Beyond the Binary: Expanding the Scope

You’ll notice that this month’s Beyond the Binary looks a little different than usual. As the author of this column, I’ve obviously held the mic over the last eight months, exploring topics around (and, of course, beyond) the gender binary, transness, and gender-nonconformity as a whole. 

I’ve also referenced more times than I can recall, in talking about my own experience as a nonbinary person, that my scope is severely limited. I’m only one person, and my journey as a nonbinary person can and will never begin to cover the the multitude of lived experiences within the greater community. 

So, I took a step back to chat with four nonbinary folks from around the country about being their gender and how it has influenced or interacted with other elements of themselves and their lives. 

I left these conversations with the sense of warmth that routinely comes alongside chatting with fellow nonbinary people. No matter your gender or where you fit beyond the binary, I hope you leave with the same feeling.

Fluidity Through Song: Cody Seattle, Washington

“For me, gender was always kind of a funny thing,” Cody begins. “I think having my name be ‘Cody’ already gave me that gender-neutral experience growing up, just because people would be like, ‘What, are you a boy? Are you a girl?’ because people couldn’t figure it out based off my name or even based on how I looked. I was always kind of a tomboy.”

By middle school, they recall feeling more aligned with masculinity, though in finding community with girls their age, Cody also felt comfortable exploring their feminine side.

“Then I realized, clothes and all that stuff doesn’t have to actually define my gender,” they say. As they began to more openly approach their gender in a public capacity, they also learned about the word “nonbinary.” “I was like, ‘Oh wait, that’s kind of perfect, because then I don’t really have to pick a side. I can be kind of anything.’”

Reflecting on those initial days, Cody recognizes the pressure they faced to conform to more androgynous expression. Over time, they say finding comfort in their nonbinary gender made it easier to find comfort in being femme, which wasn’t the case when they were first starting these conversations.

“I realized, well, that’s kind of like playing into the binary, even as a nonbinary person, to think you have to look a certain way or sound a certain way,” they say. In building a larger nonbinary community, Cody says it was easier to lean into their feminine energy without clashing with their gender.

“At one point, the whole band was nonbinary,” Cody says, in reference to their musical career. “And that was really fun because we were like, ‘Oh, we’re just fluid and squiggly.’ And I think just experiencing joy, as a nonbinary person with other nonbinary people, has been really, really good.”

As a musician, a bisexual person, and a biracial person, Cody says they already knew what it felt like to fit outside of a single category.

“It’s another level of, like, people want you to be on one side,” they say. “And I think when you realize, you know, that you’re not really going to ever accommodate to either side, you stop trying so hard to put yourself in that box, and you can kind of just be free to be anything.”

Cody believes it’s important for people to recognize that there will always be people different from them, no matter their background. Just because folks may have their own experiences they need to fight for, Cody says, it doesn’t mean they can’t also be fighting for everyone else, and that sentiment applies within the LGBTQ community and beyond.

“I think that when you advocate for everyone that you’re advocating for yourself,” Cody says. “That’s the only true way to create any change in the world… This is not just for you or not just for someone else—This is for all of us.”

Being a human is complex, and Cody says sexuality, gender, and identity as a whole can often be extremely fluid. In that, they view being nonbinary as a safe benchmark, referencing that “nonbinary” never felt like a permanent destination, rather a way to exist and continue exploring who they are.

“I just really like how safe being nonbinary is to kind of be like, ‘I don’t want to have to make up my mind.’ Maybe I never will. You know, sometimes things might change. And then sometimes they go back, and I kind of like that freedom.”

Beauty in Difference: Juniper Mankato, Minnesota

Looking back at their experience with gender, Juniper references their early diagnosis with autism—namely that they never felt confined to a cis, straight box as a kid.

“I didn’t think it was weird; my parents didn’t make it seem like those things were weird,” they say.

As a child, they played sports and hung around with boys, though they also had “super long, down-to-my-back” hair, loved wearing dresses, and did ballet. A lot of their outward expression was very girly, though a lot of their interests veered more masculine.

Juniper grew up in conservative Wisconsin, though they never really felt that effect.

