I don’t spend a lot of time thinking of myself as cisgendered, even though when I first heard the word I realised it filled a lexical gap I had been aware of for years: I objected to identifying myself as “not-trans” or “born-woman”. (I was not born a woman: I was born a baby.)
That I don’t have to think about being cisgendered is 28 on the Cisgender Privilege Checklist, of course.
One of the events that makes me more aware of being cisgendered is when someone registers how short my hair is and calls me “sir”, or some rude person wants to know “Are you a man or a woman?” (The best answer I have discovered to that question is to reply loudly “Which are you?” and then walk, don’t run, to get out of sight while the questioner is suffering hed-explody gender-confusion.) On a day-to-day basis people code each other’s gender on a very narrow bandwith – hair, clothes, specs, make-up/absence of – which rarely if ever has any connection with a person’s physical sex, let alone their gender identity. (Granted if you are wearing physically-revealing clothing past the age of puberty, this usually ceases to be quite true.)
I was filled with excitement about seeing Tomboy because not only had it been well-reviewed, it appeared to deal with a life-situation that both babydykes and trans boys know about directly, and to express this in a way that a mixed audience could perceive. [Update: Though I may have been wrong about that – see Hullaballoo review.]