Learning I’m Non-Binary 60-Plus Years Later

“I never realized how much you look like your mother,” my first cousin told me at my father’s funeral three years ago. You don’t know the half of it, I thought to myself. Twenty years earlier, I went to London for a transformation that resulted me looking a slightly less attractive version of this cis woman cousin. That image, more than the experience itself, so horrified me that I refused the polaroid that captured the moment for posterity. But the photo was forever burned in my brain.

At the funeral I vowed to myself I would get to the bottom of why since adolescence I always felt different. I cleaned out my dad’s house, which I was luckily able to sell the last weekend before the pandemic lockdown. While going through drawers, I discovered a 1960s letter from my mother to my grandmother about her taking DES, the fertility drug, when she was pregnant with me. I did some research about DES and thought, perhaps I found an underlying biological reason for what I clearly suppressed for decades, throughout a long marriage, a divorce, and two kids, now in their twenties.

I kept telling myself that my fondness for occasionally wearing women’s clothing was a stress reliever. Admittedly early on there was a fetish aspect to this proclivity, which I shared with my future ex-wife before we went to bed for the first time. She wasn’t fazed and early on occasionally even encouraged it. I perhaps wasn’t as forthcoming with several women who were sexual partners before and after the marriage.

In April 2020, I finally began trying to figure out the real me, and found an online trans support group, whose members turned out to be welcoming. I admitted to them I hadn’t spoken about any of this to anyone. I wore my gender confusion on my sleeve. I felt like a sponge.

I also scheduled a tele-health appointment with a local gender therapist who happened to be a trans woman. I read her 200-page dissertation on transgender folks late in life into the wee hours of the morning before our first appointment. I wasn’t sure where it was headed, but I knew deep down knew it was long overdue. Thankfully, we hit it off. I learned from the therapist that gender was a spectrum, something I did not realize. My therapist meanwhile gave me a homework assignment to write out a chronological timeline, marking milestones of this feeling different. She also said only I could determine that I was indeed trans, but within two weeks she did confirm I suffered from some level of dysphoria.

The only previous time I had seen a mental health professional was when my mom caught my 16-year-old self with lipstick on. I was going through a Bowie phase. She dragged me to a psychiatrist, who I refused to speak to for the entire session. We sat in silence. Who knows what would have been the outcome? As you can imagine, my mother and I had a difficult relationship until her 2017 death.

I was incensed that my mother insinuated I was gay. I was never attracted sexually to boys or men, and that’s still the case. However, I’ve had several close male gay friends since my twenties because we shared similar interests, such as British film and television, or music.

Eleven years ago, I moved back to my parents’ house to get out of a toxic 3 year relationship, but mostly because both of their health was failing. There were several times when both were simultaneously in two separate hospitals. I realized my dad was having a problem coping with my mom’s dementia. It turned out that my mom was not only a homophobe, but also a transphobe — not unlike the toxic ex-girlfriend who I had just left.

I plugged away at finding my authentic self, and slowly shared my long repressed turmoil with close friends of both sexes, all whom were accepting of the new me. A few were indifferent or confused. Once on the support group, I showed up in drag, complete with a bad wig and lipstick. I figured when in Rome, etc. Thankfully no one battered an eye.

Immersing myself in trans culture, I realized I still didn’t want to wear jewelry, makeup, high heels, or paint my nails. My therapist told me she doubted I was a transvestite. I became close with some of my support group’s trans sisters, and it became apparent I was very different from how they perceived themselves.

Non-Binary Revelation

I found I had far more more in common with a member of the group, who started out was designated female at birth. I later learned they’re non-binary. A month later, we met one-on-one in a nearby park and shared our stories for more than two hours. There was so much similarity, despite me having nearly 35 years on them and been married with kids. We just began from opposite sides of the spectrum. It occurred to me that had I been assigned female at birth, I probably still would be non-binary.

My adult kids took the news in stride. My Gen Z daughter argued gently with me about what she thought non-binary meant. I later broached the subject with my millennial son, who’s a male model, by asking him if he was familiar with the non-binary model Rain Dove. He wasn’t familiar with them, and once I revealed why I was, he responded, “I don’t care.” I figured quit while you’re ahead. Although we haven’t discussed my identity further even two years later, he and I are closer than ever.

At my mother’s funeral in September 2017, I mentioned to another cousin who I hadn’t seen since I was 15 years old that I used to look up to him and his brother for wanting to be like them: real 1960s hippies. He quipped, “There’s always time.” In the back of my mind it stuck: yes, I could still grow my hair out. It’s interesting to see how long-time acquaintances sometimes can’t believe it’s me.

Around December 2020, I told my therapist that I was ready to declare myself non-binary, and renounce my cis maleness. I had no problem being perceived androgynous, but without all the feminine trappings of makeup, jewelry, and uncomfortable shoes. I mostly blame the patriarchy, to which I attribute most of the world’s problems.

It was not lost on me that contributing factors to my awakening coincided with:

1) the Covid lockdown;

2) the realization that most of my students were women;

3) #MeToo reinforced what I already knew: women received a raw deal;

4) I was sick of toxic masculinity.

By July 14, 2022 — International Non-Binary Day — I was ready to make a public disclosure. I wrote a post on Facebook about who my authentic self with the following declaration:

For the fifty or so closest people to me, the following information is not news. However, in honor of International Non-Binary Day today on July 14 and Non-Binary Awareness Week July 11–17, I’d like to publicly announce that I consider myself non-binary.

This revelation did not come lightly and involved some soul-searching with the realization I always saw the world a bit differently than most others. More recently, I realized that every time someone called me “sir” or “Mr.,” I internally bristled. In my mind, “Mr. Jaffee” passed away with my dad 2–1/2 years ago. My brother is welcome to that mantle if he so chooses.

At my core, I’m a writer whose gender is immaterial. There’s a huge spectrum between the rigid binary of male and female. My preferred pronoun is “Larry,” but any shall suffice if it makes you happy.

Perhaps spurred by a pent-up frustration with how the patriarchy and male entitlement/privilege has screwed up this world and society, I have found my tribe of like-minded folx, whose humanity and no tolerance for discrimination or racism are their guiding lights — and mine too. So good luck to us all in these crazy times.

I received in the comments and kind words from about 100 friends, of which about half already knew. Since then, I came out to college students I taught via Zoom. Again, only acceptance.

My New Year’s resolution was to finally tell my story on this platform, where I have been lurking and occasionally commenting for about 18 months.

My new male therapist — who I see in person every two weeks — believes me writing publicly about my still-evolving journey, as a healthy extension of previous social media declarations about being non-binary. It’s still only part of me, but certainly an emotional weight has been lifted in my quest to fully becoming my authentic self.