What My Cat Taught Me About Gender
Charlotte Narvaez stashed this in Gender
Mr. Lolita, as far as we know, doesn’t have a gender identity. He just has a sex: male. And the qualities that we love about him are still the very same qualities that we loved about him before, gender having absolutely nothing to do with it. In the morning, he jumps on to the bed and mewls (OK, Craig doesn’t love that) but I laugh when he starts pawing at my face like, “Let’s go: that can of wet food isn’t going to open itself.” He can be rascally when we leave the dining room table; I’ll often catch him crawling around on there sniffing for crumbs. He’s sometimes possessed by a demon and runs around the apartment yowling for no reason. When I tie my shoes, he attacks the laces.
The “he” in that last paragraph is taking some getting used to, but otherwise not much has changed. Scratch that: I’ve changed. Whereas before I saw Lolita how I wanted to see “her,” now I see Lolita as he actually is. It’s what Bruce Jenner, and the rest of the transgendered community, are asking of America right now. The problem, as this experience with my cat taught me, doesn’t lie with them; the problem, it turns out, lies with us.