WHO’S RIGHT IS IT ANYWAY?
“For the love of God, do you really have to go to the washroom four floors down? Why don’t you just pee here?” I asked my friend in an admittedly impatient but innocent huff as we trekked to the mall’s cinema that night. “Previews are starting, and you know how I hate missing the trailers.”
“It’s the only place with a non-gendered restroom in the mall,” she replied. “There I won’t be shamed for relieving myself.”
Right then and there, my world came to an abrupt halt, as if displacing the arrangement of my heart, mind, and soul to an unrecognizable mess. Clearly slapping me to my senses, an old conversation we had surfaced, bringing with it a violent wave that crashed on my still veneer. Having been completely consumed by my own prejudice and privilege, I had glazed over her apparent of entering a gendered restroom in a space outside of what she would call safe. You see, many years back, my friend and sister, Thysz Estrada, was outright and dare I say, aggressively denied access to the ladies restroom where she had figured for an event.
“I had to pee, so I’ Of course, because I was already about to close the door of the stall, I ignored her and went ahead with my business,” she recalls of the incident that still gnaws at the hem of her more confident stride these days. “The cubicles had open spaces at the bottom. There she pushed the mop she was holding against my feet repeatedly, and told me loudly to get out. Already humiliated, I took a deep breath and stepped out. I asked her: ‘’ She said, ‘’”
