One of my Shetland hosts, Magnus, heavily sat his large frame down across from me in their cozy sunroom. Greenery and flowers lined the small space, sprucing up the dismally grey and windy days that dominate Shetland’s landscape. His wife was nearby, making us a mouthwatering dinner of fishcakes and veggies that were mostly locally sourced from their garden and the surrounding seas.

“I need meh-self a night-cap … rum and pop every night…” he motioned to the dark, heavy drink to ask if I wanted any. My conversation with the couple in their 70’s had been flowing and easy, even amongst the awkward moments of misunderstanding Magnus’s Shetland dialect and sayings, while they occasionally misunderstood my Americanized phrases. For example, I asked if I should park on the street when I met them downtown the next day. Linda looked at me as if I were dim in the head, saying, “NO! You don’t want to park ON the street; there are plenty of parking places off the street.”   

When it sounded to me like Magnus was no longer speaking English, I would ask him to stop and repeat, or clarify. It often turned out that he wasn’t entirely speaking English, as he clarified a phrase or word I had never heard before. I would learn a few days later thru a radio broadcast that Shaetlan was declared its own language as of last year, 2025. Shaetlan was long dismissed as an inferior version of slang English, and is now officially recognized as its own language; one that mixes grammar from a Scandinavian linguistic ancestor with vocabulary from an Anglican linguistic ancestor (or the Scots). So, I lay this out to say, that it’s very possible I’ve misinterpreted a few fine points in these conversations … but this is the general jist. 

Wherever I am, if I tell people I work on a project telling stories about our gender, it tends to generate interesting responses. Linda enthusiastically told me how many LGBT people were on the island. They had listened to a talented saxophone player last week at the pub “who was LGBT – he transitioned from a woman to a man!” From their perspective as a presumably straight, cisgender couple, queer Shetlanders on the islands could live in peace and exist the way they are. Not like the way it is in America. “They (vulnerable American groups) should all be getting out of there right now,” declared Magnus emphatically.

Rum Cracks Open a Chest of Gender Gems

As Magnus poured his first nightcap, he glanced towards the kitchen, saying in a shushed voice that Linda doesn’t like it so much. A few sips into the drink, he started reminiscing about how rigidly segregated communities were by religion growing up in Scotland. “I was Jewish AND Protestant living in a Catholic neighborhood, so where did that leave me??!!”  He roared with laughter.

On a second glass of rum, he somewhat abruptly launched into a topic change with a more solemn tone, “so you know all about these things, with the work you do …”  I nodded, not exactly sure which things though. We were both photographers of different generations. “I’ve always had all sorts of interests, yeh know, a lot of feminine interests. I’ve always loved fine art, music, designing things, gardening, all the things people called girly. There was always so much pressure to be manly growing up you know… to be tough. So, I have all these interests and they don’t make sense to other people, because I’m a big, tough guy…” he says, as he lowers his voice and puffs his chest. “… and yeh know women loved me … and yeh know…” he motioned thru the doorway to his wife of 50 years in the kitchen. 

Starting on a third glass of rum with a nervous look toward the kitchen, he then launched into a childhood story that blended elements of his masculine and feminine interests. He felt the neighborhood pressure to be what a boy should be, but still held onto the things he considered feminine, almost taking pride in both as he told the story. The neighborhood kids would trade things with each other, which included trying to find things that would be impressive to the girls. He designed some sort of mechanized cart, and made friends with all the girls by asking for their flamboyant trinkets, fairy and butterfly stickers in exchange for a ride.  

One of the boys on the block came along with a helmet that he said was from WWII, AND it had a bullet hole through it. Magnus thought that was really cool too, telling this part of the plot twist with a deeper tone to imply the increased masculine edge seen in acquiring the WWII helmet. So, he tried to get the helmet through bartering. The other boy gave it to Magnus for the price of borrowing his bicycle for the day. 

Then, a bigger, tougher boy came along, and demanded to get his helmet back, because it belonged to him and the first boy had stolen it. Magnus was ready to relinquish any of his treasures to avoid being pummeled in a fist fight. He ended up losing both the bad ass helmet and his bicycle, which never came back.

But at the very least, he still had his cart full of faeries and butterflies. He slumped a little and looked sheepish as he finished the dramatized story without a conclusive end. “Anyhoow, I’m don’t know why I’m telling you all this … yeh must be a very easy person to talk to.” He then transitioned to speaking as if the story represented a dark secret. I hadn’t said much, and think the rum could take most of the credit. But in a way, I simply gave him permission to talk about things men often aren’t allowed to talk about. Just by telling him that my passion is creating space for people to share stories that are shaped by gender. 

ReCloseting with Coffee

The next morning, Linda mentioned the LGBT saxophone player again. They asked if I planned to check out any music events on the islands. “The saxophone player we saw is LGBT; they transitioned from a woman to a man,” she repeated, not seeming to know much else about the saxophone player. Magnus was on his second cup of coffee – wired up and ready for their long travel day leaving the islands. He almost seemed to explode with mild frustration in response to her. What I managed to catch in the flurry of Shaetlan included, “I don’t know what they are and I can’t really keep track. But I don’t really care… I mean… why do people care so much who people are?? … He, she, or she to he… ahhh.. I can’t remember…. fuck me…” He trailed off into his own silent musings again, while Linda gave him a sideways glance. And then the conversation moved onto the state of U.S. politics again with no further mention of trans people… although the word trans was never used.  

Sometimes the way we express our experiences of gender doesn’t necessarily have labels. Maybe you’re in a generation that is less comfortable with queer labels. But a generation that still has no shortage of experiences segregating each other based on labels. So, then maybe the space we find safe – is to express our experience of gender through stories with language that we know and feel comfortable in. Perhaps through seemingly obscure childhood stories. Or maybe thru voicing frustration with understanding others who fully embrace their gender in more obvious ways. In any case, sometimes we just have to be here and listen, not take offense, but just listen.

Autumn of 2025, Shetland Islands in Scotland

**Names changed for privacy