Ask a Lesbian: How to handle mistakes with they/them pronouns

Welcome to the start of my “Ask a Lesbian” series where I answer advice requests on all things queer (and more).

To kick off the series, I’m using old advice requests I used to receive on my Curious Cat back in the day and fleshing out responses. This request comes from 2021, but likely still remains relevant for trans allies and especially ESL speakers.

“Hi. I’m from Brazil, so my first language is Portuguese, and we don’t have pronouns that are completely neutral. Everything has a gender, even objects. When I speak English, I need to translate my thoughts from Portuguese to English, and because the word “they” doesn’t exist in Portuguese, sometimes I accidentally misgender people. When I talk to someone who uses they/them pronouns, I always want to tell them that I respect their pronouns, but I might make mistakes because of that, but not intentionally. But I get the feeling that if I tell that to people, they might feel like I find it hard to accept who they are or feel like they’re making it harder for me, which isn’t my intention. Do you think it’s better to say that? Or better to not say anything? I know that the best thing to do is to get their pronouns right always, and I’m getting better at it, but I’m always afraid of making mistakes. What do I do?

Dear Brazilian Trans Ally,

When I studied French in high school and in college, we learned the two forms of they in French, ils and elles. In an introductory lesson, the teacher explained ils represented groups of men, of boys, and of any mixed-gendered group that included men or boys. “Even if there are one hundred girls and only one boy, we still use ils,” she instructed.

How unfair, I thought, sitting at my desk as the cisgender heterosexual girl I thought myself to be at the time. I’d spend the next several years of my life seeking spaces that permitted the use of elles. By my late twenties, I would find myself in groups made up of non-binary and genderqueer people. Neither ils nor elles correctly gendered my friends and me, though I was long past using French anyway.

I’m guessing Portuguese and French share that in common, both drawing from Latin roots and categorized as the Romance Languages.

Now, I’m a native English speaker, and like many native English speakers, English is the only language I can speak. I can tell you now, mistakes happen regardless of your native tongue, regardless of whether you’re an ally, and regardless of whether you use they/them pronouns yourself.

In my university film program, I had several classes with a nonbinary student who used they/them pronouns. I never met someone like them before, and their presence intimidated me. They were openly queer, openly nonbinary, and I’m guessing that their attendance in our classes triggered the first icebreakers that included pronouns I’d ever participated in. I’d been a year into dating my first girlfriend, not openly queer but not actively hiding it either. I had online friends who changed pronouns and used they/them. But this student encouraged me to practice what I’d preached, so to speak.

And I wasn’t always good at it. The two of us weren’t friends; they were just a peer. I recall once during a class discussion, when I expanded on a point the student made about spatial editing, I used the wrong pronouns to talk about their ideas. Another queer student beside me whispered, “They–they use they/them pronouns,” after I finished speaking. This mishap followed months after icebreaker introductions, and I’d completely forgotten. It never crossed my mind, and I sat chewing on the student’s correction, realizing what a mistake I’d made–misgendering this kid in front of the whole class. I jumped back into the discussion as quickly as possible, recalling their idea again, used the correct pronouns, and then dwelled on it for days after the fact.

A semester went by before we closed out our undergrad degrees in the same film capstone class, where they presented their thesis proposal on queering media. I misgendered them again, noticed right away, and bit the insides of my cheek. When I got home, I messaged them on Facebook Messenger.

I’m pretty sure I used the wrong pronouns when referring to you in class today and wanted to apologize! And ask what pronouns you use again? I’m also really interested in your thesis, don’t hesitate to contact me if you want someone to look at in future stages of its development

They were kind and understanding in return, which I was thankful for. But even then, I didn’t practice they/them pronouns in person at all. I’d been so confined to my online queer community, it’d been easy for me to forget we existed in my daily life in person too. They blessed me with forgiveness, as trans people often do, but I’d been a failing on my responsibility to practice being an ally in person as much as I was online.

Fast forward five years where I’d be asking others to use they/them pronouns when referring to me. I imagine myself on the receiving end of your scenario, wondering how I might react to meeting someone I don’t know (whether in real life or virtually) where one of our first interactions focuses on my gender identity and pronouns. I recoil at the thought.

