It's not that hard

Just a warning, this post will be something of a rant. If you can't deal with some trans man anger, then you should probably step away and not have anything to do with me for a while, cause we'll just annoy one another.

The other caveat is that I'm not really the most qualified person to write this post. I'm white, educated, and (struggling) middle class; I plan to squeeze my way into a corner of the gender binary, and I have access to hormones and hopefully, eventually chest surgery, and I can even pass as male at death metal festivals, apparently, on just two months of T. There are people who don't have access to or don't even want these things, and their identities and ways of expressing themselves are just as valid as mine, but their struggle to be perceived and accepted as their true selves is a lot more arduous than mine. As you read my post, remember that I have it easy. Imagine my difficulties and frustration ten thousandfold, with no hope of being solved on that magical day when the hormones have done their job and I can pass with ease, and you may have some idea of the struggle of a non-binary or disadvantaged trans* person.

This post is a culmination of a growing irritation at the way the cis world tries to ascribe a certain way of being upon trans people, trans men in my particular case, and how cis folks will often refuse to acknowledge someone's gender if they don't fall within society's narrow parameters of what constitutes "women" and "men."

It started with the stir about Aydian Dowling, a model (or something) who could become the first transgender guy on the cover of Men's Health. That's cool all right, but the stir came at a time when I was feeling uncertain about where my own body was headed, how I would look after the combo of T and twice weekly workouts. Aydian Dowling looks great, I thought, but I dunno if that's how I want to look. Honestly, I think I'd like to be a slender, even willowy type of guy. The kind who could get mistaken for a girl - till he turns around and you see facial hair.

Moreover, I have yet to see a trans guy in the news - or even on Youtube - with even moderately long hair. So maybe trans guys with waist length death metal hair are kinda rare, but there have got to be some with shoulder length hair, at least?

Nope. Crew cuts, beards, and big muscles all the way. That's trans guys. >.<

Then I read some snippets of an NPR interview about a trans woman whose transition at work was "helped" by a cis ally in the workplace. It included this highly irritating paragraph (Ms. Zekis is the trans woman; Ms. Bittle is her cisgendered friend):

Second, it was interesting that Zekis' good friend and confidante, Bittle, talked about how some in the transgender community expect people to just accept them without doing a lot of groundwork. She said Zekis had a good experience because she worked really hard to look like a woman to make it less uncomfortable for other people. She was saying that simply presenting as the opposite gender, and claiming to be the opposite gender, isn't enough. Appearing somehow "in between" is awkward for other people, and ends up putting a lot of extra burden on the person transitioning.

Yep, cause other people feeling awkward is definitely a burden that should fall on trans people. After all, we only chose to live more authentically in order to save our lives or at the least, feel a little bit better about ourselves. It's way too much to ask for people to accept that and support us in our endeavor, unless we make it super easy for them by never questioning or transgressing the all holy binary gender system. Gods forbid any of us actually identify outside said binary system, cause that might actually cause some serious strain to some cis neurons.

The only reason it's a "burden" and harder for trans* people to present in ways outside the binary is because cis people make it that way. You could just, you know, accept and affirm us when we tell you what gender we are, but no, anyone who doesn't conform to the binary will be questioned at the least, most likely misgendered, and ridiculed or harrassed at the worst. Because it's sooo our fault we don't always fit the binary. Never mind that someone people actually identify outside it and purposely present as "in between," but, you know, some people who are transitioning from one binary body shape to the other just don't pass all the way all the time! I definitely don't; I pretty much only pass at metal concerts, where my waist length hair doesn't "give me away." But that's my own fault for being a metalhead and choosing to grow my hair long! No mercy, misgender at will! >.<

An op-ed by Army Sgt. Shane Ortega (who's being called the first openly transgender active duty military service member) crystallized my thoughts on these topics. He criticized the fact that by focusing on hypermasculine, conventionally attractive trans men, the media is "project[ing] unrealistic expectations of trans men’s bodies and promot[ing] stereotypes, like the false ideas that all men can grow facial hair, have binary, male-appearing chests without breasts, are muscle-bound, dress in stereotypically 'masculine' clothing, or must be attractive by straight, cisgender (nontrans) standards to be deemed 'desirable.'" He encouraged the trans men who do get media attention to push the conversation away from the shallow, objectifying focus on bodies and to call attention to the existence of trans people of color and those who are queer or non-binary, to intersecting issues of race and gender, to the problem of male privilege. Yes, I thought, This is just what I've been struggling to articulate. This is just the sort of spokesman that trans people and trans men in particular need.

