Why Public Bathrooms Matter

We all know “the look.”

We’ve seen it more times than we can count: the mingled disgust, anger, and horror. The step back and double take that says “You don’t belong here.”

Get out. Pervert. Freak.

For those of us who are gender non-conforming*, transgender or trans*, gender non-binary, genderfluid, genderqueer — any of the identities that mean our bodies, appearance, and behaviour may not fall within the narrow gender binary accepted by most of contemporary Western society, using a public bathroom is never an unconsidered choice.

We know “the look” because it greets us so often, no matter which toilet, change room, or showers we use. We know it because even we find ourselves making it sometimes, before we have a chance to think about it; binary, medical-assigned gender is a catchy tune when everyone around you is singing it from infancy onward.

We know other things you don’t, too. We know the well practiced skill — not even habit by now, it’s so ingrained — of designating which bathrooms and which times are “safe.” We know the calculus by heart: can I hold it in until I get home? Until there aren’t strangers judging or confronting or threatening me? What is the balance between my physical need and my safety and mental health right now?

Going in with friends who identify as or pass as the “correct,” binary gender is good: their acceptance of our presence can sway the judgement of people who are willing to trust their assessment of our gender the way they wouldn’t trust our own self-identification.

Bathrooms that aren’t used very often, that are out-of-the-way or usually broken, are also good: fewer users makes it less likely that anyone will be there at the same time as us. So are bathrooms near places we frequent often, with people nearby who know us and can vouch for us if need be. And if someone walks in, it’s more likely that they’ll already recognize us.

Early in the morning is usually good — fewer people. So is later at night, for the same reason, though fewer people can be a double-edged sword if the wrong person happens to be one of them. No one familiar to rely on for support is bad.

Bathrooms with fewer children are best; no matter how much we like kids, most of them are taught to distinguish between “boy” and “girl” at a young age, and if we transgress their learned conventions, they’re quick to point it out. Parents can react with overprotectiveness or guilty resentment at the sudden complication of their already hectic potty break.

We know the little tricks for emphasizing the parts of our bodies that make it easier for others to identify us as what they deem the “correct” gender for this room. We know to walk a little taller, to show whether we have breasts or broad shoulders or rounded hips. To brush our bangs or long locks back to make sure others see facial hair or make-up or shaped eyebrows. To stoop to hide our height or Adam’s apple or flat chest.

We know which clothes make us feel safer — showing or not showing body parts others have decided mark whether we’re allowed in this space, and we keep some in our closet for this purpose alone, on days we just need something else to speak for us, even though when we wear them, sometimes, it feels like putting on a costume.

When we go through the bathroom door or, worse, ask for the key we need, we always need to know whether today is a day we are ready to argue with strangers, to confront politely or impolitely, or if we’ll just pretend to ignore the reactions because we really can’t deal with them right now on top of everything else. And we always have arguments, explanations ready. If we’re lucky enough that elements of our physical bodies match what people expect, we know which parts of ourselves to cart out as “proof,” even though doing so to secure our own safety means downplaying that of our siblings who have equal need to use this facility even if their anatomy differs.

Sometimes, we breathe a sigh of relief to see there’s no one else inside. Sometimes our pulse quickens when we notice an already occupied stall. Sometimes we do what we need to do extra slow, procrastinating that final flush, so we don’t have to show ourselves until the other users have finished and left.

Sometimes, when there’s a line-up at a busy washroom, we can feel the eyes of the whole line on us when we join. We know the routine of making sure to meet the eyes of others whose gender presentation is clear so everyone can see that, yes, we know which washroom we’re waiting for. We’re sure we want this one, thanks.

Sometimes, we want to wait for friends once we’re done taking care of ourselves, but we know from experience that strangers don’t like someone who looks like us standing by the sinks doing nothing. Or worse, looking around.

Sometimes, we pick where we can or will travel based on whether we know how people will react to us using the bathrooms there. We know from news stories, from terrible experiences (our own or others’), which places are safe. We remember from trips past (“Your SON was in the ladies’ room!“) that insecurity is closer than most think.

We know plenty of people feel that physical violence against us or others like us is an “honest mistake,” or at least more understandable than being us.

We know that because someone — at least one of the people who knows and loves us, and a whole ton of those who don’t– will suggest, for our own safety or comfort, we hide ourselves. Adhere more to social norms, just for our own health and ease. But believe us, there is not a single one of us, no matter how surrounded by support, who hasn’t already spent years trying to appear, to dress as, to be who we’re not.

So we have plenty more things to worry about than, as alleged by some in positions of power who really ought to know better, trying to sneak titillating glimpses of others’ bodies. We’re more concerned with trying to protect our own.

And even if we were all somehow evil voyeurs, gender and sexual orientation aren’t the same thing. Guess what, someone who looks exactly as feminine or masculine as you think they ought to might be more interested in your body than we are. Or they might not. Because the point is, neither orientation nor gender has anything to do with being a sexual predator, which is about entitlement and violence, not attraction.

And, boy, do we know about the scariness of someone else feeling entitled to your body. We are used to being judged on whether we send the appropriate signals so that people who don’t even know us deem us “fuckable.” We’re used to strangers demanding that we behave and dress the way they think we should so that they don’t have to re-examine their own gender or sexual assumptions. We’re used to our private anatomy being fodder for public speculation.

But we just want to pee. Or poop. Replace our tampons, our pads, our menstrual cups. Touch up our make-up. Wash sticky food off our hands. Check that our fly is done up and our collar is straight. Take our medication. Put on our gym clothes. Comb down the stray hair that keeps springing out of its gel or elastic or braid. Clean the stupid paper cut we just got. Figure out how to cushion the place our new shoes are rubbing a blister. Change our kid’s diaper. Adjust our undergarments or bra strap. Sit on the toilet while we feel sick. Refill our water bottle.

We just want to do what we need in private too.

* In the interests of openness, this is where I fall. Cisgender woman, gender non-conforming. She/her.