I Want to Be Respected.

Film: Waves (2019)

There’s a feeling I’ve been carrying that I haven’t had the right words for until now.

It isn’t rage, not the kind that explodes but something quieter. A slow burn. A heavy ache. The feeling of not being taken seriously. Of being the one people laugh at, talk over, or talk down to. And the more I sit with it, the more I realize this isn’t new. It’s something I’ve known since I was a kid.

Even back then, I felt like respect was something I couldn’t reach. Like I was too much and too little all at once, too loud, too sensitive, too playful, too soft to be taken seriously, and too queer in ways no one could name yet. I learned to adapt. To be the peacekeeper. The comic relief. The one who didn’t cause problems, even when I was drowning in them.

And somehow, that version of me followed me into adulthood.

Now, it shows up in my relationships, in the way people reduce me to a “cutie patootie,” in the jokes that cut a little too deep, in the way I’m treated like I’m still a child no matter how much I grow. I know some of it is in love, but some of it isn’t. Some of it feels like people see my softness and assume they can disrespect me because I won’t speak up. Because I’ve made it easy to be the one they project onto. Because whatever’s wrong with them feels safer being thrown at me.

And I think a lot of it ties into how I present in the world.

A few months ago, I had a conversation with a close friend while we were printing photos at Walgreens. We’re both masculine presenting, and we talked about how that shapes how people treat us, especially in relationships. We both agreed: people don’t respect us the way they should. There’s this weird paradox where we’re seen as tough or cool on the outside, but still not serious enough to be valued deeply. Not gentle enough to be trusted with love. Not feminine enough to be held. Not masculine enough to be feared.

It’s as if our gender presentation puts us in this liminal space where people feel entitled to diminish us like our masculinity is something to poke at, something to laugh through, something to take from without giving back.

And it’s frustrating. Because I do carry myself with care. I’m thoughtful. I listen. I show up. I take relationships seriously. I want to be met with the same intentionality I bring. But too often, I feel like people only meet the surface of me. Like they stop at my look, my laugh, my hobbies, me collecting toys, reading comics, my playful spirit and decide I’m unserious. Not worthy of full presence. Not worthy of full respect.

But the truth is, joy, softness, masculinity, and depth can all exist at once, in the same body. In my body. I shouldn’t have to cut pieces of myself away just to be taken seriously.

I want to be respected.

Not teased to the point of discomfort. Not picked apart in the name of familiarity. Not expected to take every jab and keep smiling. I want people to hold their words with care when they speak to me. I want my thoughts to matter in the room. I want to be loved out loud not just when it’s easy or convenient.

And honestly, I want to stop making excuses for those who don’t.

It’s not my job to constantly prove I’m worth listening to. It’s not my fault people project their own fears and insecurities onto me. I deserve the same level of care and reverence I give so freely.

I’m not asking to be worshipped.

I’m asking to be seen, fully. To be heard without translation. To be honored in all the ways I exist: loud, quiet, masc, tender, soft-spoken, and still incredibly serious about who I am and how I show up in the world.

I want to be respected.

And I’m learning that saying that out loud isn’t weakness. It’s power