wo? man?

Three years ago, I spent my spring break in Boston visiting my future sister-in-law, the MIT campus, and the Harvard campus.

The first time I went to Boston, I absolutely hated the place. You see, we got off on the wrong foot. It wasn�t because not two days before I had arrived, I had completely lost my voice and could only manage to utter an occasional goose-like squawk, but because the very first words that met me were, �May I help you, Sir?�

I was at the airport, had just claimed my luggage, and was making my way to the main exit when I was struck by the thought that it may be beneficial to inquire at the information desk as to whether or not they had any maps.

I hadn�t come in at an angle, or suddenly appeared in front of the folks manning the desk in a magical puff of smoke, but had made a b-line directly for it. The staff got a good long look at me before they ever had to say anything to me.

Two days later, I decided to go to a bagel/coffee place near Harvard for lunch. The place was exceedingly busy, and I imagine that the employees were flustered, so maybe that�s why I was greeted with, �What can I get for you, Sir?�

By the time I was seated on my flight home and waiting for everyone else to board, I was in a rather chipper mood. My voice was back, the weather had finally cleared up, I had gotten to know my sister-in-law a little better, and I was contentedly staring out the plane window at the luggage handlers. Then, from the right of me came an old woman�s voice, �Young man, you�re in my seat.�

It took me a little time to realize that it was I who was being addressed.

�Young man, can you hear me? You�re in my seat.�

I pulled my boarding pass from the front pocket of my bookbag and read it to her. �33A. I�m in the right seat, and I�m a young woman,� I said.

�Sorry, I can�t read very well,� was her reply.

My chipper mood was destroyed. Suddenly the stress from all the wretched things that had happened to me in the past year�there were a lot of them�welled up inside of me and I began to cry.

Oh, the pain of being misunderstood.

Once again, it�s Spring Break season, and I�ve been mistaken.

On Wednesday nights, I walk 10 minutes to the Tarui train station, take a 30 minute train ride to the city of Gifu, and then walk 30 minutes to get to the community center at which my Japanese lessons are held. There are several rooms available, and every week there are new groups using them.

By the time I get to the center, I usually have to either 1) pee really bad or 2) fix what damage my stocking cap has done to my hair during the commute. Both choices warrant a trip to the ladies room as soon as I get to the center.

Tonight, as I slipped off the special toilet slippers and approached the sinks, I noticed an older woman staring at me. I tried to ignore her and fix my hair in the mirror�which is quite awkward, because I have to stoop in order to see anything above my chest.

The woman kept staring at me, so I turned and faced her. She was about five feet tall and rather small. [Imagine that, a short, small, Japanese lady�who�d a thunk it.] She was frozen. Her mouth was open and her hands were up, fingertips together as though she were just bringing her hands together in order to pray, when some terrible paralysis struck.

After a couple seconds, she blinked, and said to me in Japanese, �Next door is the men�s room.�

It took me a couple seconds to get over the surprise of being addressed by a stranger. Then it took me a couple seconds to understand what she said. Then it took a couple more seconds to realize what she meant.

I slowly brought my index finger up and pointed to my nose in true Japanese fashion and said, �I�m a woman,� in Japanese.

She thawed, walked past me to the stalls, and muttered the most insincere English �sorry� that I have ever heard.

I went to class and spent the whole two hours being distracted by thoughts of 1) ways I could have shocked the woman into realizing her mistake, 2) how many times I am mistaken for a man but am unaware of, 3) what it is that must make me seem masculine, 4) whether or not my appearance is a major social detriment to me, 5) whether or not I have reason to be upset for these occasions of mistaken gender, and 6) whether or not I should consciously change my appearance in order to limit such mistakes. Needless to say, in terms of learning Japanese, the class was utterly fruitless.

I�m wondering, have any of you had similar experiences? [Were you the mistaker or the mistakee?] Tell me about them. [Bear in mind, I don�t want to hear anything about that time when you were a baby and your mom had put you in a blue jumper and she ran into a friend that she hadn�t seen in a long time and that friend mistook you for a baby boy rather than a baby girl, okay?]