General

Languages in Gender Transition: English, French, Spanish, and Arabic

Allison
Washington
, Medium, March 19. 2018

I
remember the kerfuffle in the 1970s, as Second Wave feminism was introducing Ms
to replace Mrs/Miss and was starting to dismantle the generic ‘he’ and ‘man’.
Oh, the outrage. But that shift in the English language turns out to have been
relatively straight forward. We face bigger challenges.
This
image was originally intended to be ironic; the 1975 girls’
comic
from which it comes was part of the broad cultural backlash
against ‘Women’s Lib’. It portrayed sexual harassment as a necessary and
inevitable prelude to romance. Yep, that’s the context in which I came
of age.

You will be
familiar with current struggles to de-gender English so as to eliminate gender
bias and misgendering. Efforts include increasing acceptance of the singular they*
and such constructs as the Mx title (pronounced ‘m
əks’ with a schwa
[
ə]; roughly ‘mix’, if you reduce the ‘i’).

In the
midst of the current pronoun argument, it is easy to forget how remarkably
gender-free the English language is (why is that?), and how little we
anglophones need to deal with, compared to speakers of most other languages.
Most languages are terribly concerned with the masculinity vs femininity of
those being discussed (why is that?), and some, as in the case of Arabic, are
so entrenched in gender that the sex of everyone involved must be sorted before
even the most basic conversation can commence.
I grew up
speaking French, English, and Spanish†, and have recently relocated to Cairo,
where I am presently wrestling with Egyptian Arabic.
In
English one must navigate gendered forms of address (Mr/Ms, sir/ma’am) and
pronouns in the third person (s/he), but romance languages (French, Spanish,
Catalan, Portuguese, Italian, Romanian) have the added challenge of gendered
adjectives (big, happy, American), and these can be self-referential. I happen
to be transgender, and when I was transitioning French and Spanish presented
linguistic minefields of gender as I struggled to switch years of habit,
leading to hesitant speech and occasional self-misgendering and brutally
awkward incidents. With its embedded sexism, language is against you when you
transgress gender norms, but English is less hostile than most.
In
French, for example, English’s blessedly gender-neutral adjectives in ‘I am
French’ and ‘I am happy’ become—
« Je
suis Français / Française. »
and
« Je
suis heureux / heureuse. »
Efforts
to make French more gender friendly lead to such peculiar written constructs as
Français.e and heureu.x.se.
For a
Spanish example, take English’s ‘I’m delighted’ and ‘I am Hispanic’, and you
have—
“Encantado
/ encantada.”
and
“Soy
Latino / Latina.”
along
with new de-gendered written constructs like encantadx and Latinx.
No one
has any clue how one might pronounce encantadx or heureu.x.se, so speech (where
it really matters, after all) remains gender-locked.
But
French and Spanish are nothing to Arabic. OMG.
To the
gender trouble of forms of address, third person pronouns, and adjectives, let
us add second person pronouns, verbs, and adverbs. Take the verb understand, in
French comprendre, and we are thankfully innocent of gender:
‘I
understand.’
‘You
understand.’
« Je
comprends. »
« Vous
comprenez. »
A little
extra conjugation in French, but no biggie.
Now,
Egyptian Arabic—
“Ana
bafham.”
So far so
good, no gender there, in the first person. But go to the second person, and—
“Inta
bdifham.” [Masculine you, masculine understand.]
and
“Inti
bdifhami.” [Feminine you, feminine understand.]
You’d be
forgiven for thinking that understanding is a different thing for each gender.
That actions and events differ by gender, as do their verbs. Language creates
thought creates culture creates language. We think and emote within the
channels our language provides, and we’re unaware of this unless we think for
extended periods in more than one. I have long been aware that I feel
differently about important things depending on whether I’m living in French or
in English. I expect I shall feel differently still in Arabic. If I can learn
the damned thing. Back to the grammar…
Lest you
think the first person (ana) has escaped gendering, uh, not really; not if you
want to use a verb for some reason. Here, with the verb ‘to be’, is ‘How are
you?’ / ‘I am well’:
To a man,
who then responds, it’s—
“Izeyak?”
“Ana qwayis.”
And with
a woman—
“Izeyik?”
“Ana
qwayissa.”
Aaand…there’s
your gendered verb and adverb, yep. Both people’s gender must be stated as
either male or female. No ambiguity allowed. This simple exchange acts as an
assignment of binary and unambiguous gender by one person upon another, and the
other’s confirmation of that assignment.
As a
practical matter, this means keeping track of gender on many more word-types,
with the corresponding huge increase in vocabulary and confusion for the
learner.
As a
cultural matter, Arabic is rigidly gender-locked. Adding to the pressure on a
foreigner struggling to communicate, misgendering someone in this culture (say,
with a stray ‘-ik’ instead of ‘-ak’) is deeply offensive; deployed as the worst
possible insult. Uh-huh.
And pity
anyone who cannot or would not present as clearly male or female. You’re just
screwed.
English
seems to be well on the way to de-gendering itself; we already have
sometimes-awkward but workable solutions. I’ve no idea what to do with the
gender embedded in French and Spanish, but at least some people are motivated
and experimenting, and perhaps something will sort in time.
I’m not
holding my breath for Arabic. In a language and culture where genderless
address is impossible, misgendering is deeply offensive, and gender
presentation is heavily policed and any ambiguity in presentation is met with
outright abuse‡, I expect that binary gender bias is here for the long-haul.
Today, some in the more progressive educated younger generation of Arabic-speaking
people will sometimes use English amongst themselves. If it’s not their native
language, at least they can say what they mean with respect. It’s a linguistic
shame, really, that they have to move outside their native tongue to express
themselves, but maybe that’s the way forward.
In the
meantime, I have a lot of verb forms to learn…
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

* And by
the way, obviously it should be ‘they is’, not ‘they are’. (Just stirring the
pot, here…)

† More
accurately, I was introduced to Spanish at a young age, but most of my
vocabulary was acquired during ten years spent in Latin America as an adult.

‡ In
Egypt, showing hair cut ‘too short’ is enough to get a woman subjected to
public abuse, I have yet to see a man with hair below the ear, and I rarely see
someone I can’t easily identify as either male or female at 200 metres
distance.