wobbling a bit beneath my shaking legs. Every time I had ever seen someone “accidentally” pass as another gender, the situation was always soaked with embarrassment and apologies. So why did I feel so elated?
I started skating more often after that and went out of my way to perform whatever it was that those boys had seen before. I bound my chest under bulky sweatshirts and molded my too-long hair into a skaterboy shag. I encountered those same kids every so often on my nightly escapes. I would ollie off the curb and they would nod with approval, but I never spoke to them again—I was too afraid of what might happen if they knew that there were breasts underneath all the bravado.
Now that I “pass” more frequently, I’ve found the word itself to be problematic. “Passing” sounds like I’m getting away with something, deceiving innocent strangers who might accidentally read my clothing instead of my chromosomes (“Excuse me, young man. I mean lady. I’m so sorry…”). When I was skating I performed masculinity with anxious precision, terrified that my self-proclaimed comrades would realize that I was an intruder in their rituals, but now things are different. Unless I feel like I have to pass as the standard “boy” or “girl” for my personal safety in a particular situation, I’m not consciously trying to pass as anything other than myself.
Rather than using the word “passing,” I prefer to talk about how I’m “read” by the people I encounter based on visual cues like clothes, hair, gestures, the presence or absence of breasts. I can talk about how others read my gender without sounding like chromosome con artist.
My secret skateboarding adventures ended just a few months after they began, and I never spoke openly about them until now. The questions that surfaced regarding these interactions were too much for me to handle at the time, so I slipped gender into my back pocket and waited for the right time and place to explore my identity.
Even though my language has changed, the feeling that I get from being read as a boy is just as exhilarating as before. Skaterboys, if you’re out there, thanks for affirming the 14-year-old boy trapped in my lazy, loping strides. He isn’t so shy anymore.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Movie will start promptly at 7
The award-winning story of two actors in seventeenth century London whose roles in theatre complicate gender roles in real life. A female theatre dresser creates a stir and sparks a revolution by playing Desedmona in Othello. But what will become of the male actor she once worked for and eventually replaced?
This is event is free and open to the public.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Now that I'm starting to go by "K" in daily life, of course, I've noticed the connection to my father, Karl. The first time I signed something as "K. Kriesel," I hesitated because it looked like he had signed it. When I sent him a email this past fall, the first time we had conversed in eight years, I came out as a lesbian to him for my own closure. In one of his many rambling, disjointed and angry replies, he suggested that I'm confusing my sexual orientation with my gender. Hardly, they are unrelated.
But I have wondered what impact he has had on my gender exploration. My healing from everything he's done and my coming out as genderqueer/androgynous seem to be unrelated at their sources, but help each other along now. I have come to realize, though, that he contributed almost nothing to my hyperfeminine childhood. I visited him on most weekends and during a few weeks every summer when I was 4-14. The vast majority of the time, he acted like I wasn't there. But we did hike, swim, boat and fish, he taught me about woodworking and archery, he tried to teach me Latin and how a carburetor works when I was too little to understand. We built a model car and a model biplane. It was only in the places under my mom's influence that I was hyperfeminine, I was scolded whenever I deviated from that. It has become clear that he left his first wife and my mom, at least in part, because he wanted a son. Since he was elderly and my mom was unable to have another child after I was born, I guess he figured that I was the last chance he'd get so he treated me androgynously. Then I hit puberty, changing from his child to his daughter, and he kicked me out of his life.
He has been the most prominent masculine role model on my life, of course. And the times he spent actually teaching me to be self-sufficient, hard working and academic are great examples of positive masculinity. As difficult and painful as he has been in my life, how androgynously he raised me provided balance, relief, and even an anchor from the ridiculously Barbie-like standards of school, church, my mom and my baby-sitters. It has only been after I separated my actual self from that heterosexist role that I've been able to see all this and to actually be grateful.
