I am male. For a while, I shall live with this gender identity. Details about the inner workings of my body are tagged ‘male’. What seems like a minor goof-up by the pathology lab has made me think about how we understand who we are.
After going through a battery of tests – I so love the phrase, it seems more important than just saying “many tests” – and letting the guy fill up three vials of blood, I have to go through this altered persona. Had he not poked the needle into what I think is feminine skin and flesh, and looked into my eyes as he took down details, eyes that I think are womanly, and then there was the rest of me, not to forget my name that would rarely conjure up a man, not even a metrosexual?
They had to send the samples for a recheck. So, hello, hello, I asked the lady over the phone, when will it be ready.
She asked, “Name?”
I told her.
“Okay…here, male?”
“Is that the report?”
Could my blood have a new gender?
“What male?” I refuted.
“It says F, male.”
“No.”
“You are not F?”
“I am, but not male.”
“Then what?”
I was given a choice. Imagine that!
“Female,” I said in my most demure voice.
“Oh, I will have to make a new printout. Reports ready tomorrow.”
These technical assistants would make good précis writers.
So, today I went, and even dabbed a reddish gloss on my lips, and my blouse did have a sort of interesting neckline, just enough. I wore slacks that clung to me. And I wore open sandals to show my feminine feet. It was probably unintentional, but the subconscious is a killer.
After paying up for the three vials of blood, the receptionist said, “Are you only F?”
“No, I am more.”
“Then is this your report?” She went out to read all the stuff that was supposed to be tested. I said yes, yes, yes.
“Okay. Male?”
“What? Look, there was a mistake and I had told them and they said they had made the changes. FEMALE.”
“Changed, changed. Must be.”
I just took the file and reached home. The pages were neatly typed, the sections demarcated – low, high, normal range. I could not figure out most of what it said. Just as I was about to close it, my eyes spotted the column that said “Sex”.
“Male.” Typed clearly. On all the pages.
It’s no big deal, but I wonder why I have started slapping my thighs and laughing at my own jokes. My aim is still pretty good, though.
After going through a battery of tests – I so love the phrase, it seems more important than just saying “many tests” – and letting the guy fill up three vials of blood, I have to go through this altered persona. Had he not poked the needle into what I think is feminine skin and flesh, and looked into my eyes as he took down details, eyes that I think are womanly, and then there was the rest of me, not to forget my name that would rarely conjure up a man, not even a metrosexual?
They had to send the samples for a recheck. So, hello, hello, I asked the lady over the phone, when will it be ready.
She asked, “Name?”
I told her.
“Okay…here, male?”
“Is that the report?”
Could my blood have a new gender?
“What male?” I refuted.
“It says F, male.”
“No.”
“You are not F?”
“I am, but not male.”
“Then what?”
I was given a choice. Imagine that!
“Female,” I said in my most demure voice.
“Oh, I will have to make a new printout. Reports ready tomorrow.”
These technical assistants would make good précis writers.
So, today I went, and even dabbed a reddish gloss on my lips, and my blouse did have a sort of interesting neckline, just enough. I wore slacks that clung to me. And I wore open sandals to show my feminine feet. It was probably unintentional, but the subconscious is a killer.
After paying up for the three vials of blood, the receptionist said, “Are you only F?”
“No, I am more.”
“Then is this your report?” She went out to read all the stuff that was supposed to be tested. I said yes, yes, yes.
“Okay. Male?”
“What? Look, there was a mistake and I had told them and they said they had made the changes. FEMALE.”
“Changed, changed. Must be.”
I just took the file and reached home. The pages were neatly typed, the sections demarcated – low, high, normal range. I could not figure out most of what it said. Just as I was about to close it, my eyes spotted the column that said “Sex”.
“Male.” Typed clearly. On all the pages.
It’s no big deal, but I wonder why I have started slapping my thighs and laughing at my own jokes. My aim is still pretty good, though.
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