This poem is called “Gender Bunny.” And it’s subtitled “Because a man on a train thinks it’s appropriate to start conversations with ‘Oh, I thought you were a guy at first.'” I mean, it’s like, yes actually. We can talk about that. That was a two-hour train ride, I should also mention. Very long and awkward pauses. Okay. I gotta get my shit together. Okay.
I am the gender bunny! And I know you’ve never heard of me. It’s a newer position, really. See, there’s the Playboy bunny, that chocolate Easter bunny hack, and then there’s me: the heartbreaker, the deceiver, the trickster of all things gender-specific.
In the distance there! You think you’ve just found a bio boy on whom to place your heteronormative affections. Aha! You’ve been gender bunnied.
And you should know that I deal exclusively with pants. And I know you like pants. Who doesn’t? Long pants, short pants, corduroys, clam diggers, bell bottoms, skinny jeans, leather, pleather, pleated, business, black, red, purple feather embossed.
It seems my entire life, you have been obsessed with pants. And you want to know what’s in ’em. You want to know if it’s long, strong, innie, outie, Georgia O’Keeffe, or George Michael. Plastic, bombastic, flesh, or silicone: you don’t care! You just want to know all about it. And that’s what gender bunnies are for!
That’s why you ask about my pants when I’m dropping trout in the restroom. Sometimes with a gasp and a clutch of pearls, you ask when I’m catching the bus on my way to my gender bunny assignments for the day. Sometimes when I’m just sitting around eating a carrot on my mid-day lunch break or making perfect little pink- or blue-ribboned gender baskets for someone’s more easily identifiable binary-appropriate offspring.
Pants are very important to you. It’s almost like you made them yourself. Like every fashion choice I make was somehow constructed by you personally, so you want to make sure everything is working appropriately. I appreciate that.
Sometimes I pretend I don’t hear you wondering about my pants when you’re yelling at me down a street corner, or asking what my “real” name is. I’m just playing hard to get. And the more angry you get, the closer you are to finding out! See, tooth fairies are fueled by the dreams of children, but gender bunnies are fueled by the incessant anger of strangers. It’s true. It’s how we know you believe in our powers transformation.
Sometimes it’s even better if you guess! If you guess right the first time, we’ll grant you 3 wishes. And I’ll even hand over my social security card and IRS statement so you can make sure you are tracking down the exact right gender bunny to fulfill all your “reasonable” gendered commands.
Don’t worry if I ever seem like I am being a little short or curt when you’re asking about the detailed definitions of my genitalia’s makeup. I could never be offended, because I know you’d do the same thing for me! In fact, I think we should stop even greeting each other with simple hello’s anymore. We have just simply evolved as a society way beyond that. Whenever we meet a new person, we should really be exchanging polaroid pictures of our genitals, just to make sure we know who we’re all really talking to.
And see it’s ideas like that that got me promoted to gender bunny status! I have so many more racing through up here that just need more believers like you. So if you believe in the gender bunnies of the world, keep asking inappropriate questions at inopportune times. Keep mispronouncing. And be prepared to expose your genitals.
Thank you.