Friday, August 21, 2009
we bring you here
To ask you
are you the same person for the
Can you lie to your self
as you fall asleep in you bed
then to a your grave
we bring you here
in the Dignity Court of self
To ask you
Are you glad with your life
Are you at peace
can you sing me a song of serenity
Sonnets I tell you
For we have been made
to dance in life's fields
and make dreams not be delayed
In our hearts
for we have the same
It beats for justice
and not for shame
One is what I Cry for
leaving the chemical them
Time will be
for time time will set us free
How I want to look you in the
Eyes and to know that we are true
that we sing harmonious sonnets
I want to fill that grave that no mortal should fill
Thursday, August 20, 2009
I came out as a lesbian at the awkward age of 16. As the only openly queer student at my conservative high school, I felt a deep sense of responsibility to defeat the lesbian stereotype and become the poster-dyke for queer kids everywhere. I wanted to show the world that we could be “just like everyone else,” getting married and popping out queerspawn for our perfect nuclear families in the burbs. To reinforce my homonormative mentality, I femmed up my wardrobe and purchased homowarrior paint by Maybelline. Armed with a tube of red lipstick, I waded through a battlefield of high school homophobia in heels and a mini skirt.
Even after my outlook on queer politics underwent a massive, radical overhaul, my gender presentation remained ultra-femme. I clung to my girlygirl aesthetic like a security blanket, hoping to ward off the “dyke, you just need to get fucked and you’ll know what you’re missing” comments that dropped like bombs from chapped bro-boy lips. I responded to increasing hostility at full volume, and even when my raucous queer voice shattered my protective pink armor, I continued to femme it up. This time, however, I had a very different purpose—I wanted to look hot. I wanted to see closetdyke drool sizzle on the sidewalks of my heteronormative hometown. I wanted to be wanted by the queer boys and girls still waiting to come out of the woodwork. I wanted to finally get a date.
Naturally, I assumed that I should mold myself into the kind of woman who could crush my heart in her fist—a fierce femme with a tongue like a whip and a mind like a trap—but I slowly began to realize that I didn’t want to emulate femininity. I wanted femininity to dominate me.
By my senior year of high school, I began embracing aspects of a visibly-queer stereotype that used to terrify me. But when I finally realized that I preferred boxer briefs to lace, my initial sigh of relief propelled the tidal waves of gender identity crisis. I bound my chest and huddled under the trans umbrella as I navigated through the mess of my evolving gender presentation. As I weathered the storm, I learned how to say no.
No, I do not want to wear a dress today. No, I will not wear the bra that makes my tits stick out. No, I do not want to be touched like that.
But more importantly, I learned how to say yes.
Yes, you can use masculine pronouns when you refer to me. Yes, I am attracted to you, not your gender. Yes, you can kiss me like that. Yes, please kiss me like that. Yes, you can call me Malic.
Though I finally feel comfortable as a genderqueer trannyfag boydyke bombshell, I am certainly not suggesting that femme-identified folks need to embrace masculinity and “find out what they’re missing.” Femme individuals are particularly underrepresented in the queer population, and they are frequently ostracized from their own community. I have known far too many femme queer women who have been told that they “look too straight” and femme queer men who have been told they they’re “too faggy.” This calls for a “Dude, seriously” moment:
Dude. Seriously. Discrimination within a community that already faces so much oppression is beyond harmful. Those of us on the masculine end of the queer spectrum need to get our shit together, examine our privilege, and acknowledge the femmes in our community. Their presence should be celebrated, perhaps even worshipped. Femmes are fucking fabulous.
[end of “Dude, seriously” moment]
Though my gender presentation has evolved almost beyond recognition, I acknowledge my flirtation with full-blown femininity as an essential part of a neverending process that has led me to a fleeting, yet comforting conclusion:
No, I am not femme. No, I am not a lesbian. Yes, I am a genderqueer trannyfag boydyke and I am finally beginning to feel like myself.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
7pm At the Gerber/ Hart Library (next to the Granville Red Line stop)
Discussion meetings are intended as safe spaces for anyone interested in personal questions about gender. Those who do not need such spaces are encouraged to participate next week when we will be screening a film at 7 at the Gerber/Hart. Movie TBA!