Not all trans men can or even want to look like Aydian Dowling. None of the other trans guys I know in real life do. They look like themselves, as they should, in all their wonderful variety. Most of them are gender-nonconforming in some way, whether it's in terms of bodies, sexual orientation, or the way they act or dress or do their hair (in real life, I do actually know one trans guy with shoulder length hair! :D ).

And I'm sure Aydian Dowling feels that he looks like himself, but he also looks like a perfect picture of conventional masculinity, which is no doubt why Men's Health and the rest of the media love him. In the interview linked above, he says that "Transgender visibility through mainstream media such as Men's Health is so important because it helps break down stereotypes of what society thinks transgender people are and are not." But then he goes on, "Someone could pick up the magazine and become educated and aware that transgender bodies are just like cisgender bodies." (Emphasis added.)

I get what he's saying, you know, that there are a lot of cis-passing trans people, whom most cis people would never guess are trans. That could be eye-opening for a lot of people - oh my god, trans people can be "normal" just like us! The problem is that cis-passing trans men are the only ones being portrayed by the media right now. Just because some are (and get easily accepted because of it) doesn't mean that all of us are. And the ones who aren't, are the ones who have the biggest struggle being accepted. Thus, even more than showing cis people that us trans folks can be "like you," we need to proclaim that, you know what, sometimes we're quite the opposite of what you consider "normal," and that's okay too, and each person's gender and body should be accepted as they choose to call it and present it.

That was the  biggest insight I got from Sgt. Ortega's op-ed. Once he'd said all kinds of words that I had been groping for, though, I felt like it had been said; I didn't need to say any more on this topic, cause he'd already said it so well. So why the heck did I write this rant then? Well, it became personal last week when an acquaintance, whom I hadn't seen since before starting T, commented on my transition: "It was hard [to gender you correctly last fall] because you still had so many female qualities to you."

And that got under my skin. I didn't have the words to say to her then - it takes me way too long to think of words - but if I'd been able to express myself I'd have said:

"It's hard for you? Do you think it's easy for me? To battle against society and even my own internalized cissexist thinking, to struggle to assert my gender when everyone is shouting me down based on my body? I didn't ask for your support because it'd be easy. I asked for your support because this is the hardest thing I've ever done, because I stand at risk of losing everything and some days I don't know what's what or get lost in the darkest pits of anxiety, self-loathing, and despair, and I'd like to know there are some people who'd extend a hand to pull me out and tell me it'll be ok, and some places I can go knowing that you get it and you're not going to shove me back in the pit, but that you're going to affirm my truth and make me welcome as the person I really am."

That's what I'd have said if I could think quicker on my feet, and if I was in the habit of revealing my true feelings in person to anyone other than my closest friends or my therapist.

It being "hard" for cis folks to accept, affirm, and correctly gender trans* folks who don't fit the gender binary - whether it's because they're pre- or mid-transition, or because they don't give a shit about fitting into the binary - is like white folks of the 1950's saying, "It's too hard to learn to live with black kids in our schools," or men saying, "It's too hard to restrain ourselves from making unwanted sexual advances on women." It takes some learning. It takes some effort. But godsdammit, if you care about us, about our well-being, about not hurting our feelings or contributing to our oppression, then you damn well oughta try.

Cause if you think switching your pronouns is hard, I don't even want to know what you'd make of the soul-crushing dysphoria that can swallow me like an abyss when you don't do it.

I know too well the angst that can go along with being a cis ally. Well before I knew I was trans, someone in my immediate family started to transition, and it took me years to get over my grief and accept him in his true identity. But there's a time and place for airing those feelings, and with the trans folks you're trying to support is not it. Our angst could devour yours like the North Atlantic sucking down a lone rowboat. Worse yet, our angst could devour us a damn lot easier than yours will you. Take a moment to choose your words carefully, and you could just be saving a life.

I know sometimes we're "confusing," or we make you feel awkward. But how do you think I feel when you misgender me? Not just awkward, but straight up shitty. My stomach goes hollow, my mood plummets, and I feel like crawling into a cave, because you just broadcast to everyone around you that I'm the very thing I'm trying not to be, and you didn't even have the decency to correct yourself, so everyone goes on thinking I'm that other thing and calling me the wrong thing, and it just gets worse and worse. Really, compared to that it, it's not so hard to stop and say, "I meant, he."

