“That's nice,” I said. After a few moments, I caught on. “Do you want me to take you to Clackamas?”
“Well, I know you are very busy.”
I tried to reassure her that no, actually, I wasn't busy. I was on vacation. It wasn't until I said, “I need to get gas, and I usually get it in Clackamas,” she said, “Oh, really?” like I had just offered her a ticket to the Superbowl. Well, maybe not the Superbowl. Ice Capades, maybe. Anyway, she was thrilled that I had a reason to go to Clackamas, and she would be able to tag along. On the way she told me she didn't feel as comfortable as she used to driving out of her neighborhood. Inwardly I sighed. I can see what is coming. More time spent taking my mother shopping.
Mom pawed through the racks at the Rack. She found some Uggs but decided the $169.95 price exceeded her budget, so we walked a few doors down to Payless Shoes. She sat on a bench, and I fetched boots for her to try on. The sales clerk, an older gal wearing all black, scurried by us. “These are all on sale!” she trilled merrily.
Mom tried on several boots and settled on a pair of black suede calf-high boots (man-made materials, made in China, $34.99 on sale), and we went up to the cash register. The sales clerk helped her navigate the credit card machine. “Now just swipe your card, honey!” I turned away to look at slippers, not wanting to see the train wreck as my mother poked at the little credit card screen with the corner of her credit card.
The door bell rang. Someone came in. I wasn't paying attention. I heard the sales clerk say, “Can I help you, sir? Sir?” It took a moment to realize she was talking to me. I turned around. The clerk said, “Ma'am.” I said, “I'm with her,” pointing at my mother. The clerk finished the transaction, red-faced. She said something inane about the doorbell that made me think she was trying to make amends for mislabeling my gender. I ignored her discomfort and waited for my mother by the door.
It's not the first time in my life I have been mistaken for a man. When I was a hippie-wannabe teenager with long straight hair and a flat chest, someone asked me, “Are you a boy or a girl?” It's true sometimes I wear my hair quite short, but it seems odd to me that people would have so much trouble identifying my gender, because I have an undeniably female figure. By that I mean, hips. I have hips. But I hide my shape with big jackets. And that is what happened today. I was wearing an over-sized black wool men's jacket with broad shoulders and a black cap over my very short hair. Most likely, she saw my bare neck and broad shoulders from the back, and leaped to the conclusion that I was male. Maybe she was a tiny bit frightened, wondering how I got from the door to the slipper aisle so quickly. Maybe she thought I might have a weapon hidden under my big black jacket.
We left and went over to Target, where I bought a stainless steel omelette pan (on sale). Then we were done. I took her home. Later while I was steaming a piece of salmon in my new omelette pan, I thought about gender and how annoying it is that we have pronouns to differentiate the sexes. He, she. Him, her. Hers, his. Why can't there be just one word? We managed to make Ms. politically correct. Why can't we do it with He/she and his/her? Some other languages have gender-neutral pronouns, and I guess some folks have suggested some English alternatives that have yet to catch on.
I'm not a linguist. Most days I feel barely literate. What would it take to change the way we use gender-specific language? Maybe a society that is based on gender equality? That might be a good place to start.
