I’ve got a standing rule. Once, this was a request. Now, it’s a rule.

Don’t call me “CIS.” I didn’t agree to the label and categorizing humans divides people and does not unite people. I am male. That’s the rule.

Let me tell you a little tale on just this.

This morning I went to brunch with my friend and her friends. I hadn’t met these friends and knew nothing about them, not even their names. One of my friend’s friends I could see was going to be a chore. What was the warning sign? My friend’s friend had hair dyed a color that in nature indicates “danger” and “back off.”

Sorry for the weird possessive. My friend’s friend. I realized I was using “her” describing two different people in the same paragraph. I edited the prior paragraphs and in subsequent paragraphs I’ll use “Zee-Zay” as the moniker for my friend’s friend. It makes things clearer and Zee-Zay kept chirping that’s Zee-Zay’s identity so problem solved.

Back to brunch. Much like a modern day presidential candidate, Zee-Zay bypassed democracy and took unilateral authority over facilitation duties and suggested we go around and introduce ourselves. Hmmm. That seems like something that happens naturally with a group of people in a relaxed social situation. It’s perplexing why this Zee-Zay felt the compulsion to treat a lovely brunch at a lovely restaurant with lovely outdoor seating like a board meeting for a 501(c)3 dedicated to saving an endangered barnacle that grows exclusively on the ball sack of migratory southern Pacific albacore . . .

Hold up. Do fish even have balls?

Apparently, I enjoy digressing. Back once again to brunch and the pre-meal meet and greet. Zee-Zay not only demanded our names, Zee-Zay also commanded us to use our pronouns and identify our gender. Yikes. Was I at brunch or had I inadvertently stepped into a diverse equitable representation struggle session at Disney Animation Studios?

It’s amazing that most of the fine folks around the rectangular table – with fine folks on both sides – acquiesced to Zee-Zay’s directive and offered up name, pronouns, and identity. It was a fairly standard offering. Other than Zee-Zay, most were falling in line with generally accepted natural reality. One woman shared her pronouns are “she they them.” Otherwise, the pronouns and identities reflected everyday traditional expectations when meeting someone new.

Around the table it went, and now it was my turn for introduction. “I’m Steve. Is it cool to have a milkshake with brunch? I don’t know the protocol on this.”

There were a few chuckles. But not Zee-Zay. Zee-Zay chirped, “And your pronouns? And gender?”

“What do you think? Looking at me, how do you think people refer to me?” I replied.

To which Zee-Zay loftily dismissed, “I wouldn’t want to assume what . . .”

I quickly injected, “Go ahead and assume. In fact, let’s treat this like a true struggle session and everyone say how they would refer to me. Don’t worry about being kind. Make Mao proud.” I hadn’t told anyone my internal impression of this exercise, that it was a Disney struggle session, so in a brief flash there was a momentary confusion.

A few folks raised their hands like awaiting the teacher to call upon them to come to the board and explain the quadratic equation to the rest of the class. Suck ass sycophants, what with their doing the assignments and visiting the library on the weekend and what not.

“Just go ahead and shout it out.”

There wasn’t any grand debate or nervously looking at each other for fear of saying the wrong thing, please, you go first. It was agreed my name is Steve and I’m male. Cool deal. That’s exactly correct.

Zee-Zay would have nothing of that. “And your pronouns? What are your pronouns?” I again threw this to our tablemates and it was agreed upon I go by “he him etc.” It took them less than five seconds to submit and agree. No explanation needed.

Now, I’ll admit openly I was trolling Zee-Zay a bit. Yes, you are correct that trolling woke is my very LEAST favorite thing to do, but I surmised this would be one of those rare instances where I set aside my signature restraint from trolling for the betterment of mankind.

Man. Kind. Mankind.

“Zee-Zay, would you like to weigh in on this? You’re the last one.”

At this point I need to paraphrase because Zee-Zay’s reply was rapid fire and rigorous. Here goes.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?

Aside: Why does everyone ask me this?

“The struggle for people who are marginal systemic victims without a voice you’re just minimizing their authentic self and that’s why you’re literally killing people with your words and unconscious internalized bigotry and you’re a phobic bigot.”

You’re a typical heteronormative CIS male.

Zee-Zay continued, “I’m very certain you aren’t a gender scientist. What do you even know about your identity?”

That’s a fair question from Zee-Zay. What did I or could I know about my personal biology and resultant identity? How can I prove to Zee-Zay I take Zee-Zay seriously and prove to Zee-Zay that while not a credentialed gender scientist and even though only an uneducated layman I did know some stuff and things about science. For example, I know the words nitrogen and test tube.

Then it hit me! I knew exactly how to illustrate this to both Zee-Zay and the fine folks on both sides of the table! It was so brilliant and logical and intelligent I almost jumped up right then and there to sign a legal contract for student loans to get my gender scientist degree.

Alas, despite my intellectual excitement better sense took hold and because of systemic legal laws I resigned myself to remaining ignorant in the eyes of Zee-Zay. For you see, had I followed through with my empirical proof in the restaurant during brunch in front of all to see I would then have to be on a registry for the rest of my life and not be allowed within 500 yards of a school zone.

I was defeated. Zee-Zay had bested me.

“Alright. You’re right.

Zee-Zay smirked.

“My name is Gina and my pronouns are beep/bop/boop. Don’t call me CIS.”

In real reality in this real universe my name is Steve and I’m male. Don’t call me “CIS.” Your nomenclature hierarchy divides and does not unite. It’s “othering” people and “othering” people never leads to anything good, the least of which is reinforcing existing stigmas and creating brand new stigmas. I haven’t dedicated nearly a quarter of my life to mental health peer advocacy and ending the stigmas enveloping mental health to take part – even tangentially – with an activist movement that reinforces and creates stigmas.

I don’t want to play, I didn’t agree to the label, and I’m not participating. Don’t call me “CIS.”

Post credit scene. Fish do not have balls. It’s for the best. Fellow males, can you imagine swimming about and getting your scrotum snagged on some coral? It’s a torment no woman will ever know. If you know this torment . . . well . . . what does that say?