Four years ago, Louie Koll (with pronouns ‘they/them’) began identifying as non-binary. For Louie, it was the recognition that gender was bigger than either male or female. As a child growing up in Chicago, Louie had always felt part of a woman’s soul residing inside. In high school, Louie came out as bi-sexual which, for family members, was fairly easy to accept. However, when Louie came out as non-binary about ten years later, the family was confused and fearful. But being social workers who loved their child, they educated themselves and read “Before We Were Trans” by Kit Heyam and listened to podcasts like “History Is Gay” and “Queer Is Fact.” They wanted to learn more about what being non-binary meant. With time and knowledge, the family was able to talk easily to Louie and be supportive. Louie arrived in Maine six years ago after graduating from the Massachusetts Maritime Academy, having landed a job aboard the Rockland schooner J&E Riggin, first as a deckhand, then as a mate. Louie fell in love, first with Maine, and then with Hannah, who works on the Vinalhaven ferry. Coming from Chicago, Louie was struck by how much people in Maine seek opportunities for getting together, even in winter. The couple made their home in North Waldoboro, and right after, they married. Since 2019, Louie has worked as third mate on the research vessel ‘RV Sikuliaq’ whose homeport is Seward, Alaska. It’s a job that’s six months on, six months off. When the boat is sailing, Louie works an eight-hour shift dedicated to navigation, and the rest of the time on safety, such as checking the fire extinguishers, the ship’s life rafts and small boats, life jackets, and anything else considered emergency equipment.
Nothing about me is different. The person you know is me. Being non-binary is simply my finding my existence somewhere in the spectrum between man and woman. And that is not easy inside a culture that doesn’t have room for anything else other than male or female.
For me, calling myself non-binary was an act of love, an act of self-love. And it didn’t come easy. For me, it took so much introspection, so much soul-searching, so much second-guessing. Society isn’t designed for anything else other than the two genders. So, to accept that I might not be either of those — that was a hard thing to do. By the time I could tell someone, “This is what and who I am,” I’d already been through the arduous process of learning to accept myself, of being more honest with myself, and of loving myself more.
The shipping industry isn’t the most progressive in the world, even though research vessels are far better than the rest of the industry. My captain, and I love my captain to death, is one of the best people I’ve ever worked for. He is incredibly knowledgeable. He’s a great trainer. He’s a good, good guy.
We get along famously — except that he’s super conservative. He lives in Idaho and thinks I’m totally out of my mind. When I told him I’m non-binary and that I’d really appreciate him using my pronouns, he said, ‘I don’t believe in that.”
And I said, “Well, I just need you to know that.”
It took him a couple of days to be able to speak to me, and then we got back to that working relationship, and it’s been great. I haven’t forced the issue because I don’t need to, and he hasn’t used my pronouns because he’s not going to. But we work together really well, and I still think he’s a great person.
But it does hurt me, that he doesn’t see me for who I am, or use the pronouns that I feel best fit me. All I want out of the world and from other people is respect and kindness. And I want to give others the same. You don’t need to agree with me. I just want to be treated as a person.
I have never felt unsafe in Waldoboro. And that has been really nice, especially in this environment right now. At the same time, I’ve been trying to live more openly, because why not? That’s who I am. And so far, everybody has been good to me.
That said, there are places I avoid in Waldoboro. I think about safety more than I ever used to. I track the exits now, and I think a little more about where I’m going. But I still go out because I have this idiotic, bravado aura of safety, thinking I’ll be just fine. I was socialized as male and at 6 foot, 2 inches, I’m also used to being the biggest thing in the room.
Most of the time we exist in a world that isn’t always accepting of us. That’s why I love Pride Day. It’s a moment for us to claim space, and for our community to say, “We’re taking this day, this moment, no matter what. We’re going to get done up and be as flamboyant as we possibly can. And we’re going to own this moment because we don’t get all the moments.” I like to get a little extra done up and rainbow everywhere on Pride Day.
When I walk into most spaces, I feel like all eyes are on me. But last fall, Hannah and I went to the Waldo to see “Donnie Darko,” and greeting us and selling us tickets was someone who was non-binary or some sort of gender diverse person.
And in that moment, of seeing someone who looked like me, it made me feel that I wasn’t alone. Usually, going out in public and doing this very public thing is when I usually feel the odd one out. This time it was like seeing myself across the room. And that was really, really nice.
Leave a Reply