Mark was wrong
Mark is smart.
He’s one of my smarter friends.
He is able to contort his words so as to not split an infinitive, as I just did in this very sentence.
(Mark would have written, so as not to split an infinitive.)
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Four or five years ago, Mark’s youngest child—assigned female at birth and named Clara—told him that they preferred to go by Colton and use he/him pronouns.
Mark told me, “It’s just a phase—Cynthia and I think. Teenage stuff. She is just trying to get some attention.”
I noticed but did not comment on Mark’s use of “she.”
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A few months later, Colton still identifies as Colton.
So…
On white paper, with light blue and pink watercolors, I fashion a card for Mark and Cynthia that reads, “Mazel Tov! Now you have a son!”
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My card notwithstanding, the next time we talk, Mark again misgenders Colton.
While it’s disruptive to the flow of our chat—I interrupt and correct.
Me: “You mean he.”
Mark: “What?”
Me: “You said she. I think you meant to say he.”
Mark: “Brian, I have a dozen plus years of practice saying she and her. I know. I know. I’ll get it eventually. It just will take some time.”
Me: “Make it take less time.”
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A few months later, nothing has changed and when Mark and I talk, he again misuses his son’s pronouns.
I erupt.
Mark, get your shit together. You are smart enough not to end a sentence with a preposition. You properly decline “to lay.” You use less and fewer properly. You properly use the plural fields marshal. And you are the only person I know who speaks of an interesting datum. Get it together. You are smart enough to use the proper pronouns to talk about Colton.
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It’s years later, and Colton is thriving in college.
Mark has adjusted his use of pronouns.
(I like to think I had something to do with it, but it’s not about me.)
In the course of our chat, Mark says, “You know, I was always supportive of Colton’s decision. I see some parents who don’t immediately accept their kids.”
“I remember you struggled a little,” I offer, to test the waters.
“Nope. Been on board since day one.”
I opt not to correct him.
(Maybe you would have corrected him. I didn’t.)
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Wait a moment!
Hold up.
Mark does not remember?
How is that possible?
I asked person after person, “Why do people, after the fact, rewrite history?”
And I finally got a satisfying answer.
Being seen (and thinking of ourselves) as good is so important that we will rewrite history to fit that characterization.
Let me repeat that.
Being seen (and thinking of ourselves) as good is so important that we will rewrite history to fit that characterization.
(Let’s keep this in mind before we try to convince someone they were—or are—wrong.
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Being wrong is easy.
Knowing we were wrong is hard.
Harder still is admitting that we were wrong.
(It’s also hard to not correct every error you encounter—like the split infinitive I just made.)
