How do we express gender in languages– especially in languages without gendered expressions?

Gendered Language

My thoughts about delving into the relationship between our identities and the languages we use began precisely when our blog project was introduced in class. However, it wasn’t until we discussed intersex individuals in our first week that I connected the dots to how this thematic exploration resonates with my immediate community. We discussed the parents who are forced into an immediate binary choice, unaware that “intersex” is a possibility. We delved into the experience of individuals encountering unwarranted assumptions each time they visited a doctor, who would hastily categorize them as one or the other, without even including their own voices in the conversation. These rang a bell. Even the term “intersex” was such an imprisonment, implying being in the middle of two, conveying a sense of being trapped. It compelled me to reflect upon how this very tool, language, which allows us to manifest our non-material thoughts, can paradoxically become a formidable obstacle to our selves.

I study psychology with a specialization in language and social psychology. Through my academic background, I used to believe that language should be something that connects us across different communities, whether it’s a group, an individual, a campus, or our hometown–Chicago or Izmir. Because language is something we learn, I thought, we can master using this tool. However, the very fact that languages are not innate challenged my thoughts. Language doesn’t come wired into our brains. They don’t come with instructions on how to learn them. Our thoughts don’t arrive prepackaged in words. Moreover, as we learn it in a society, language evolves into a fundamental element of our sense of self and community, an ever-present, indistinguishable force that guides the trajectory–and thus the experience–of our lives. Very much like sex and gender, I believe. We debated how sex is assigned by factors outside of our control, usually by societal norms, and how gender is more about expressing our idealized sexual identities. It is performed. Very much like language, I believe. We are assigned a language, dependent on the society we live in. We keep learning its rules, characteristics, how to’s in this society. And we perform the language, to our wills. How do these two concepts converge, I wondered. 

Pronouns

Exploring the expression of gender in languages without gendered linguistic constructs raises intriguing questions. Particularly regarding pronouns. How am I going to refer to someone, or worse, to myself? Coming from a non-gendered language, I have to decide ‘who I am’ going to be when speaking a gendered language. Is there a direct translation of me in that language? 

As a non-native English speaker, my perspective on pronouns is colored by the way we were initially taught English: “We use she for females and he for males,” relegating the rest to the impersonal “it.” In Turkish, we use “o,” regardless of gender or subject characteristics. Every time I had to speak English back then, when the language was not this automatic to me, I had to classify people: this “o” is a “she,” this “o” is a “he.” This “o” is not a person, so “it.” There is more than one “o,” it is “they.” Evidently, English offers a more inclusive dialogue. When conversing with my nonbinary Turkish friends in English, their chosen pronouns seamlessly convey their identities (Johnson). The use of gender-neutral pronouns empowers them to express themselves, and it allows me to affirm and acknowledge their identities without reservation (Stockill). However, upon returning to conversing in Turkish, the linguistic landscape poses challenges. Even their own parents might remain oblivious to their views on gender, unless explicitly informed, as the Turkish language lacks mechanisms to reveal this aspect of their identity. We have no Turkish word for nonbinary. We are all “o” to each other.

Pamira – My friend

“On the one hand, there is the comfort of never having to label myself, never outing myself” said my best friend, Pamira, a Turkish nonbinary person when I asked them the question. “But it is a double edged sword. On the other hand, I have to face the fact that I will never be able to fully express myself–unless I explain myself explicitly.” In Turkey, there is no discussion revolving around how gender-less a language Turkish is. And I don’t think we need one too, as it would mean we are trying to impose a discussion Western, English-speaking cultures have on Turkish. But, the problem is not that we don’t have gendered expressions in Turkish. It is that we don’t have a discussion on non-traditional genders, at all. Maybe, if we were to live in a world where there is no such concept as gender, the Turkish “o” would make sense. However, there are gender norms and gender rules. I wish gender-less-ness would come from neutrality. Yet, it comes from the fact that the way you define yourself is not recognized in the culture. Gender-less-ness comes from the normativity of having “less” genders. 

I would end my block right here, with a catchy last sentence that connects back to the title. However, what my friend continued saying kept me hooked. “I wish it’s not because we are invisible,” they followed up. “However, weird enough, I feel more comfortable talking about gender in Turkish. Even when my family calls me ‘kızım’ (‘my daughter’), still, it feels more secure to be in the borders of Turkish. Because I know that, every time they talk about me, I am not a gendered person, but Pamira, who is the subject of the occasion. I am ‘o.’ I guess using English is a double edged sword too. The continuous need to genderize the language pushes me away from English.” You continuously need to make a choice about how you want to represent yourself (Staels). Even when you don’t make that choice, society decides that for you: this “o” is a “she,” this “o” is a “he.”

“Whichever pronoun I use or whichever pronoun I identify with in English, by no means I feel that it satisfies me. Because, for example, when I use she/her, I don’t feel comfortable at all, and I feel more comfortable using they/them. But this doesn’t mean that I feel comfortable using either.” 

It’s a matter of relative comfort.

Our perspective on gender is much different in different languages. My friend, for example, knows for a fact that the word people use for their gender in English will not satisfy what they feel my gender is. They learned English. And they think in Turkish. They don’t expect that there will be a direct translation of how they feel to English. In this case, the issue with gender in languages is not that there are two genders socially defined and our gender is not one of them. It is that how they see and what they perceive from “their” gender is totally different from how they express that gender in any language. And this is exactly why “[they] feel that no language will satisfy [their] need to express [themselves], and, indirectly, this means that [they] will not feel comfortable using any pronouns in English.” 

My friend said that they feel more comfortable using “they/them.” However, it is “well-established that in most varieties of English, they is the accepted pronoun used to refer to nouns which are ‘indefinite,’ ‘indeterminate,’ or otherwise ‘generic’,” (Strahan). But does my friend feel “indefinite,” “indeterminate,” or otherwise “generic”? Or do they feel defined and complete, but they don’t feel she and he? It is studied that people find using the singular they acceptable if there is a “non-referential antecedent,” (Foertsch). However, the very same studies reveal that when the gender of the referred person is not ambiguous (of course here they mean the assumed gender), “singular they is less acceptable.” Even from a linguistic perspective, the assumption behind the use of non-gendered pronouns in the English language is that if you are not her or she, you must be confused about your gender. The “they” in English carries the assumption of ambiguity. And people like my friend, who knows what their gender is, are forced to choose that baseless feeling of obscurity. 

I only have the experience of my non-native English speaking friend here, with a couple of articles trying to justify their feelings. Unfortunately I haven’t had this conversation with my native friends. Yet, I am curious to hear their approach to this question of gendered language. Not having a genderless language that they can take refuge in, do they feel trapped in this ambiguity too? Or, just like my friend, do they feel secure when speaking English, their native language, because it is the language they translate their thoughts into?