What the hell even is gender?
Blog post about The Left Hand of Dog by SI CLARKE
In October of 2020, I sat down to write an extremely silly novel – something that would take my mind off … well, off life, the universe, and everything. My goal in writing The Left Hand of Dog was to write a fun book. But at the same time, I wanted to play with certain ideas, one of which was gender.
I had this question in my head that I wanted to explore: What the hell even is gender?
Let’s say you met someone from a different planet who had completely alien physiology and vastly different life experiences in a culture that was unlike anything you’d ever encountered. If they asked you what gender was, how would you explain it to them?
In this little extract from the story, my human main character has to do just that. And she fails spectacularly. Honestly, so would I. Because the truth is, I just don’t get gender. I don’t understand it.
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At length, she said, ‘I hate to disappoint you, and I don’t want you to think I’m not very bright, but what – with the utmost respect – the hell are you talking about?’
‘Gender,’ I said.
‘I’ve had this AI for ages and we’ve got a pretty good relationship.’ She tapped one hand-hoof emphatically on the floor. ‘When I first got it, it used to say [no frame of reference] a lot, but that hasn’t happened … well, since that time two of my dads … well, whatever. The point is it, like, pretty much hasn’t said that in, like, forever. And it’s been saying that a lot in this conversation. A lot.’
I put my hand on her leg. Beneath the soft fur, her muscles felt relaxed. Mine didn’t. ‘Gender,’ I repeated.
She tapped the floor. ‘Yep, did it again.’
I could feel my brow furrowing. ‘You don’t know what gender is?’
‘You keep using that word and I have no idea what you’re saying.’
‘But,’ I hazarded, ‘you know what sex is? Not the act of sex. I mean physical sex. Wait, that didn’t clarify. I mean as in, biology.’ This conversation was becoming way more confusing than I’d intended.
‘Oh! You mean the six sexes. Yeah, no, for sure. I know those.’ Her muscles relaxed again.
‘Six?’
‘Sure,’ she said as if that were the most normal thing in the world. ‘There are seeders, eggers, pouchies— wait, how many sexes do humans have?’
I closed my mouth, which had fallen slack. ‘Er, two. Mostly. Mostly. I mean, some people are intersex – with characteristics of both. Wait, what does sexual orientation even look like in a species with six sexes?’
‘Orientation? How does a compass help you figure out if you’re attracted to someone?’
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On a writers’ forum recently, a writer said he’d written a robot character with a feminine personality. I asked what a feminine personality was. His reply was ‘like a woman’. I’ll be honest, I’m still none the wiser.
This could have devolved into muck-slinging. Instead, it led to an interesting discussion around why we as individuals accept stereotypes.
Oh, I know the stereotypes. Women are soft, emotional, accommodating. Men are strong, logical, assertive. Women nurture. Men protect. If a person doesn’t conform to the relevant mould, does that mean they’re not a woman, not a man? If a person is AMAB (assigned male at birth) and also intuitive and empathetic, does that mean that person is a trans woman? If a person is both confident and passionate, are they automatically non-binary?
Girls are raised to be accommodating, giving, nurturing. Boys are taught to be strong, unemotional, physical. We know these things are largely learnt not inherent – yet, as a species, we continue to perpetuate these teachings. Why?
Gender is a social construct. That much I know. The best I can come up with was that it was like class or caste. For the most part, we’ve abandoned our belief in class (in theory if not in practice). So why do we continue to uphold gender castes?
SI CLARKE is a Canadian misanthrope who lives in Deptford, sarf ees London. She shares her home with her partner and an assortment of waifs and strays. She refuses to accept the gender binary.
As someone who’s neurodivergent, an immigrant, and the proud owner of an invisible disability, she strives to present a diverse array of characters in her stories.
Escaping intergalactic kidnappers has never been quite so ridiculous.
When Lem and her faithful dog, Spock, retreat from the city for a few days of hiking in Algonquin Park, the last thing they expect is to be kidnapped by aliens. No, scratch that. The last thing they expect is to be kidnapped by a bunch of strangely adorable intergalactic bounty hunters aboard a ship called the Teapot.
