Blindsided by Gender-Bender

A hard-learned lesson in pronoun-ciation

One morning last fall, my friend Scott stopped by the city yard (read: dump) and got to chatting with “Chris,” whom he’d just met.

After introductions were exchanged, Scott extended his hand and said, “Nice to meet you, sir.”

It was an understandable mistake.

Chris, a transgender woman, stood six-foot-two and was wearing baggy jeans and a bulky sweater, appropriate attire for the weather and the venue.

Chris’s hair was pulled into a ponytail; it wasn’t until she leaned forward to shake Scott’s hand that the ponytail swung into view.

The ponytail, which reached her waist, was gathered by a fuzzy fuchsia scrunchie.

Scott was mortified; he apologized profusely.

Chris nodded her acceptance. A brief conversation ensued during which Scott learned Chris lived around the corner from his shop.

As it happened, one of Scott’s customers, Mrs. Fox, lived next door to Chris; Scott had been planning to drop off a vacuum cleaner he’d repaired.

That afternoon, Scott delivered the machine to Mrs. Fox. He mentioned he’d just met her neighbor, Chris.

By way of atoning for his earlier faux pas, Scott took care to refer to Chris with the proper pronouns. He told Mrs. Fox he’d met her at the city yard, and she seemed to be a nice lady.

Scott, proud of himself for not messing up, waited expectantly for Mrs. Fox to respond.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Mrs. Scott, glaring in the direction of Chris’s house, retorted, “I don’t care what he thinks he is; he’s a guy: case closed.”

And with that neighborly remark, Mrs. Fox whirled around and stomped into the house.