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There is a game Spock likes to play, sometimes.
Well. It isn’t really a game; games are illogical. If prompted – if anyone knew there was something to ask about – maybe Spock would say he’s testing the awareness of the crew. Or that the clothes are more comfortable, which is true; that they are lighter and easier to pack into the ship’s small quarters, which is also true.
But sometimes he thinks of it as a game. Because it is an interactive thing, what Spock’s doing. Part of the point is to be seen, and for people not to respond. They don’t know they should respond, of course. That’s the point.
That’s the satisfying part, pretending to be normal.
“Oh, is that new?” Uhura asks as Spock steps onto the transporter pad.
Spock glances down. On his other side Ms. Katona leans forward to admire the fine gold embroidery curling around his collar. His robes are unusually light today in deference to the equally-rare warmth of space station four; soft lavender fabric, with intricate designs arching down his sides. “That’s really lovely, Sir,” coos Katona. “Is there a word for it?”
“It is called a kisai.”
“I wish human men would get more creative,” Uhura says. She’s wearing a simple shirt and shorts for the heat, and solid shoes for walking; she clearly intends on very different activities for her leave. Behind the transporter console Mr. Kyle makes adjustments. Even as a soft haze of blue blurs the room, Uhura adds, “It seems like humans all wear western-style clothes these days, and menswear just looks so boring...”
If asked, Spock would say he’s testing the awareness of the crew. That he prioritizes comfort, or convenience.
But the real truth is that Spock simply has a preference. When he wears Vulcan clothing, he prefers the styles for women.
Humans can’t tell, of course. Some human cultures have their own styles of robes, for both men and women – changfu and hanboks and kaftans, and a thousand others. But humans are ignorant of Vulcan conventions. They don’t realize that sometimes Spock beams down for shore-leave or conferences in clothes that implicitly declare him an unmarried woman, or the daughter of his clan.
In fairness these are more comfortable than the masculine versions (in recent years male Vulcan fashion has started including stiff, pointed shoulders). Female fabrics also tend to be softer, which doesn’t really make sense to Spock.
But logic begins with truth. Truth includes recognizing what is, and not what should be.
“Mr… Xyt… uhh… Spock, yes? Can you fill these out?”
One of the aides for the conference – a human student from the nearby Lunar Point University, judging by the pin on her vest – thrusts an electronic padd into his arms. “Just so the host knows how to introduce you,” she says. It’s illogical that this wasn’t handled before the conference, but then, Spock was a last-minute addition due to the Enterprise’s erratic path.
There’s only a few questions on the form. They want to know how to pronounce his name; Spock simply crosses out his legal clan-name and provides the common human phonetics for Spock. It is not how Vulcans pronounce it, but he’s used to that. The host is Bolian, but would certainly struggle too.
There is a brief section where Spock is asked to list any medals, awards, family relations, or previous publications that should be mentioned when the host introduces him. Spock simply writes Starfleet Commander. He could probably fill three or four pages with personal accolades, and does debate whether it would be worth at least mentioning previous related publications. He decides against it. Spock can immediately think of over forty publications relevant to the lecture he’ll be giving, and he doesn’t want to try narrowing it down.
Everyone knows who Spock is, regardless.
There is also a section asking to confirm his pronouns.
Logic begins with truth.
So Spock can admit the truth to himself. And, paradoxically, the truth rests on a lie. Wearing the female clothes is like a game. Because sometimes, for the barest second, Spock can pretend the crew is just using the default-masculine Starfleet greeting when they say Hello Mr. Spock – after all, even female officers are called Mr. in Starfleet. And sometimes Spock can pretend that when they ask did Mr. Spock give you his report? they’re only ignorant. Humans don’t know how to read his clothes; they act like Spock’s male because they don’t know anything about Vulcans, not because it’s true.
Except they aren’t wrong. Because Spock is a man, of course.
(This is where the logic starts to break down.)
Spock does not like lying. It is illogical to lie, usually.
It is why he dislikes being asked his gender. Many places, human-centric and otherwise, think it’s polite to ask. “I didn’t want to assume,” they might say, as though it is somehow better to put him on the spot. To give him a split-second to decide what to say.
Spock always says male, of course. What else would he do? And it is not really a lie, Spock tells himself. He is male. All his identifications say so. He has never identified as anything else.
Spock steps out in front of the podium.
“We are honored to have Commander Spock join us today,” the host says. “He is here to tell us all about his latest research on the metaphysical implications of Organian evolution….”
Despite how often Spock tries to convince himself, it always feels like a lie.
Rejecting reality is illogical; so, it would be irrational to say Spock is anything but a man. His genetic profile was expertly crafted using standard Vulcan-male chromosomes. His phenotype is masculine. He was raised male, and when he passed his kas-wan Spock was officially recognized as a son of the House of Surak.
Vulcans are innately bisexual. Or, rather, they lack sexual preferences altogether. This fact often surprises non-Vulcans - especially since most childhood bondings are arranged between a man and woman.
