My name is sparky // sparky

My name is sparky.  My name is also Iain, but that’s mainly for official documents and my family.  I have considered myself in the context of many labels throughout my life, some more helpful than others, though, whether through my cognitive reasoning or lack of a wider cultural and social awareness, hadn’t until the last few years began to take ownership of my gender fluidity and accept myself as a non-binary person.   I have identified as “queer”, and have come to understand this as a broad umbrella term that encapsulates so many identities outside the realm of CIS heteronormativity.  I wanted to discuss my experiences and relationship with gender as I feel something of a kinship and solidarity with the fine folk of Magical Women.

For those not already in the know, “non-binary” gender identities relate to anyone who doesn’t rigidly adhere to exclusivities of masculinity or femininity.  Activist Riki Anne Wilchins is regularly associated with the term “genderqueer”, and claims to have created it, having utilised it in an essay published in the first issue of In Your Face (1995).  Very often, genderqueer and non-binary people prefer to be addressed with gender-neutral pronouns, i.e. “they”, “their”.  Some prefer the familiar binaries of “he” and “she”, while some simply wish to be addressed by their name.  Additionally, titles such as Mx have been used, instead of Mr, Mrs, Miss, Ms etc.  I personally prefer “they/them” as a pronoun, though accept that “he/him” will continue to be used to refer to me, as I haven’t made it widely known of my identity and preferences.  Equally, I have found myself increasingly using Mx as a title for applications, deliveries and the like, though have found that many businesses have yet to embrace this form of title, which is all very well except when they insist on one selected from their existing options – which is rather too regularly.  But it’s OK – call me sparky.  Or Iain.  Preferably sparky.  

As with anyone in living existence, whatever their background, circumstances, obstacles, strengths and foibles, my experiences are purely unique to myself, but I feel there are a lot of relatable experiences that are rarely voiced, and equally mine may be far more common than I care to mention.  The examples of masculinity and male-ness in my family didn’t exactly fill me with awe and inspiration, given that there was a lot of anger and tension growing up, traits I have consciously strived to reject.  Growing up, feeling I didn’t naturally gravitate to archetypal “male” pursuits, I found it hard to put my finger on why this was, or whether it was even an issue.  At school I was a sensitive and reflective child, not to mention easy to upset – the fact I cried and expressed emotion other than physical violence meant I clearly did not belong with the alpha-dogs (or “ladz ladz ladz” (aka Project Jacamo).   There were exceptions – I was, and still am, obsessed with football, though the gateway to this was due to my fascination with numbers, facts and figures.   But my early icons were Sunni, the yellow Gummi Bear, and Funshine, the yellow Care Bear.  Shiny yellow bears were my jam! My sister, two years older than I, did ballet for  a short while at a community centre in town, which I was envious enough of, to want to even briefly become a ballerina myself, until I realised that there were also boy-ballet-dancers, which I didn’t want to be – I wanted a tutu, and tights, and quite possibly a magic wand.  This interest didn’t stretch as far as playing with dolls – Cindy and Barbie had terrifying faces, I viewed unnatural hair with suspicion, and the small accessories such as shoes were terrifying to unexpectedly come across.  There’s a wee insight into my sensory triggers.  

Growing up around mostly male friends, it was a refreshing change to hang out with female mates – it helped that one such friend played football and was generally into most sports, though I didn’t really have anyone encouraging experimentation either way, other than my sister, who had goth friends and regularly frequented the “alternative” pubs and music venues in town, though would simultaneously encourage and put me off entering that circle – I was a whiny indie kid, who hadn’t found my bearings on the spectrum. 

I think that leaving my relative bubble and heading to uni in mid Wales made me all the more keen to find people “like myself”, whatever this might present.   The problem was that I didn’t believe that there were any – I was quick to (internally) point out people’s foibles, why we couldn’t possibly be compatible as friends.  I think that meeting more LGBTQ people made me, in turn, question whether it was sexual orientation that made me feel different.  As it is, society was still focused heavily on who people were fucking rather than any intrinsic aspects of their personality, and I wondered whether my university’s LGBT (as it was termed then, Q-awareness being something of an afterthought) society were necessarily my “tribe”.  The fact I was questioning with I identified as anything other than heterosexual was not backed up with romantic pursuits (or much in the way of same-sex snogging), which, perish the thought, made me fear I would be exposed as some sort of straight-boy sell-out.   But therein lay both my naivety, my clear obstacles in self-confidence, and my papering over the cracks in simply understanding the essence of myself.   Indeed, as I have grown, a clearer image of what I would like from a relationship dynamic would necessitate a far less rigid concept of gender identity.   Being more personally aware and willing to share my queerness over the past few years has opened up the topic of where that leaves on me the sex and relationships spectrum.  I would love it if the world didn’t purely think in terms of who we might fuck, and how closely this would measure on the heteronormativity spirit level.  Indeed it does frustrate me that such basic binary thinking is still very much of the essence, particularly the way that toxic masculinity lumps “femininity”, “gayness” and anything else which appears to fall outside their narrow bounds of meat-eating, motor-loving, casually-racist and lecherous behaviours.   

Of course, I acknowledge that I come from a relatively privileged position.  I am quick to jump to conclusions over people’s assumptions about me and my behaviours and values, though am pretty sure I’m viewed in the context of a CIS male, the easiest starting point, society’s default setting.  I haven’t had to endure the kind of sexual harassment women face, though of course the patriarchy rears its ugly head in all sorts of ways, especially through casual bullying and microaggressions.  My narrative hasn’t really been much of an explicit struggle, though as I come to accept that many of the issues I feel have held me back in terms of my struggles with depression, anxiety and OCD have been part of a toxic patriarchal culture, I am striving to be more true to myself and my values and would hope this would in turn make me a better ally to all you Magical Women.   You might call me “he”, but you can call me “they”.  You don’t need to call me “sir”, it smacks of archaic hierarchies.  You don’t need to give me a title full stop  (“Mx” in writing is more than fine).  Just call me sparky (or Iain, if you really must!)