And yet, I’m writing this post. Sweet irony.
A few months ago, gender neutral washrooms made the news in the US of A. I recall being annoyed by all the fuss, because the arguments against were so farfetched and so ignorant that I tchuiped (sucked my teeth would the closest English expression, but tchuip is such a more fun Haitian Creole word to use) every single time I heard them. But a conversation I had on Facebook last week is behind this post.
During one of my many trips to NYC, I ended up at a food fair in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. While this post is not about food, I must mention that I had the best Jamaican patties there. As the taste of curry filled my taste buds with joy, I finally realized that the dough’s golden yellow tone should be due to curry—not food color. I don’t think I’ve had another Jamaican patty since then. There’s something about eating the real thing that just spoils any cheap, bootleg version FOREVER.
But I digress…
Real Jamaican patty was not the only new thing I experienced that day. I also used a gender neutral washroom for the first time. And peeps, there’s really nothing to be said about that. So much so that the memory only resurfaced further the Facebook conversation.
After eating numerous patties and other goodies, we went to a hip rooftop terrace for drinks. And, as usual, I was the first one in need to empty my bladder. To spare me the embarrassment of asking for the ladies’ room if I saw men in the washroom—I would have been mortified, my friend told me the place had a gender neutral washroom. Her sharing this information was not some sort of warning to be on the lookout or to have my guard up.
So, what did the washroom look like? It looked like most public washrooms I’ve been to: stalls, sinks and hand dryers. What did you expect?!
Now, the only thing missing was a sing for folks to put the seat back down. As it should be.