Children on Vulcan are usually betrothed before they are old enough to have real preferences; the parents choose. Sometimes they pick a childhood friend, male or female. But, all other factors being equal, it is perfectly logical to partner their children with someone of the opposite sex who can eventually help produce a biological child (rather than needing to suffer through the confusing bureaucracy of scientific intervention, or the incredible rarity of adopting outside Vulcan’s protective clan-systems). Though these days better technology means same-sex couples are increasingly common, and the split is nearly equal for remarriages past reproductive age...
Ultimately sexual characteristics are just practical concerns. The body is a shell for the mind, and the mind is what matters; every Vulcan knows this. Even before Surak’s time, they knew this. The body burns, but the mind bonds. Maybe that’s why Vulcans don’t seem to have the same outliers as other civilizations – that is, people who protest against biological determination.
Vulcans simply don’t connect with their bodies enough to care about the difference between sex and gender.
But Spock does.
Spock’s lecture goes well, of course.
There’s a reception afterward. These are usually tedious. Spock understands and respects the need for sharing academic data. He’s often been told he’s an excellent speaker. Sometimes people will message him years after an event to gush how his lecture sparked their recent research, how he inspired them, how they had a sudden epiphany while they sat silent in the faceless crowd…
Spock doesn’t mind presenting. He is less enthused about networking.
But he’s good at this, too. Spock often accompanied Sarek on diplomatic missions as a child, and he was taught well. He finds it easy to move between often-irrelevant conversations. There’s only about a dozen other Starfleet officers in the crowded hall; the Enterprise is primarily here for recreational leave and repairs. Most humans would not use their first night of leave for academia.
Spock accepts congratulations and praise. At one point he actually manages to find an interesting conversation-partner; a pretty young Andorian tells him all about xer work studying telepathy among the endangered Aenar population. “I was wondering what you thought,” xe says, and pulls out a padd to show him some charts.
“If I am not imposing,” a voice says, “I am also interested in that field; have you read the works of Dr. Xeasther Sh’chenes?”
“Of course!” the Andorian shen cries. Xer antennae wobble in cheerful greeting as a man joins them. Spock looks up from the padd. His breath catches in his throat, a reaction of shock that shamefully hits him even before Spock consciously registers the source of his alarm.
Ironically, Spock knows that it is Vulcans who are the outliers.
The modern human word is transgender, but other species have similar concepts. Andorians have four recognized sexes, yet twenty-three legal genders. Caitians have recently made headlines due to social changes around gender; previously, they only recognized well-respected ‘females’ who chose to lead prides and act as fathers to cubs; the word they use is feletals, which in their language means something like rising-through-strength.
But there is no recognition of those who might want to be treated as male without collecting a harem of women. If there are women among the prides who lack the usual physical characteristics, it does not matter, so long as they subjugate themselves to the leader of the pride and do not dally with other women. But Caitian culture has been influenced by their neighbors; people want recognition regardless of the roles they assume, the traditions they are expected to follow. There are quite a few such Caitians in Starfleet; they have high rates of emigration.
Similar people appear in cultures all over, though of course the terms and details differ. The world of Damonia IV has strict gender roles, but there is a tradition where people re-declare how they want to live every fifth year; they can choose to be male one year, female the next. By contrast the people of Tibore II sometimes change their minds a dozen times a day, or never. They find it very offensive when aliens make mistakes, even though they often only signal the shift subvocally.
And there are worlds where biological sex shifts, too. Sometimes over time, sometimes as a result of environmental pressures… Spock has traveled throughout the Federation. He knows not to consider gender a static thing.
But Spock is also Vulcan; and Vulcans do.
“My name is Sebon,” the new Vulcan tells them.
The Andorian introduces xerself as Dr. Mazcxeti, and just as rapidly fills Sebon in on xer research. Xe seems perfectly thrilled to have attracted two scientists to discuss xer work. Based on xer youth, xe’s probably a new graduate. Spock might not value emotionalism, but he can appreciate the passion behind xer rambling.
Sebon listens politely, making suggestions. Spock tries to listen, too. But his interest in Mazcxeti’s work has vanished.
Mazcxeti gets called away by someone – presumably a colleague, an Andorian thaan clustered in a similar discussion-group further down the hall. “I’d love to discuss it further, though!” xe apologizes. Sebon gives xer his communication code before xe leaves.
Spock does not. When they are alone, Sebon turns to Spock.
He is a handsome man. His eyes are golden-brown, like pieces of glowing amber. He wears Vulcan clothing, too, which of course conveys personal details to anyone who knows how to read them. He is a son of a prominent clan, but a minor heir to a subordinate house. He is unmarried but betrothed, proficient in suus-mahna, although not a warrior. A weak telepath.
He has those horrible pointed shoulder-pads.
“Your lecture was interesting,” says Sebon.
Okay.
Vulcan has had a few outliers. But only a few. Spock knows because he scoured the libraries as a child.
Even the few exceptions he could find tended to be oddly practical, heavily based on physical characteristics. Occasionally Vulcan males are so desperate to avoid pon farr, and so unwilling to mate, that they castrate themselves. Very rarely, they choose to live as women afterward. As a youth Spock researched the phenomena extensively, especially first-hand accounts. He tried to find an instance of someone saying, I did it because I always wanted to be a woman. I wanted this; I always wanted this.