Sunday, August 16, 2009
...the "you" of now is not an academic revelation, it is the "you" of always...
I was in my last year of college when my advisor, a sturdy old school feminist, told me the story of a novelist whose first published work had resulted from scraps of thoughts collected in a desk drawer. For six years, this writer (I can’t remember who now), dropped scribbled writings into the drawer until, one day, she realized she had written a book.
“You see,” my advisor told me. “You just keep writing in little pieces. Eventually they all add up. Eventually you have the big point, the message, the argument, the story.”
And so I have tried to write in little pieces. I try to listen to their squeaks and whispers in order to hear myself.
Some little homophobic comment spit over a sidewalk one night later becomes the charged moment that convinced you to change the world. The sight of a domestic slap through dancing curtains in your dead-end hometown turns into your justification for dislike of heterosexual gender scripts. The curse that preceded your grandfather’s specification of one man’s race informs the white shame you will walk with and against for life.
We grow in little pieces, in inching moments that we must replay and dramatize in order to feel compelled towards change. If we listen closely, watch carefully, we become privy to a system of images and sounds that dictate our sense of injustice.
Lately, I am picking up these little pieces from childhood in order to understand myself as genderqueer. The term is so strict and academic sounding. I have to remind myself that it is not due the privilege of my education and access that I am genderqueer. It is due to the privilege of my education that I know a word for it, that I can speak my pain with other people and form community.
“You have to be patient with people,” I am told by the whole world over and over again. “Some people just don’t know what that is. It’s too much for them to take in.”
It’s funny to me, though. I knew genderqueer before I knew “girl” or “boy” as strict facts of “nature.” For years, I mourned the loss of Patrick, the childhood boy version of myself that climbed trees, decapitated Barbies, and insisted on male pronouns. I was scolded for playing baseball shirtless, for refusing to wear a training bra, for sitting with my legs open when they should have been crossed.
For so long, these things were oddities. I was a funny kid, a dorky kid, a too-smart-for-my-own-good kid. I was gawky. I hadn’t grown into myself. These gender errors were no more significant than other adolescent errors. No different than wearing pants that were floods or overdoing the “spirit” part of school spirit days.
“I used to fear you would be a transsexual,” my mother admitted to me one day, her hands lax on the steering wheel of her Mom-mobile minivan. “You had that Patrick thing for three years. I will never forget, you told the teachers at school to call you Patrick. I was like, ‘uhhh, Katie.’”
And so another little piece was planted. Patrick was remembered. Patrick was filed under “things that make me genderqueer” along with short hair, boy briefs, and extreme discomfort in dresses.
The more I stumble upon these “little pieces” the more I realize how silenced they have been. I start to understand my poor posture and discomfort in bathing suits. And the more this happens, the angrier I become. I don’t want to give anyone the patience or education to “learn” this strange burdensome oddness that is me. I’ve been asking my whole life for the right to just be.
Please don’t make me put that dress on. Please don’t make me take my swim suit cover-up off. Please don’t ask me to grow out my hair. Please don’t ask me to put on high heels. Please don’t make me go to the manicure birthday party. Please don’t ask me to play Pretty, Pretty, Princess Game. Please don’t take me into Victoria Secret. Please, please, please.
There is no debate to be had about who needs to be educated in what. Why is it the burden of trangender, genderqueer, and other gender non-conforming people to patiently allow others to back off after treading upon us? Academic language is not necessary. What is necessary is the respect of withholding judgement, the recognition that it is not the blindness of genderqueer people but the abuse of enforced gender codes that hurts all of us, and the openness to accept the fury of those who have never been able to exist as is.