“I kind of always just presented and went with and was interested in whatever I was interested in,” Juniper says. They didn’t know anything about LGBTQ identities when they were growing up—”The most exposure I had was I watched Glee as a kid,” they say. 

When they reached their freshman year of high school, Juniper first heard the term “nonbinary” and adopted it for themself. As they continued their education, they publicly came out as nonbinary and trans and started socially transitioning as a junior, changing their name and pronouns.

“That was the most emotionally taxing thing I’ve ever done in my whole life,” they say. “It was a really big challenge. My parents, at first, were not unsupportive but didn’t really know what was going on. They’d say some hurtful things for me, just personally in my journey, because they just didn’t quite understand. They’re really accepting now. I’m very thankful for that.”

By senior year, they were medically transitioning, though it was around that time they also started using a cane because of their migraine and vertigo issues.

“I was never a popular kid,” Juniper says. “But I definitely felt the weirdest mixture of, ‘I completely don’t exist because I am the trans and disabled kid’, but also, ‘everyone is looking at me because I’m the trans and disabled kid.’

Looking at their experience as a disabled, trans adult, they say folks tend to focus on their disability and don’t see their transness as easily.

“Even in queer spaces, a lot of people have a really hard time recognizing my queerness and my transness because the only thing that they can look at and see is my disability.”

They reference the LGBTQ center on their campus, namely its lack of accessibility. As a community that deals with hardships and discrimination, they reference the “amount of discomfort that even LGBT people can have when they see someone who’s disabled.”

“A lot of people don’t realize that disabled people are the largest minority group,” Juniper says. “One in four people (in the United States) are disabled, and a lot of people think, ‘I’m young and healthy; nothing can happen to me,’ and they may think, ‘I may have some issues when I’m older,’ but anyone can become disabled at any time in their life, even if you aren’t born with a disability.”

Looking at the LGBTQ community and society as a whole, Juniper says people should try to be more aware that disabled people exist and that they deserve spaces. Today, Juniper says that they don’t believe they would have been as comfortable in their disability expression if they didn’t feel so comfortable with their gender.

“I’m both physically and developmentally disabled, and I’ve been dealing with a brain injury. So there’s a lot that’s happening with all of those things. Just like, there isn’t a set binary for gender or disability, and I think that is kind of wonderful.”

Access for All: Leo Chicago, Illinois

“So my story is kind of ‘not fun,’ but kind of interesting because I actually grew up in Texas, and  I grew up with a very religious family,” Leo starts. Throughout their childhood and adolescence, they didn’t have the language, or access to it, to explain how they felt about their gender. 

When Leo went off to college six hours away from home in 2013, they had a nonbinary roommate with trans man as a partner. The couple gave Leo a “queer, trans 101,” after which they realized that some of the conversations and exeperiences personally resonated.

It was a challenge, in that Leo was approaching their place in the trans community, and broader LGBTQ community, from a limited perspective, educating others as they were still educating themselves. 

“I ended up coming out as a trans man at first; I did that for a couple years,” they say. “And then I was like, ‘You know what? That label doesn’t 100% fit me.’ So I ended up coming out as genderqueer around 2016, when I moved to Colorado, and it’s fit a little bit better ever since then. So it’s been, genuinely, a gender journey.”

Unfortunately, Leo was disowned after coming out to their family. Though, they highlight the new friendships and relationships that have filled their life since. Today, they see their journey as very fluid and flexible.

“If I woke up tomorrow and felt like I was a different version of my gender, or if I wanted to use different pronouns, I’d go to work and ask them to use those pronouns. I’d come out to my friends, my humans here in Chicago, and luckily I have a good circle around me, so I’d be able to.”

Working in abortion healthcare as a genderqueer person, Leo references the plentiful conversations around reproductive healthcare solely mentioning cis women, leaving out trans and nonbinary folks like them who could get pregnant and need an abortion. When they lived in Colorado, they also worked for an abortion provider, though Leo calls that experience “not so good.”

“It’s really interesting to go from one section of work, where (gender inclusion was) still very important to me and have it kind of be swept under the rug, to go to the same kind of work in the Midwest and have it way more respected.”

