Growing up, I moved freely and naïvely between genders.
Come summertime, I ran around our yard in a skirt with no shirt — no one told the boys to cover up, so why should I? I danced ballet because I liked the sensation of nailing a graceful grand jeté or pirouette. But I also traded hockey cards with the boys at school, thanks to the bond I’d struck with my dad cheering for our hapless Toronto Maple Leafs. I stashed my kick-ass hockey card collection in a Cabbage Patch doll case, and I was as comfortable in a leotard as I was trash talking the Montreal Canadiens.
It wasn’t until I obsessed over a pair of boys’ shoes that I became acutely aware of the gender binary — and the limits it imposed.