Pronoun Circles are Humiliating

And It’s Never Cool to Be the “She”

Last night, I went to a class at a circus school, excited to learn a new skill. 

It was a small class of only 4 students, including myself. 

While I was standing there waiting for class to begin, the teacher approached me and asked me how I pronounce my name. We shared a moment of humor when she told me a cute story about why she always likes to make sure, and I warmed up to her. 

Then she asked for my pronouns. 

An invisible spotlight glared into my eyes. Everyone was standing there, looking at me—listening for my answer. As far as I know, I am the only student who was asked this question.

“Oh…I don’t do that,” I said.

She looked genuinely confused. “So is it no pronouns? Should I just use your name?”

“I just don’t like to introduce myself that way,” I said, growing quietly enraged that this was becoming a whole thing. 

Her confusion persisted.

“Can you just say me and you?” I finally asked, referencing what would likely have happened in any normal situation where one person is instructing another. 

“Okay, that’s fine” she said. 

That’s when the young white man in our class chimed in:

“Yeah or you could just use, ‘Whaddup, Yo?’ Hahaha…”

…

I wanted to find comedic relief, I really did. But laughter would not leave my body. 

All that escaped was “heh” followed by a bombastic side-eye when I realized that he had turned my blackness into the butt of his joke instead of using humor to critique the pronoun ritual itself…

Another painful reminder that intelligence, social awareness, and courage is at a record low these days. 

---

I am deeply annoyed that this question about “my pronouns” is always framed as something for my benefit, when it is a passive-aggressive way to rope me into a social ritual that I never asked to be part of. 

The effect of my teacher playing dumb when I said I don’t like to introduce myself that way—was to force me to answer the question, instead of respecting the fact that I do not wish to participate.

The relevant questions, such as whether I have any injuries she should know about, were asked after spending a whole minute nailing down my gender identity.

The pronoun ritual is actually there for her benefit, to cover her own ass—so that she could remain in her performative, woke little bubble, at my expense. 

At what moment during class would the teacher ever need to refer to me in 3rd person unless calling for medical help? And even then, wouldn’t it be more advantageous not to confuse the medics with vague or false information about my biological sex?

Moreover…

What do pronouns have to do with learning how to spin on a suspended pole like this?:

Never and Nothing, respectively. 

Throughout the class, my mind was distracted with thoughts about what had happened. 

Was there something about my appearance that made her specifically ask me and nobody else? Had the “straight-looking” white girl been asked for her pronouns too? Maybe I should ask her after class…

“Hey! Are you going?” the male student interrupted my daydream. 

I realized I had been sitting on the floor, dazed out in deep thought, and it had been my turn to use the apparatus for the past minute or so.

I can only imagine how alienating pronoun rituals must feel for students in other educational settings who are either unfamiliar with them due to cultural differences, or who are already feeling self-conscious about their gender nonconformity.

Although I am used to being asked my pronouns, it never ceases to grate my nerves. 

However, I admit that when I am completely caught off-guard the way I was last night, it has a more daunting effect. 

---

The first time it ever happened to me, years ago— I was sitting in an intimate sister circle with other black women. 

We went around the room and introduced ourselves. Most of the women introduced themselves with “they” or “he” pronouns. 

When it got to me, I simply stated my name and skipped the pronoun question.

Mind you, this was before I had formed a political opinion about it.

Naturally, I was uncomfortable with the question, and I found it invasive. The facilitator dug into my silence, refusing to move onto the next person. 

“Your Pronouns?” she demanded like a stoic policeman, with a slight glare in her eye. 

“Oh, um…She-Her” I said, blushing. 

Why was I so embarrassed? 

Well, there is something about being in a room where women just like you are actively denouncing their womanhood, and everybody is doing it except for you. 

What exactly does it mean that I “identify” as “she/her”? 

Does it mean that I am feminine? Weak? That I like to wear pink? 

Is there something about me that denotes my she-ness in contrast to the others?

There is subtle messaging in those spaces that it’s not cool to be a woman.

Not cool to be the “She”…Unless you are really a He.

And I felt it long before I could name it. 

So, I no longer ostracize myself by playing the “She” in their corny little world where women are characterized by certain personalities, “feelings” and aesthetics.

I am obviously a “She” because I am visibly female.

There is no need to ask me what I am when you can see and hear it for yourself.

In the rare case that someone mistakes me for male (which has happened) it will be up to me if I want to correct them. 

But in the meantime, I find it demeaning to always have to publicly confirm my femaleness along with my first name, through a soft inquiry about my identity politics.

Or that if I do not comply, the default is to erase my sex and call me a “they”.

This is borderline militaristic and the practice needs to be abolished. 

Pronoun circles always signal an unsafe space for women. These are also the sort of spaces that inevitably shun me if and when they find out what I really think, so there is no point in depending on them in the first place. 

Unfortunately, this has meant that I do not return to many public spaces of learning, arts, and community. 

It has meant a more solitary lifestyle. 

I have had to be incredibly resourceful and creative in order to independently sustain my connection with the activities and communities I love most—in the face them being overrun by extreme gender ideology. 

Ironically, as a gay black woman, I am the poster child of diversity and inclusion.

Everybody claims to want to include me, in theory.

Yet, I am so aggressively excluded and pushed out from each and every one of these spaces, simply because I honor exactly who and what I am. 

I think a lot of people need a reality check, and it’s only a matter of time before it lands at their doorstep.