I will not stop picking up these pieces because when I look back at my last 2.5 decades, I see them lying all over. And I will take them now, accept them finally, love them wholly, and allow their message and meaning to echo: this is not my fault, this has got to change.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Genderqueer Chicago organizers and friends took a road trip to Camp Trans, a celebratory protest across from the Michigan Womyn's Festival. We met some amaaaaazing people and learned a ton <3. If you've never been, I'd really recommend making it a goal next year, especially for gender non-conforming people (it will likely change your life).
To learn more about the history and purpose of Camp Trans, click on the link below:
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
It came as such a relief. Like the moment after turning in an exam
you were bound to fail, or the halting of your car after you’ve
skidded out, I could only exhale and walk away, a little scathed but
still in tact.
I looked at myself in the mirror- an old soccer t-shirt and messy dark
hair. I was still me, still genderqueer.
Why was I so relieved? I should have been a little heartbroken. I
liked this girl, a lot in fact. I planned elaborate dates for her,
courted her friends, and cooked a blueberry pancake breakfast. All
week I had been dreading the agonizing final conversation, the one
that would end a month-long foray into the dreamy world of champaign
breakfast dates and rooftop make out sessions. But when she finally
confirmed my suspicions that it was a dead deal, I could only smile to
myself. My ties had been hanging on the rack for too long.
This girl, I was told, likes girls that “look like girls.” And
“lucky” for me, my boyish attire didn’t disguise my pretty little face
or giggle-ridden demeanor.
Why do we so often rise to the challenge of gendering ourselves for
Five years ago, when I arrived at college, a blond bob and half a
dozen skirts in tow, I had not yet realized the complicated ways I
could be sexualized. Awkward in my own skin and closeted, I
understood myself to be the “friend” girl—a girl not really pretty
enough to date. But my liberal arts college provided the space to
test out ties and vests and wingtip shoes. The more I fucked with my
gender presentation, the more attention I scored. It went to my head.
I could date any girl I wanted, I was certain.
The price of such aesthetic exploration was a strained performance of
masculinity, a confusing and painful routine in a community that often
demonized visibility queer women as predators. I found friendly
banter with women increasingly challenging as many of them came to
assume that my polite humor was forceful flirtation. I started to
believe in the player status I was given, willing myself to bed with
girls that made me uncomfortable.
So when I recently met this girl who wanted to gender me as a lady, I
was both flattered and fascinated. It had been so long since someone
planned dates for me or held a door. Topping all the time is a lot of
work for a little switch like me, and she was more than willing to
take those reigns, too.
I had eagerly opened a new door to my gender performance, with room
after room to revisit my own femininity. But when I turned around, I
found it dead-bolted shut. This girl liked girly girls, and I
certainly was not one. If I wore a tie, would she find me
unattractive? Should I aim for tighter clothing and more make-up?
Dare I even utter the term “genderqueer” to her? How was I going to
maintain this? And why was I trying so hard to?
The answer, of course, is that I couldn’t. I suffered without
admitting it to myself. And not until this moment, did I realize the
cost of that exchange.
How can we guarantee that our gender performance feels transgressive
rather than forced? Is reconciliatory rather than abusive? How can
we, as genderqueers, navigate sex and love in the nuanced ways we so
desperately need? Must we so readily be able to name our needs and
desires in order to safely invite partners to tread with us through
them? Does such a language even exist?
There are written theories here, but I’m holding them off with an
insistent arm; my stated politics never fully answer such personal
dilemmas for me. I know that the easiest answer is that these are
explorations we must embark on solo. But I’m not exploring my own
gender (I don’t think), I’m exploring its presentation and
representation. In a world fixated on a gender binary, the challenge
How can we queer queerness as we know it? Okay, it’s a silly
question, and the possible solutions are myriad… Let’s try this one:
can I really enjoy fooling around with that cute fag like a fag myself
without accidentally silencing something else?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Struggling for my identity, I sought help with Howard Brown Health Center. I began two weeks ago.