Spock searched and searched, but he never found such a thing.
Instead people said presenting as female would ‘better fulfill the expectations of future partners, should I remarry.’ Four of them stated that there seemed to be little ‘point’ presenting as male without the production of male hormones, and they felt being female had become a ‘more apt descriptor’ – precisely the opposite of Spock’s dilemma. The closest he could find was a single individual who mused that they’d have liked to be born female, for inheritance reasons; fortunately their eventual choice was accepted as justification to inherit in lieu of other female-heirs in a highly matriarchal clan. That was it.
Spock found a little more when he researched born-women who later chose to live as men. But most of those were ancient historical cases, from long before Surak’s time when women were carefully-guarded leaders during the clan wars. Aside from the Matriarchs, Vulcan women were fighters just like men. But sometimes they disguised themselves to prevent rape, or to prevent being stolen by rival clans. This doesn’t really explain why some lived as men forever after, a young Spock reasoned. So he investigated those stories with particular interest.
Spock read a long, rambling account of a warlord, born a woman, who led his clan and took half a dozen wives. All the historical documents used male-pronouns to describe his reign. But one personal account concluded, “My wives are dear to me; but I took them mostly to protect them. The men of the east plains are barbarians; I would never want to be a man in truth.”
Humans have that word, transgender.
It does not translate into Vulcan.
Spock is quickly lulled into a false sense of safety.
Sebon is polite. He praises Spock’s lecture, asking a few pertinent questions. For a minute Spock thinks the conversation will remain strictly professional.
Then Sebon adds, “I could not help but notice your attire.”
There is no reason for the adrenaline that surges through Spock’s chest, the way his mouth dries. Sebon regards him with only mild curiosity; it is the same way Spock might look at some unknown fauna on an alien world. “That’s a girl’s dress,” Sebon notes; girl, not woman, because the cut is indeed for young girls who have not yet left their houses. “If you need something new, there is a tailor on the fourth level who is adequately capable of mimicking our styles.”
“...Noted,” Spock says. The man tips his head. There is nothing technically judgmental in his demeanor, nothing accusatory or appalled or upset. Of course not.
But Spock can tell Sebon is curious. Spock is not doing the thing that is expected, not giving the correct response. He should say something. Spock should ask for the location of that tailor, maybe. Or shift back to academics, or provide an excuse for why he had the dress, or -
He turns and walks away.
It’s rude; that can’t be helped. Spock recognizes fellow officers as he walks. Did any of them hear - ? But it wouldn’t matter. It’s just a robe. It’s just -
Spock’s heart beats fast against his side. It’s a genuine struggle to keep composed, to breathe evenly through his nose as he walks. But Spock must have his composure, must keep control. In this, at least, he will be Vulcan.
It is illogical to feel afraid. Nothing happened.
Nothing will happen.
Spock waits in line at the transporter station. He beams up. “Back a bit early,” says Mr. Kyle behind the console, cheerful. “Everything alright, Commander?”
“Yes,” says Spock, striding past. The ensign isn’t perturbed; Mr. Kyle whistles cheerily as he runs diagnostics on the station.
Spock walks swiftly down the hall, hands folded behind his back. No one looks at him twice. Yet his heart does not slow until he is in his quarters, alone. He locks the doors even though he knows it’s unnecessary. He drops to the floor as though to meditate – then immediately stands. He puts on his Starfleet uniform. The male uniform.
He sits on his bed so he can close the curtains. Spock meditates there instead. He meditates for three hours.
It doesn’t help; nothing ever does.
It’s not that Sarek would mind the clothes.
Or Amanda. Or Jim, or McCoy, or... anyone else. It would certainly surprise Spock’s crewmates, he’s sure, if Spock suddenly told them that he…
But such things have become normal for humans. There’s a form; it’s easily accessible to any Starfleet officer. Officers can submit it and register a quick note in Sickbay; the correlating gender-markers will update on all Starfleet databases. It’s that simple. Starfleet would even process the change for his legal identification if Spock checks another box.
And Vulcans would not mind the clothes (though it’s not really about the clothes). Sebon was curious, not outraged. It is not traditional for a man to wear women’s clothing, and Vulcans are staunchly traditional; but, ultimately, clothing-styles do not matter.
Probably they wouldn’t even care if Spock corrected someone, and asked to be called her and she and…
Just words. It would be illogical to care about words.
Which is why Vulcans don’t care. Spock is half-human. He is a member of Starfleet, a military organization most of his planet rejects. He is dyslexic. He suspects he is homosexual, even though Vulcans aren’t supposed to have sexual preferences. He suffers chronic pain from a mish-mash of human and Vulcan physiology, to such an extent that Dr. McCoy sometimes refers to him as ‘disabled’ even though Spock can work just fine...
His friends would adjust. They’d be dismayed it’s taken Spock this long to tell them, really.
Spock does not like being called ‘he.’
But it would be far worse, Spock can’t help but think, for someone to say:
Well, it makes sense; she is human.