I’m in the park and I overhear a heated conversation between two people about people being transgender.

Woman #1: “There’s no official test for it! It doesn’t exist!”

Woman #2: “There were no official tests for oxygen until 1774. By your logic, that would mean there was no such thing as oxygen prior to then!”

Woman #1: “That’s not what I meant!”

Woman #2: “Fine! The test for determining someone’s sexuality is, ‘Who do you find sexually attractive? Men, women, everyone, nobody?’ Right?”

Woman #1: “Well, yes.”

Woman #2: “And that’s perfectly valid, right?”

Woman #1: “Yes.”

Woman #2: “So then the test for being transgender — ‘Are you more comfortable presenting as the gender you were assigned at birth or a different gender to the one you were assigned as?’ — is valid as a test.”

Woman #1: “No!”

Woman #2: “Then it’s not fine for the other one to be decided by one’s own opinion, either!”

Woman #1: “That’s not—”

Woman #2: “You are part of the LGBTQ+ community; you should respect all letters that are included.”

I was a REALLY bookish kid. When my mom had the time to take me to the public library, I’d load up on all the books I could physically carry, read them all in a week, and then reread the best ones until they had to be returned.

One day, as I was reaching up to put all my books in the return slot under my mother’s watchful eye, a friendly old lady stopped by us and chatted a little with my mom before I finished and she turned to me.

Old Lady: “You just really like reading, huh?”

Me: “Yeah!”

Old Lady: “What would you do if you couldn’t read?”

I thought about it. I liked drawing but got bored with it pretty quickly. I couldn’t bring toys to school, so I couldn’t play during recess instead of reading a book. There was only so long I was allowed to play video games for. I genuinely could not imagine what kind of fun I could have for very long without books. Thus, I came to a conclusion of what I would do if I couldn’t read.

Me: “Die?”

My mother very quickly got us out of that conversation and pushed me into the main library. I’m sure she was a little shocked and heartily embarrassed, but once I got older and developed a dark sense of humor, I thought it was hilarious.

In my twenties, I went on a low-key backpacking trip around New Zealand. At the time, there was a serial killer in Australia killing hitchhikers — the incidents were literally known as the backpacker murders — but New Zealand is a quieter and safer place, so I really felt comfortable doing this on my own. I was staying at busy hostels and travelling on popular bus routes and scheduled trains. There was very little risk of anything going wrong, and it was probably safer than my commute. But as a solo woman traveller, I seemed to be remarkable to many people, and I found myself in lots of conversations with people asking what I was doing and expressing concerns for my safety. This was my favourite.

Travelling on the TranzAlpine, a scenic route that runs across the island, I ended up talking to a group of men in their forties and fifties — nice blokes, I think — who at first expressed amazement and real concern that I should be doing something a hazardous as travelling alone. We had a nice chat as the train moved through the countryside, I told them about myself, and I found out about them. They were all commercial fishermen who worked together and were now heading for a week’s holiday, also together, to a hut in the wilderness near a river. They were going to spend the week trout fishing! The ultimate busman’s holiday. 

One of them suddenly had a genius idea: I should come with them to the hut in the wilderness and cook for them! They all agreed that I should abandon my plans of exploring both islands to go into the wilderness and work for them. It would be an adventure!

I do not think they intended me any harm, but it was amazing how quickly they switched from amazement that I was catching a train on my own to amazement that I didn’t want to put myself into the hands of six strange men miles from anywhere.

I was in my work uniform with a jacket over the top, walking home from work one day. I pulled out a cigarette, and some random lady slapped it out of my hand.

Woman: “YOUNG LADY!”

I gasped.

Me: “What the h*** is wrong with you?!”

Woman: “YOU’RE FAR TOO YOUNG FOR THOSE! LOOK AT YOU, EVEN IN SCHOOL UNIFORM! DISGUSTING!”

I pulled my jacket off, revealed the work logo and my name tag, and snapped:

Me: “This is my work uniform, you idiot! I’m twenty! I’VE BEEN OUT OF SCHOOL FOR YEARS!”

I picked up the cigarette, flipped her off, and kept walking. What the actual frick, lady?

I worked in a large South Florida City with a world-famous beach. However, I worked downtown, which, at the time, consisted mostly of office buildings and a few restaurants. The bus terminal was also downtown. This resulted in people (invariably young men) getting off of the Greyhound bus, expecting to be at the beach, which was somewhat far away.

Every day, I would leave my workplace and walk to my mom’s office to catch a ride home. I would be stopped by these lost (and I suspect broke) people and asked for directions to the beach.

I would point out the bus stop and tell them which bus number to take. I would offer them bus fare, and I was never turned down. I wish I had given them money for fast food, too, but I was young. They were so appreciative.

One day, I was stopped by one guy who asked where the beach was. I pointed out the bus stop and told him the number. Before I could offer him the fifty cents, he spotted a bus that was far down the street. I couldn’t read the sign.

Guy: “What bus is that?”

Me: “I don’t know.”

Guy: “You don’t know much.”

Me: “I know where I am.”