Pouring out my soul.
Trying to figure out who I am? What I am?
Lots of thoughts.
Pent up emotion.
Are there others like me?
How can I be so screwed up?
Can I survive?
How do I learn to accept myself?
Finding out a missing piece of the puzzle at 49 wasn't easy.
Harder now that I know I AM different...genetically...scientifically, not just feelings...but X's and O's wise.
Hermaphrodite? Intersexual? Androgonous? He/she? Transsexual? Transgender? MtoF?
Who am I What am I? WHY am I?
Today, I was told I fit most in the genderqueer circle....thus, my first day here...
Are you there?
How are we alike?
Friday, August 7, 2009
I heard that question for the first time in February. I was so taken aback that I replied with a question rather than an answer.
“Why did you ask me that?”
Her simple question was so meaningful that it was practically a pick-up line. Until that point I had always operated in the realm of other peoples’ assumptions. Female body + masculine presentation = dyke.
When I finally replied to her question, I surprised myself with my own response.
“I don’t know.”
Despite questions about gender identity that had been tugging incessantly at the corners of my brain for the last few years, I had accepted the dyke identity that was given to me for the sake of convenience. I was too short to pass as a guy anyway, and I definitely couldn’t identify with traditional notions of masculinity. I didn’t think that I was “trans enough” to be a transguy. Now I realize that those thoughts were influenced by my socially-constructed ideas of a very stereotypical kind of masculinity. I clearly hadn’t read enough Judith Butler.
The Big Pronoun Question was the beginning of an important, confusing, and exciting mental process about gender identity. Recognizing The Question’s impact on me, I started asking for the preferred pronouns of people I met in queer circles. After all, it was common courtesy.
I attended a queer convergence in May where the pronouns were flowing like liquor at a speakeasy and changing like colors on a rainbow-striped popsicle. I discovered that pronouns were more than male or female. There were gender neutral pronouns, object pronouns, undecided pronouns, and even sparkly purple unicorn pronouns.
“What pronouns do you use?”
“I don’t know yet. I’d like to try masculine pronouns today.”
Five months after my first pronoun encounter, I ended up at Camp Trans, yet another space of pronoun debauchery and revolution. At the first community meeting, camp attendees introduced themselves with their names and pronouns. When my turn came, I introduced myself with more confidence than I had expected.
“My name is Malic and I like to be called ‘he’ and ‘him.’”
Finally answering the Big Scary Pronoun Question felt amazing. However, I recognize that though I currently feel comfortable with those pronouns, I’m still open to change.
Unfortunately, I’m one of the lucky few who have had the privilege of stating my preferred pronouns in a safe space. This is why I want to bring The Pronoun Question out of queer spaces and into the world at large. I want preferred pronouns to be a part of every introduction. I want to hear professors and teachers ask for the preferred pronouns of their students. I want to hear businesspeople, librarians, lawyers, and sex workers ask for the preferred pronouns of their clients. I want to see pronouns spiraling out of the firey haze of a big, glittery, queer explosion. I want The Pronoun Question to become common courtesy. I want The Pronoun Question to be a pick up line.
“Hey baby, what’s your pronoun?”
“Give me your pronouns and I’ll give you my number.”
Seriously. Just ask.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Pronouns are something weren’t a big deal once being out as a gender variant person. I tried being a strait male , though what it would be like to being a strait female. Neither work so I knew that it was going to be somewhere in the middle.
So I thought I would study pronouns and see what I found… on wikiapedia :
Here are 3 Facts about pronouns :
1.Since 1795 gender neutral pronouns have existed in western cultures .
2. Filipino people use and do not have gendered nouns.
3. One reason why gender-neutral pronouns are used is for the purpose of equality
By D. Gales
By D. Gales
Website graphics and design by Andre Perez