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negative to overcome), I remind people of this. Always, someone puts up a hand and says that their experience of their racial or ethnic group works similarly. We know how hard it can be, and when we can, we will try to help.
    I am also pretty sure this works in ways we don’t consider. I learned a new one fifty miles later, when I saw a lopsided Buick on the soft shoulder with two small, white-haired persons peering down at the tire. With a sigh and a glance at my watch, I prepared to pull over again, only to veer off at the last minute when I saw a very large man dressed in full riding leathers, five days of beard growth on his face, and a bandanna tied on his head, halfway through changing their tire already. I pulled past the Buick and saw his custom Harley, painted with purple flames, parked just ahead of it. Maybe it’s too much to assume, but I kind of imagine it must have been, at least in part, the same thing; a combination of innate helpfulness and a strong sense of responsibility, but also the prompting of being able to engage in a little good PR for Our Kind, whichever kind that may be.

It Only Takes a Minute, I
    Every week is full of tiny gender moments, little queer vignettes, these rich and telling interactions that give me an endless running commentary about what the world sees in me (and how the world likes it). They’re like story bouillon; please add your own voice and experience until they reach the desired strength and consistency.
    In yet another airport van, I’m buckled in and waiting to go when we hold up for a late arrival. When he draws back the door, his eye falls on me first—maybe for having claimed the best seat, maybe for looking a little different. He takes a long look. I cock my head at him, then grin and say, “Sorry, buddy, you’re not sitting on my lap.” Everyone laughs, and he turns a little pink, then levers himself into the jump seat facing backwards, dragging his backpack awkwardly up behind him.
    Fall fairs are my favorite. There are always a lot of small children to enjoy and a lot of fresh food to try. At the strawberry milk stand, I order a large and am told it’s the last of it—news greeted with terrible howls by the children behind me (when I turn, they are cute and downcast). I ask the vendor to turn my large into two smalls, and attempt a quiet escape. When their mother says, “Tell the nice man thank you,” and the older kid retorts, “Mo-ohm, that’s a lady ,” I am already around the corner of the building and out of sight.
    At our wedding, an old family friend—truly one of the nicest people I’ve ever known—marches around in great good humor introducing herself to people as having “known Sharon’s parents for years.” People look at her kindly, but as though she were a bit daft: that’s very nice, ma’am, but why are you here ? I finally find a minute to take her aside and remind her that no one else in the building except her and her husband, my parents, and grandmothers ever call me by that name; many of the guests have never even heard it. They all call me Bear. She nods and says she’ll try it out.
    Hardly anyone asks me, “Are you a boy or a girl?” anymore, not even small children. There were entire years when I’d get it at least once a week. I cannot tell whether this is because I look more firmly like one or the other these days, or because more people now know that this is actually a breathtakingly rude question. Maybe even packs of young boys, brimming with testosterone and bravado, just don’t care now? Or maybe I don’t trip their radar anymore. Can’t decide.
    Is it terrible if I say that I’m exhausted with talking about my gender? These days it’s only so interesting, and only for so long, and the interesting part is over very, very fast. I still do it for money, because I’m good at it and because people still need to learn about it, but when I’m off work, I don’t really want to explain things about gender any more