You, cis folks, are standing a step - or sometimes many steps - above us. You're automatically accepted by the world; you don't have to worry about everything from your job to custody of your kids to whether you can afford surgery or will be assaulted in the bathroom. Just make the simple act of accepting us as we are and making the effort to gender us correctly, no matter how we may look, and you'll be extending a hand to lift us a little closer to the sun. It's not really that hard, and it'll be worth the effort.

Me at Maryland Deathfest last Saturday. Usually for "metal" photos, I do this thing called

my "ugly metal face," which involves sticking my tongue out and grimacing. I do it because it's metal

but also because it's masculinizing - it makes my face longer and thinner. There is such a photo from MDF,

but I thought I'd use the regular one here to show what I actually look like.

No one told me about this part...

No one told me about this part of transition. The part between the celebratory highs (my first shot! My first time injecting myself! My T party!), between the moments of joyous realization that my body is changing (muscles! peach fuzz!). I don't mean the part where I don't pass yet, or the part where this change or that change hasn't happened yet, cause I knew that would take a while. I mean the part where I feel lost, everything feels wrong, and I still can't bear to look at or think about myself, just as in the worst moments of dysphoria pre-T.

It's not that no one told me there are tough parts to transitioning. Among others, my girlfirend (who is a trans woman) has always been careful to give me an honest, balanced, and realistic picture of what transition is like - that there are lows as well as highs, that it takes time and I must be patient, that there will be setbacks even if the overall trend is upward. Still, I wouldn't have thought that after T, I might feel so groundless - disconnected from being female by the extra 25mg of testosterone percolating through my body every week, by the fact that I have fuzz on my face and my muscles are growing while my butt is shrinking (not to mention by the fact that I never felt female to begin with), while also feeling like it's impossible for me to be male, because I do still have curves, and even worse remnants of femaleness.

I'm nothing at the moment, which is ground I thought I wanted to inhabit last summer, but not now. This no man's land of not this and not that, or too much of this and not enough of that, is harder to bear than I would have thought. I expected the confusion of strangers, the continuation of misgendering, for at least a few months more. But I thought I would feel hopeful, happy, excited - at least, no worse than before. Instead I feel farther than ever from masculinity, despairing of ever achieving it, loathing toward my body and disappointed and uncomfortable with how I look and am perceived by others. Things were supposed to get better. I was supposed to look and feel more male. But at the moment, I feel like hardly more than a girl in drag. (Which is silly, because I don't feel like I'm a girl, and feminine articles are what feel like drag to me. But this is what I think my outward appearance seems like at the moment, and that's why it hurts so much, because it's the opposite of how I feel on the inside - I'm not a girl; these male clothes belong on me and are not drag.)

I know in a few days I'll probably feel better, because I'll notice some new change or further development, and I'll remember that things really are getting better, bit by bit. Having written this down, I feel a little better already, because the big picture is back in sight. There are things going on which I've barely hinted at, because you just don't want to know; it's gory and graphic; but that too will pass - it may take months, but as long as I keep sticking that needle in my stomach every week, things will keep changing, and even the worst parts of female anatomy will fade. I may feel lost in fog, but at least I have a compass - I know which direction to go. I just need to keep picking my feet up and putting them down, one after the other, until I get there.

My Gender Journey

On the eve of starting T, I felt the need to reflect on how I got here. This isn't going to explain why I'm starting T - the answer to that is simple; it's that my body feels wrong and I think T may help to correct that. This is going to explain how I figured that out.

I'm writing this partly to share my story, with trans* people and non-trans* people alike, in the hopes of fostering more understanding for everybody – but I can't deny that I'm also trying to justify to myself something that feels unreal and unbelievable. A year ago, I had no inkling I'd ever want to transition. I'd had my doubts about gender, but identifying as trans and wanting to transition to the other sex were things that I never thought would happen to me.

There might have been a few flickers, when my trans male friends spoke of their transitions, of breast binding, of the end of menstrual periods - there may have been flashes of "Whataboutmecouldthatbemetoo?" Which were promptly quashed because no way, I was cisgendered. Just because I disliked having breasts and a period and having a curvy body instead of a flat, muscular one and wanted to pass as a guy sometimes but couldn't because of my curvy body - that didn't mean I was trans. I was just - not that feminine. Maybe genderqueer, because I didn't "get" girls and had no interest in acting like one or being one.

