My chromosomes are the microbiota that permeate the nitrogen-rich soil of my cellular makeup. my body; the physicality of it, the shape molded by the geothermal magma of my blood is amused by the Grand Tetons, so ardently conjectured to be a female by society. The biology of my gender is not so easily schematically explained the way we can explain the carbon cycle.
Being nonbinary is something so uniquely human โ so distinct to the social structure of the homo sapiens.
Homosexuality and its anthropomorphized connotations of sex and love are easily projected onto other animal species. Juvenile male lions will copulate as a form of bonding as they search for females to establish their own pride with, and dolphins are notoriously bisexual.
But for the concept of being nonbinary, it is distinctly harder to conceptualize.
The great cycle of life and its endgame is to have sex and to procreate, which is then dependent on sexual organs. The idea of rejecting an identity dependent on the existence of our dichotomous biological sex as humans is so radically antithetical to the great race of life, evolution, and genetics.
It feels exhausting most of the time to constantly reconceptualize the concept of being a nonbinary person who does not present very androgynous. To constantly reshape it, more gratuitously than the tectonic plates that shift the crust of the earth, to make it easily digestible for every new audience. It often feels time to encapsulate my own gender identity, even to myself.
Most people nowadays acknowledge that using gender dysphoria as the sole marker of โdiagnosingโ someone as โlegitimatelyโ transgendered is outdated, and I think it often reflects the need to define queer identity as pain and suffering.
Society is afraid to defer to the joy that often comes with being queer, but it always asks us to explain ourselves otherwise in an attempt to bridge the gap, so to speak. Itโs overwhelming; it keens in your ear, demanding a respite from the constant stretching calls of anxiety and rejection.
I think thatโs what drove me to seek refuge in the white noise of the ocean, whose noise subsumes the alacrity of simply being so enormous and powerful in its singular state of being.
The ocean does not demand understanding or to be in a shape. It just simply exists and with that things thrive around it.
The ocean is more than what people think it is โ and most likely, we scientists will never even be able to truly define and understand its benthic depths. Itโs not that we donโt want to, itโs just that perhaps the pathologic need to map out every single detail of a phenomenon needs to be laid to rest in order to simply enjoy what we have at present.
Tidepool hunting both as a scientist, but as a generally stressed out queer, is something that has stuck with me over the years.
I was born at the mouth of an ocean, so to speak, always parallel to the beaches.
I took to foraging across the tidepools and the shorelines as a teenager to combat the anger and hurt that came from grappling with both my gender and sexuality. I would peruse the scraggly rocks, navigating my way by memory of the landmarks that dotted the quiet shorelines.
Living in a coastal city my whole life, I knew which spots were inundated with tourists and which places would leave me to have my peace.
There is a power in feeling humbled and awed before such a force of nature.
To see the waves crash against the rocks and see the limpets and molluscs that hang so doggedly onto the slick stone; to admire their persistence in going on to live in such a hyper specific ecosystem.
To see the gulls call in the sky and watch them dive for the fish that dart across the tops of the kelp forests, to watch them sheer the westerly winds to skim the water surface with artisan skill.
To watch the octopi prowl the dark corners of the pools, watching for an unsuspecting crab to make into its next meal.
It is a lull in the tension, a place of quietude in the grand scheme of things. An escape into the warm sun and the brine that coats your skin when you sit by the rocks and simply watch life go by and remember that it will be alright.
To be in a place that represents, literally, fluidity, mutability, and liminality is comforting and a reminder of that sometimes, you donโt have to define something for it to be real.
Itโs been years since I have been able to go back to the pools; I had moved away to college, and I sorely missed the quiet hours I would slip away from my tangible troubles and to simply let myself breathe in the misty air.
A lot has changed, and Iโm sure so have the tidepools.
My body has also radically changed โ now as a physically disabled person, I donโt think I have the means to hike down the sheer cliff faces to get to my tidepools ever again.
But maybe I can, I havenโt tried just yet.
I still often think about my times at the shoreline, with great fondness, and though I may not ever be able to go back there again, Iโm still glad I tried to at all.
These are memories I will carry fondly with me through the rest of my life, as a sort of a bracing reminder that while I may not have access to a spot that brings me peace like this now, there is nothing barring me from finding another more accessible refuge in nature.
I suppose the only thing left for me to do now, years since I walked those shorelines with a heavy heart, is to go on a great adventure.
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Author bio: Aster Nguyen is a recent UCLA graduate with a Bachelors in Biology. They hope to work in healthcare and to empower the queer community with an emphasis on social justice and advocacy with their work. They enjoy cosplaying, horseback riding, practicing aerial arts, and training their service dog.