In their current role, Leo says their voice has value. They’ve approached colleagues with suggestions to make trans and nonbinary patients feel more welcome, like an inclusive language update among literature, though they note, “You kind of have to be hypervigilant and take on that emotional labor.”

In their line of work, they also find a bit of joy in confusing cis people—which often acts as a teaching moment for cis folks to consider the experiences of their trans siblings.

“The healthcare that I’m in, if someone jokes about their really bad periods, I’m like, ‘Oh my God, I know, right? I don’t miss that.’ And they’re like—” Leo pauses to make a confused face, “because they assume I’m AMAB but I’m like, ‘LOL! Oh, no, no, seriously, I was on birth control for years,’ and they’re just like, ‘What?’ like, their gears are turning.”

Working front and center in abortion healthcare as a trans person, Leo admits, “Just because I’ve clocked out, doesn’t mean it’s not on my brain.” 

As the fight for abortion rights continues, and as trans folks continue navigating the sea of anti-trans legislation and rhetoric in the U.S., Leo says, “Don’t forget about us. Kind of basic, like think about what you say and see how it could hurt people who don’t fit into your box. Put the effort there. That’s kind of all we ask. The bar is very low.”

Growth and Expansion Beyond the Binary: Avery Austin, Texas

Avery recalls questioning their gender pretty early on in their childhood. Growing up in South Texas, conversations around queerness and transness were not only hard to come by—They were often ignored completely. “So, I never really looked into it,” Avery says.

Looking at their caregivers and family, who were all “very homophobic” during their upbringing, Avery realized during their senior year of high school that the conversations they were having inside were “much deeper” than just their sexuality. 

“It scared me a little bit, because I didn’t have anybody to tell about it,” Avery says. “I couldn’t tell my family because of the consequences of being gay. Those are already very present and very upsetting—I couldn’t even imagine what the consequences of being trans would be.”

Reflecting on their upbringing in a Catholic, Hispanic household, Avery describes it as “patriarchal.” While they are a spiritual person, they found it difficult to let go of the religious elements of themself, especially those that got in the way of their gender journey. 

Being Hispanic, Avery says they were taught a lot of expectations around how women should act, “that the woman always has to do a certain thing, and my dad would tell me that no man was ever going to love me if I didn’t know how to cook and clean—which I’m thankful for, because I don’t want a man to love me!” Avery laughs.

They moved to Colorado and began attending CSU at 18, though, “I used college as an excuse, honestly. I didn’t go for more than a semester at CSU, but I met a lot of great people that first semester.”

Initially, Avery wanted to be viewed as a masculine person, with no association with femininity. Though, once they got more comfortable with themself and began some self work, they found they were able to embrace their feminine attributes. Avery also nods to their experience as a drag performer, where they present more femme.

“I know that I like to perform and I like to be funny and quirky in front of people, but I never thought that it would be as a feminine character persona,” they say. “That’s kind of how it’s evolved, from really keeping myself in a box of masculinity, and toxic masculinity, to sort of crawling out of that box slowly and becoming who I am now, just having a feminine persona, that I present in drag, and then also just existing as I am, however I want, and informing the people around me of how to respect that if I need to.”

While “nonbinary” in itself is a label, Avery says they appreciate the flexibility that comes with it. “It gives me the room to act and feel the way that I want to.”

Coincidentally, at the time of this interview, Avery had freshly moved back to Texas from Colorado, having only been back a week. They reference that the community they built in Colorado gave them the confidence and comfort to return to Texas. 

“I know who I am now, and I have a more solid sense of what I want to do, so that’s the only reason I allowed myself to come back and feel happy about coming back,” they say.

Being back in Texas has been “eye opening,” Avery says, referencing that their grandmother started using their chosen name, “which, my entire existence in Colorado, she never did that once. I worked up the courage to tell her that it really hurts my feelings when she does it, and she was receptive to that.” Similarly, their father recently met their partner, who Avery recently got engaged to.

“And he is cool with it. He treated it like it was just a normal situation, which it is,” they say. “So there’s definitely been a lot of growth, and I think me leaving needed to happen in order for that growth to happen.”  

Photos courtesy of Cody, Juniper, Leo, and Avery