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The Shadow Sex

Spurred by a violent attack, a new, gender-fluid generation comes into the light.

Rain Dove Dubilewski

Rain Dove Dubilewski, photographed at home in Berkeley.

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Rain Dove Dubilewski

“I’m going to keep wearing a skirt,” says Sasha Fleischman, who was photographed at home in Oakland shortly after leaving the hospital with second-and third-degree burns—and a newfound, if somewhat unwelcome, fame. “It’s a big part of who I am.”

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Rain Dove Dubilewski

“I had trouble seeing myself developing into a woman when I was a teenager,” says Marilyn Roxie, above, now 24. “But then I realized that the idea of becoming a man didn’t make sense to me either.” Roxie, photographed at home in San Francisco, identifies as genderqueer and uses neutral pronouns. “The idea of ‘queering’ gender, seeing it through a nonbinary lens, resonates with how I feel.”

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Rain Dove Dubilewski

Mark Snyder, 30, has made a career—and a mission— out of gender activism as the communications manager at San Francisco’s Transgender Law Center and a founder of one of the first websites for queer activists, “I identify as politically queer, sexually queer, and genderqueer,” he says. “I like the term ‘genderqueer’; I like the rainbow of it.”

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Rain Dove Dubilewski

 “I think a lot of people like to see gender as this scale of blue and pink,” says Emma, a 20-year-old college student who uses neutral pronouns (and declined to provide a last name). “I never really identified with either side of that, or even in between blue and pink. It’s so much more complicated—my identity varies so much on any given day. Sometimes I tell people I’m gold or something.”

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Rain Dove Dubilewski

“I classify myself as nonbinary,” says Finley Terhune, a 24-year-old graduate student currently living in Davis. “To me that means not male and not female, but not having no gender either.” Terhune prefers the gender-neutral pronouns “en,” “ens,” and “enself,” and is out at work, at school, and with family and friends. “I wasn’t as open at first, but gradually, that became more and more uncomfortable. It was hard, but I like being out. It forces people to think about gender.”

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Rain Dove Dubilewski

Born female, Rain Dove Dubilewski, 24, makes her living as a menswear model. A couple of years ago, the 6-foot-2 Dubilewski was taken for a man at a fashion show, was sent to the men’s dressing room, and ended up walking the runway in a suit. She’s scarcely modeled as a woman since. “I’m a chameleon,” she says. “If somebody calls me ‘sir,’ sure, I’ll be a white man in America. And if somebody calls me ‘ma’am,’ sure, I’ll get out of a speeding ticket. I guess I call it gender-fluid. There’s not really a definition.”

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Rain Dove Dubilewski

"Dolls are for girls, trucks are for boys, and puzzles are neutral," writes Micah on the blog Neutrois Nonsense, on which the 27-year-old (who declined to provide a last name) has shared stories about gender reassignment surgery, pronouns, coming out, and more, for several years. "My gender is a puzzle."

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Rain Dove Dubilewski

"To me, gender is superficial," says Sarah Levine, 16, a classmate of Fleischman's at Maybeck who identifies as gender-fluid. "The ideal would be a world where gender doesn't matter. What kind of person you are is what matters."

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Gradually, Fleischman came out as genderqueer, switching names from the too-male Luke to the more ambiguous Sasha and asking to be referred to by the pronouns “they” and “them” rather than “he” and “him.” Parents, friends, and teachers slowly got the hang of it, and when they slipped, Fleischman would remind them—sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully—to use gender-neutral language.

One day a friend cleaning out her closet gave Fleischman a bunch of old skirts that didn’t fit her anymore. The next morning, Fleischman wore one of them to school, and a distinctive style, mixing male and female clothing, was born. There has scarcely been a pants day since. “I guess I’m trying to confuse people,” says Fleischman, whose wardrobe now includes a purple plaid miniskirt, a form-fitting red silk dress bought on a school trip to China, and a blue-gray lace-up skirt that a friend made when Fleischman was in the hospital. “When I wear a skirt, it makes them think about gender and not jumping to conclusions.” Other students at Maybeck, a small, private high school that tends to attract quirky, unconventional kids, have been supportive of their classmate’s fashion choices. At least one other student at the school identifies as agender, and two more are transgender.

“I think the world is becoming more accepting, and people feel less like they need to hide who they are,” says Sarah Levine, a 16-year-old friend of Fleischman’s who came out as genderqueer about a year ago. “I identify as gender-fluid. Most of the time I’m agender, but it changes every now and then. Sometimes I feel male, and sometimes I feel female.” Levine, a junior at Maybeck, was born a girl and plans to keep the feminine name at least until next year. “If I change my name, it will be after I get my college stuff worked out. I don’t want my applications getting confused.”

