The next drink was a grande mocha without whipped cream. Obie put the next cup in the queue after the cashier wrapped up the order. There were about 10 cups on bar and Obie checked to see if I needed any help before he took another customer’s order.

“Hey Ash, you need help?” he asked with his Italian-meets-French accent.

“Nah, I’m fine. Thanks though!” I responded. I appreciate moments when a team member checks in.

“Ok, miss!” Obie replied before reporting back to the cashier, “She’s fine with the amount of drinks.”

This cordial social norm–miss–had my mind reeling.

“She” hasn’t been a pronoun associated with my identity since the end of April.

I sped through the next five drinks but couldn’t stop thinking about how I’m going to approach this situation.

Though I’ve had casual conversation with my coworker about gender-queerness, it’s never about my own. If I tell him about my preferred pronouns he might not change the way he talks to me. He won’t take me seriously. I’ve already expressed how I don’t like being called “miss” or “ma’am” yet here we are. Obie and I initially bonded over being gay so maybe he’ll understand where I’m coming from.

I’m constantly misgendered at work. Customers misgendering me doesn’t affect me as much as it does when my coworkers do it; I interact with the same group of people over 30 hours a week.

I want them to use “They/them” when they refer to me. I wish my name tag could just say “They” to make it clear that beneath this uniform is someone who is not just a cis-female-featured human. That would make my life a little easier.

It’s hard to present myself as who I am without freedom of dress in the work environment.

This green Starbucks apron and hat doesn’t really scream “I’m not a singular gender” as much as I hoped it would. There really is no way of telling that I’m not a female while at work. I can’t use style to my advantage and therefore my anatomical female features are all people can see until I state otherwise.

When people incorrectly gender me, they are most likely unaware of why it is wrong. Not everyone is aware of gender as a binary engraved into society.

Not everyone is aware of the aspect of gender beyond male and female. I come out over and over when breaking down gendered interactions.

In turn, I inform those who are unaware. A dialogue that will potentially make people uncomfortable will inevitably make people think and hopefully reconsider their approach. These moments not only say a lot about how I identify, but about how others identify as well. I hope to help shape those who are unaware of gender outside of the binary.

Although it is clear to them now, my parents never understood why I was into HESS trucks and Hot Wheels, but they bought me GAP t-shirts, cargo shorts, and let me wear the prettiest dresses.

I think about how they let me chop my hair into a bowl cut in second grade, with a little hesitation. I played with Barbies. I chased boys around the playground. I was on the same level as them because in my mind, there was no elevator taking us up or down according to gender.

As a child there was no hierarchy to tend to. Gendered awareness settled in once I fought back and got punished for it.

Every time someone assumes I’m a “she” or a “her,” my mind backtracks to when I was locked in the binary. I was a kid. I am a kid.

The confusion that is breaking down gendered language and disproving gendered norms clouds my processor.

I have to prove myself in proving my pronouns all while steaming milk for the never-ending line of drinks backed up on bar. I am defending an identity not everyone is aware of in an environment where personal life shouldn’t bleed.

I waited for a pause in customers, the rare “Wow, there’s no line!” moment. I lowered my voice and asked Obie to help me clean the espresso bar. Other workers were restocking cups and lids, brewing coffee for the next rush. I told him about the playground and what being genderqueer means and list non-binary pronouns.

He asked if I prefer “they.” I said that I do and the cashier slams a cup on the bar. The next rush was here.