Falling in with an unlikely group of allies – including a talking horse, a sarcastic robot, an overly anxious giant parrot, and a cloud of sentient glitter gas – Lem and the gang must devise a cunning plan to escape their captors and make it back home safely.
But things won’t be as easy as they first seem. Lost in deep space and running out of fuel, this chaotic crew are faced with the daunting task of navigating an alien planet, breaking into a space station, and discovering the real reason they’re all there…
Packed with preposterous scenarios, quirky characters, and oodles of humour, The Left Hand of Dog tackles complex subjects such as gender, the need to belong, and the importance of honest communication. Perfect for fans of Charlie Jane Anders’ Victories Greater than Death – especially ones who enjoy endless references to Red Dwarf, Star Trek, and Doctor Who. This book will show you that the universe is a very strange place indeed.
Warnings: anaphylactic shock, minor injury to a dog, this book is not for TERFs.
SI Clarke is giving away four eBooks with this blog tour:
Copyright © 2021 by SI CLARKE – All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Startled by the sound of movement behind me, I whirled around to face three … they had to be children in bunny costumes. ‘What?’ That’s what they had to be, right? I mean, they weren’t actually rabbits. Definitely not. For one thing, they stood upright. Real bunnies don’t normally do that, do they? For another, they were about the size of Spock.
But the costumes looked real in that no skin showed through – not even on their faces – and I couldn’t see any zips. Also, I was pretty sure rabbits didn’t come in pastel rainbow colours. Actually, they reminded me of a toy I’d had as a child. Bunnyboo, I’d called it. Four-year-old me was terribly inventive.
‘Check out your floopy-floppy ears! How adorable are you?’ Nervous sarcasm still intact then.
I was nauseated enough that shaking my head seemed like a bad idea. ‘It was beer I had last night, right? Not, like, psychedelic mushrooms? Maybe some natural tree spore that makes a person have trippy visions?’ No one answered me. Or even looked at me.
Spock sat neatly and dropped her brain in my lap. She lifted a paw towards the nearest of the bunnyboos – for want of a better word. The creature’s mint green fur matched the emerald hue of its humongous Disney princess eyes. ‘Yip,’ said Spock in her smallest, most polite voice.
This is not happening. I must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Something.
Pulling a device from a holster like a carpenter’s apron, the bunnyboo pointed it at Spock. Or maybe it was merely reading what was on the screen – if it even had a screen. Who was I kidding? I had no idea what they were doing.
Another, slightly taller bunnyboo – this one periwinkle blue with eyes like Wedgewood plates – stepped forwards and ‘spoke’ to Spock as well. That is, its mouth moved and Spock’s full attention was on it. But no sound emerged. Spock yipped again in response to whatever it was I couldn’t hear.
Spock pointed at me with her long, sable nose then looked back at the bunnyboos and emitted a low noise, not quite a growl.
‘Would someone please tell me what the bollocking pufferfish is going on here?’ I demanded. Okay, not demanded. Requested. Well, pleaded. Whined, maybe. Whatever verb it was I verbed, no one paid me any heed.
The bunnyboos of my strange hallucination were too deeply engrossed in their silent conversation with my very real dog to spare me any of their attention. It was like watching a TV on mute – except I could hear movements and breathing and the sound of my heart beating a drum on the inside of my chest.
After a few further moments of this bizarre fever dream, Spock leapt down out of the coffin and turned to face me. She sat on her haunches and looked me in the eye. Then she lifted one paw at me in a clear imitation of the ‘stay’ command I used with her.
A bunnyboo with heather purple fur lowered a rope lead over Spock’s head. Spock stood and followed them from the room.
‘Where are you taking my dog, you fluffy bastards?’ I clambered out of the coffin-bed and scrabbled after them as fast as my besocked feet would carry me. But the thick metal door slid shut seconds before I got to it.
I pounded impotently on the door, screaming, ‘Spock! Come back. Don’t let those fuzzy arseholes hurt you.’ Unable to find a door knob or control panel or anything, I leant against the wall next to the door and slid down until I landed on my arse. I shivered and hugged my knees to my chest.
Why can’t I wake up? Letting my head fall forwards, I cried for a bit, whimpering Spock’s name periodically.
Author Website: https://whitehartfiction.co.uk
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