Like Fleischman, Levine grew up with supportive parents and peers. “For me, it wasn’t that big a thing to come out,” Levine says. “We didn’t have a big sit-down—‘Mom, Dad, I’m not a girl.’ It just came up in conversation. They were cool about it.” But not all kids come from families like Levine’s, and not all high schools have cross-dressing days. Even though the agender movement shows signs of taking hold beyond places like Berkeley and schools like Maybeck—earlier this year, students at the University of Northern Iowa voted to crown a genderqueer homecoming queen, and genderqueer meet-up groups have sprouted in Boston, Denver, Chicago, and Washington—it’s still a very new and, in some ways, difficult concept.

Indeed, researchers have found that those who identify as neither male nor female suffer discrimination and violence at even higher rates than transgender people. One of the first major studies of gender-variant people, the National Transgender Discrimination Survey, revealed that those who identified as “other”—using terms like “genderqueer,” “third gender,” and “hybrid”—were more likely than transgender people to suffer physical assaults, survive sexual assault in school, face police harassment, or be unemployed. 

Mark Snyder, who identifies as genderqueer, says that people like him are targeted not necessarily because of their sexual orientation, but because they challenge conventions about what it means to be a man or a woman. “When I talk to my gay guy friends about this, I’ll ask why they were called a faggot. Was it because the person knew their sexual orientation or because they were breaking society’s gender norms? Whether you’re gay or transgender or genderqueer, people lash out when you break gender norms.” 

Snyder first came out as gay at age 15, but after going to college and joining the Boston Alliance of LGBT Youth, he found a term that suited him better. “That’s when I learned the word ‘genderqueer.’ As soon as I heard it, it was an instant click. I thought, ‘Oh my gosh, that’s me!’” Unlike some genderqueer people who feel that they have no gender, Snyder embraces both the masculine and the feminine. He enjoys wearing women’s jewelry and clothing, but when he does, he says, “I don’t feel like I’m doing drag. I’m not dressing up as a woman—I’m being myself. Some days I come to work looking like a stereotypical gay man in a white button-down shirt. Other times I wear long, dangly earrings and a woman’s sweater.” Capping off every outfit is a tattoo in bold black type that Snyder proudly displays on his left arm: Sissy. “I own the term ‘sissy.’ Having it tattooed on my arm reclaims a word that was used against me as something I can own and be proud of.”

Snyder has a long-term male partner, though many genderqueer people date and sleep with people of various genders. As Jennie Steinberg, a Beverly Hills psychotherapist who works with gender-nonconforming people, says, “When you don’t identify as male or female, terms like ‘gay’ and ‘straight’ are complicated.” And while Snyder loves what he calls the “rainbow of gender,” for Micah, being genderqueer means having no gender. Micah, who declined to give a last name, identifies as neutrois—an identity marked by the absence of gender. In a blog called Neutrois Nonsense, “adventures of a nonbinary trans*person in a binary world,” Micah, 27, writes with eloquence and excruciating detail about having a double mastectomy and a hysterectomy. Despite those surgeries, Micah doesn’t identify as male. “I’m not a femme boy or a butch girl,” a 2011 post explains. “It’s not embracing both sides, or one side; it’s embracing neither. It’s not an absence of gender, and it’s not not caring about my gender. Quite the contrary—I care very strongly about my gender, my gender expression, and my gender perception. I have a gender, and it’s a neutral gender.”

Micah’s post gets at a crucial point about the agender movement as its members see it: It’s not merely a stop on the way between one gender and another—it’s the embrace of both/and, neither/nor. No one feels entirely comfortable in his or her—or their—own skin all the time, especially young people, but for Sasha and Micah and Mark and Sarah, the rejection of the gender binary is something more serious and, presumably, more permanent: a personal and political identity.

Whether or not an A for agender ever makes it into the LGBTQ umbrella, for the time being, the community has, ironically, been defined by its unwillingness to be defined. For Fleischman especially, that weighs heavily, as the 18-year-old wrestles with whether to step into a new role as the public face of the genderqueer campaign or to embrace the obscurity that could gradually return as the story fades from newscasts. Even before that fateful flick of a lighter, Fleischman had taken tentative steps toward activism, petitioning President Barack Obama to institute a third gender option on government forms. The online petition gathered 27,000 signatures—not enough to get the president’s attention, but an impressive number for a single teen championing a cause that most people can’t quite get their heads around.

But for now, Fleischman is focused on something a little more immediate and a little more prosaic: college applications. Most of them have boxes for “male” and “female,” but the high school senior dreams of the day when people will have another option. “None” or “other” would be sufficient, but most of all, Fleischman would like a blank field into which people could write whatever term they chose.


Originally published in the February 2014 issue of San Francisco

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