Visiting my family as non-binary
By: Mario Novoli
Tags: Family, Queer, Nonbinary, Mwc Reentry, Acceptance

I live in London, my family lives in Italy. Where I live now, I feel free to explore and express my gender. Back home, gender stereotypes are heavily present; in every tiny daily gesture. It dictates the way you can or can’t cross your legs, or what you can or can’t say- to name just a couple!

During these last two years of forced isolation, I had an opportunity to pause from the hectic hamster-wheeling- running-on-the-treadmill-adult-working-life and to reflect about my gender. I am lucky that my partner is the most supporting and loving person I ever met, and I felt safe to talk about my gender identity with her. It wasn’t easy. I was reading articles, videos and trying to figure out who I am and what I am. I was afraid she would have rejected me or that people wouldn’t have accepted me (in my 30s) to identify differently from what society had imposed on me. I finally found the right words to express how I feel. I am non-binary. I am not a man. And, upon reflection, I have never been one.

In a really coy way, I began asking my partner to use the pronouns ‘they/them’ when referring to me. It felt so right to hear the sound of these words when referring to me. Then, I discussed this with my closest friends. First, with the most inclusive ones to then the most conservative ones- these were hard work and I felt I had almost to prove what makes me non-binary. Finally, it came to my Italian family. Me and my sister are thick as thieves and would accept each other no matter what. I found another ally in her. My mum wanted me to explain what gender identity is quite a few times and still referred to me as a man. She couldn’t get it. The news didn’t get to my dad- it would have required teaching skills that are beyond my capabilities! Partner, a bunch of friends and two family members were a good start for me. It all came official when I put my preferred pronouns in my signature at work- that was so scary to do and something I have procrastinated doing for months!

Seems smooth, right?! In a way, yes. I freed myself. I was able to experiment with my gender expression too. Wearing makeup, fancy sparkly COVID face mask, painting my nails, crossdressing at costume parties -thank you, Tim Curry. It all felt right. I was reconciling with an important part of myself. Somehow, it felt like coming home to what I already knew. It had a very familiar feeling. The only problem: in the summer I had to go back to Italy to visit my family. After one year of not being able to travel, a visit was overdue. I was so fearful: Shall I tell my dad about my gender? How shall I dress there? Can I use a handbag or will I be verbally abused on the street? Will my old friends actually be cool with me being who I am? Shall I just identify differently but restrict my gender expression? How shall I pack my suitcase? Reentering my home country wasn’t as simple as I wished.

As any expat reading this piece would know, visiting your home country means a whirligig of coffees with friends and family members -most of my relatives are also divorced so multiply that for two, thanks! Once in Italy, when I was well hyped from caffeine, I mentioned about my gender. With friends that I already told, it was almost to check if I was still accepted, if it was still okay. With family members who didn’t know, it was something I said really quickly, almost like a whisper. I wanted to be my real self without being pushed away. Some people wanted an explanation. The most common question was: ‘what does it mean you are not a man?’. So, I talked about how society has failed in not allowing a whole spectrum of gender identities, and I talked about my own experiences, trailing back to childhood until current days. Sometimes, I was well articulated, other times words felt like ammos shot aimlessly and fearfully at the darkness. Something like this (please read the following all in one breath): ‘when I was 6 years old I was stealing my grandmother’s clothes and wearing them in the house (my dad running after me, shouting, not so happy about that), I hate football, I am terrible at DIY, I cry, I am not a big drinker, I love painting my nails and wearing dresses, I despise my body hair, I love to cook for people, I am (a little?!) obsessed with cleanliness.’ I am aware that all of these behaviours are not typically for male or female only. And for me, there is no such a thing as for men/women only, or even being effeminate or manly. I believe anyone can do anything regardless of their assigned sex at birth or the way they look. I, myself, exist in-between and above this society-imposed ideas of gender binaries. With most people, the news was welcomed with an accepting silence and a smile. A few childhood friends laughed at me and still refer to me as a man- can’t please anyone!

Was that it?! Yes and no. I had told most people next to me but I wanted to mingle with the Italian LGBTQ+ community. I wanted to feel part of that community because I am Italian and queer. I could have met more accepting people like me. I decided I wanted to go to a cocktail bar and cross dress: long summer dress, high heels, make up -the whole shebang! I was meant to go with my sister and one of her friends so as I picked her up at home, my mum and grandmother saw me -or maybe I wanted them to see me? Not sure yet! For some strange reasons, I needed something bold to disrupt what my childhood had set up for me and re-establish how I wanted to live my life- some Freudian stuff going on here?! It was an awkwardly warming moment when they saw me dressed like a woman. Silences, giggles, uncomfortable glazes. Then my grandmother said ‘Your pochette doesn’t match your outfit’- I know, so Italian! We laughed about it and I complained that I needed a black one but couldn’t find one in my sister’s borrowed wardrobe. Then me, my sister and her friend went off to a LGBTQ+ bar. It was a lovely night. Walking in high heels, with shaved legs, and wearing make up put a radiant smile on my face, and my body felt weightless.

In the following days, I visited my mum and grandmother for (another) coffee. My grandmother said ‘we have something for you’. I was surprised, presents at adult age?! She went off into another room and came back with a paper bag. With my head down, I was opening it. Still unsure if it was a death threat, a joke or a past Christmas present never shipped to England. As soon as I took all the wrapping off, I could smell the leather and I realised. It was a black pochette. I lifted my head and looked at my grandmother, and my mother sitting next to her. They were smiling. That smile meant more than any words. I cried. We hugged.

Re-entering my home country was going back to my roots, to an unknown and at the same time familiar self. I found my freedom and the people that allowed that. I re-entered an old door with a new skin. It felt good. It felt like I was finally myself.