But using a proactive line or two at the beginning of a conversation doesn’t always strike such a chord. I was once extremely close with the family of my best friend, who all slowly adapted to my pronoun shift. The person I spent the least time with in the family was a man married to my friend’s sister. When my wife, Jasmin, came to visit from England, meeting the family for only the second time in four years, they hosted a BBQ as a makeshift bridal shower. As our families chatted together, the man loaded his plate with hot dogs and fixings. “Hey Jess,” he grabbed my attention while others mingled, occupied. “What pronouns does Jasmin use?”

“She/her–nothing special there!” I quipped.

He nodded with a smile. “Cool, cool. I know I still mix yours up sometimes. I’m adjusting.” We carried our plates out to the back porch as others came in.

This small interaction touched me quite a lot. This man–with whom I’d never interact outside of such family gatherings–briefly acknowledged past mistakes and noted he’s working on it. The two of us very rarely share private conversations. In fact, that may have been the one and only. But privacy also mattered in this quick exchange. Had he said this in front of any number of guests, knots would twist in my stomach, likely for hours following.

The difference between your proposed scenario and this moment that occurred might be that I knew this man already. Though our relationship operated via association only, I held at least a basic level of trust in him. He’d used my pronouns properly in the past, though misgendering happened far more than it didn’t. A lot of cisgender heterosexual men just don’t know many queer people on a personal level (at least to their knowledge). When they make an effort to recognize they have something to learn, it’s easy for me to offer grace.

Unfortunately, I tend to offer much less grace to other queer people, perhaps unfairly so. (I’m making the assumption that you, advice-seeker, are some flavor of queer yourself. Yet, regardless, the following assessment still applies.)

When I imagine someone saying to me, “I might mess up your pronouns,” before they actually had a chance to use my pronouns out loud at all, I’m annoyed at best. Of course, I’d never make a scene in the moment, for fear of drawing even more attention to my pronouns and gender identity than such a statement already spotlighted. Which is exactly the problem.

Gender identity is extremely personal. I spent several months at war with myself, wondering how I might be able to get away with never telling anyone aside from my wife. Coming out means shifting how people perceive you; it means making one aware that their gender and gender expression are perceived by anyone and everyone. All the while, we sacrifice our comfort just to curb the idea that people have thoughts about our gender. If I met someone and the first thing they say is they might mess up my pronouns, it’d ignite flickers of the inner self-critic, who waits patiently for any reminder that by being myself, I ask too much from others. That my gender identity is a chore for the rest of the world. That who I am makes others uncomfortable because they’re afraid of making a mistake, and somehow that fear is greater than the fear of showing up fully as myself, something I must confront every day.

Of course, this is a reflection of my own self-worth, but many queer and trans people struggle with just that, for exactly these reasons. Society at large rejects us at every turn, increasingly so as anti-LGBTQ legislation picks up around the US. Slight reminders of something planted in us at critical ages in our youth, whether we’re born into accepting families or not, take tremendous inner work to overcome. And most of us don’t have access to tools and support to build the resilience we need to overcome something that, in the grand scheme of things, seems incredibly insignificant.

Should you find yourself accidentally misgendering someone who uses they/them pronouns, correct yourself and move on. Or, like I had in the past, text or message them after the fact and own up to it. (A friend of a friend reached out to me on Instagram the day after hanging out to do this very thing, and again, I felt touched by the interaction and acknowledgment.)

I’m sure most people who have changed pronouns would agree, I appreciate your commitment to do your best, advice-seeker. Language can be a tricky thing, shifting even within one tongue, let alone speaking multiple. I sympathize with the adjustment there, as I was never able to commit to learning French fully, and have lost most of the skills I had by now. But hopefully, this illuminates the impact of opening conversations with proactive apologies, specifically for people you don’t know. Because, oftentimes as you fear, it will make the person on the receiving end feel embarrassed or that they are making things harder for everyone else, even though showing up authentically is one of the scariest things that any one person can do.

With Love,

Jess

P.S. For my readers who use they/them pronouns and want to constructively weigh in on this discussion, please leave your thoughts in the comments.

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If you have a question for the “Ask A Lesbian” series, send a question through my contact page, Twitter DM, or Instagram DM. To remain completely anonymous, send an ask through my Curious Cat. Please keep all identifying details out of advice requests (change names, don’t give address, etc.) Topics I respond to:

• sexuality/gender identity exploration
• coming out
• other queer issues & discourse topics
• relationships
• LDRs/immigration
• friendships/online friendships
• mental health, borderline personality disorder