Sarah & Ian Hoffman

Building a culture of kindness. One book at a time.
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The Omni-Gender Bathroom

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Recently, while visiting the library of a small east coast college, I found myself in need of a bathroom. I encountered this one:

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Later that day I sought out the bathroom I usually use on campus: a nondescript single-user loo in the social science department, a place I’ll call Bathroom B. I wanted to visit Bathroom B partly because I had to go, and partly to see how it had changed since my last visit to the college at the end of the summer. Unlike the Omni-Gender Bathroom, Bathroom B is still trying to figure things out.

I work at this college several times a year, and have enjoyed observing Bathroom B’s evolution.  Every time I visit, Bathroom B sports different signage.  When I first encountered Bathroom B, it had a sign that read “Women.”  On my next visit it bore a hand-lettered sign: “Unisex.” The next time I saw Bathroom B it was simply identified with a glyph not unlike that of The Artist Formerly Known as Prince.

That afternoon, I found Bathroom B marked with a strip of duct tape and the word “Women” in black marker—a return to its roots.  Given that I only visit quarterly, I imagine I’ve missed at least a few iterations of the bathroom’s identity.

What I appreciate about this particular campus is the students’ and faculty’s willingness to change with the times–only to reevaluate and change again. On the one hand there are transgender students who require a safe space in which to answer nature’s call.  On the other there are female students and professors who wish to use a cleaner bathroom than that typically frequented by male users. What’s the resolution?  No one knows.  But this once-banal bit of signage on a small room meant to satisfy a physiological function is now the hotbed of a series of wrought questions spanning biology, identity, safety, and selfhood.

Duct tape is sturdy, but not permanent, so I’m guessing Bathroom B will continue to evolve.  The Omni-Gender Bathroom seems to have found a more stable identity for itself.  Who’s to say which is the better destiny?

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The Moment (or…Telling Steve)

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“What sweet sisters!” Steve the Realtor says. Sam and Ruby are curled up in a rocking chair in a house we are looking at. Sam giggles. Ruby says gleefully, “We’re not sweet sisters, we’re sweet brother and sister!”

Steve blinks. “Right!” he says cheerfully, in the tone that adults use to humor children who say things like “I saw Santa outside kissing the tooth fairy!”

Steve has met Ruby, who I bring on my house-hunting expeditions, but this is the first time he’s met Sam. I’ve talked about Ruby’s big brother Sam, but I suppose Sam’s gender had not really sunk in for Steve.

It’s The Moment, the time when I decide whether or not to say, “Actually, Sam’s a boy.” I look at Sam, who is wearing a pink-striped dress and pink Crocs, his long blond hair in a ponytail. I wonder if we will stick with Steve or find another realtor (if the former, it makes sense to tell him; if the latter, it doesn’t). I weigh how much Sam likes it when people think he’s a girl (a lot) against how much he doesn’t like it when I tell people that he’s a boy (a little). I wonder if it’s possible to teach Ruby not to say anything when people comment on her “sister.”

I think too long; The Moment passes. It will be back soon enough.

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Ugly Betty

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I am all weepy, watching an old episode of Ugly Betty. Betty’s teenage nephew, Justin, has just been rejected by his best friend because he doesn’t fit in with the best friend’s posse of jocks.

Justin is a secondary character in the show.  He’s also one of the most remarkable characters on television.  He is a full-on pink boy, portrayed without apology, explanation, or mockery.

Justin’s mom, Hilda, a hairdresser from Queens who favors skin-tight, low cut animal-print dresses, knows a few things about the world. She tells Justin that he is perfect—that it’s the jocks’ problem, not his.

When Justin protests, his mother says: “No sweetie, you listen to me. YOU are perfect. But you’re gonna meet a lot of stupid people in your life and they’re just not going to get you. All that matters is that you never, for a second, change who you are.”

That’s when the tears start.

Hilda sees the boys’ bigotry, and she knows it is not about her son. The beauty of her speech lies in the way she offers Justin a path to self-respect.   She teaches him that he should never allow others to make him feel less than whole and perfect.  It’s not you, she tells him, it’s them.

I love this show.

(For a story about what it’s like for teenage boys like Justin to go to school, see yesterday’s “Can a Boy Wear a Skirt to School?” in the New York Times Style section by Jan Hoffman—no relation.)

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