Well, unless it was to dress up like one occasionally to get the attention of boys. Boys liked it when I dressed up as a girl. They didn't like it when I dressed macho. They liked my chest and couldn't get why I exercised constantly in an effort to make it smaller.

Ever since I started caring about boys (junior year of high school), my outward presentation and even my self-image were a war between what I wanted and what I thought others wanted of me. I tried to deny what I really wanted – to wear cargo pants and be tough and macho - to make myself more desirable to others, particularly to straight guys.

There were gaps where my own desires started to claw their way out. A year of singlehood during which I owned that I was very "macho" and decided I needed to date women, because I was too macho for a man to accept. I felt my dissociation from the female gender so strongly that when I did end up dating a man after all, I told him, the night of our first date, "I'm not a girl." I thought he accepted me, with my cargo pants and my macho tendencies, but gradually I found he preferred to see me in a short skirt. Well, that's just what guys want, I figured. They like girls in skirts. And it was fun to play the girl. That was when I felt really desired. Being myself? No one wanted that version of me, so why bother?

And then I met someone who did want to see the real me, and that's when it all came crashing down.

I don't know why it was that in June 2014, a blog post, a text conversation and a google chat suddenly ripped my body issues wide open. Maybe it was the explosiveness of years of repressed feelings spilling out into the light when they finally found an audience who would not judge, condemn or reject them. Not just any audience - for most of my friends are people who would never judge someone else's gender or body feelings - but my primary romantic partner. I was used to hearing (or picking up from subtle clues) what I had to do to make someone else happy. But my partner told me to do what made me happy.

At that time, I didn't know what would make me happy. I only knew what made me feel terrible - my chest. I suddenly loathed it more intensely than ever before and wished it would go away. I suddenly understood those frightening scenarios of trans people who are driven to amputate body parts, because that's how badly I wished my chest would go away.

I didn't, of course, cut off my chest, but the next day I put on a sports bra and felt some relief. It was less visible; in fact, I was remarkably flat compared to before. 

In the midst of my angst, my partner had asked me, "So do you think you're still a girl, or are you genderqueer or trans?" And I replied in anguish, "I don't know!" I hesitated to admit to myself that what I was feeling was dysphoria, that sense of discomfort or dislike or hatred or anguish toward one's own body that I considered characteristic of being trans. How could I know what dysphoria felt like, how could I claim to be experiencing it? That was for trans people, and for me to claim it felt appropriative. Because I wasn't trans; I couldn't be. I would know if I was trans. I would just know.

Genderqueer, though - that was an identity I had toyed with for a long time. Surely, the sense I had that I wasn't a girl, and now the way I hated that mark of femaleness, my breasts, qualified me as genderqueer. Surely I could safely say, I'm not a girl, so…I must be no gender at all. Genderless. Nothing.

So I set about trying to live as nothing. At least ostensibly, I tried to present myself as neutral. The trouble was, people kept perceiving me as a woman no matter how hard I tried, and that bothered me. I experimented with clothes and hairstyles and tried to find a look that would be perceived as "ambiguous" or "confusing," that would prompt people to wonder, Is that a man or a woman? I called it my "balancing act," and it was an extremely anxious time for me. 

Channeling Ari Koivunen \m/

I thought what I wanted, what my identity was, was to be neutral, but even more than that, I wanted so badly not to be seen as a woman. And so, I learned what it felt like to be misgendered. The starkest example is when I went to a friend's birthday party, and she introduced me to someone as so-and-so's sister. Sister. The word made my stomach sink. How could I be someone's sister when I wasn't a woman? The next day I told the relevant people that I preferred the term "sibling."

Already in June, too, I experimented with something I'd wanted to try since college - passing as male. Although I called it "dressing up as a guy," because since I didn't see myself as male, it didn't make sense to me that I should pass as such. My first attempt was June 20, 2014, at the Agalloch show at Empire. I was incredibly nervous about it. I texted my partner, "I don't know if I'm more nervous about passing or not passing." If people actually took me for a guy, what would I do? And what if people saw through me - read me as "a girl dressed as a guy"? But I got there very late (a couple songs into Agalloch's set) and only talked to a few friends afterward. They didn't seem to notice anything different about me, even though I didn't generally wear baggy shorts or button down shirts before then. My first attempt at passing as male was a flop.

The next time that I tried - at the MoCo Ag Fair on August 11 - went a little better. Early on, a ticket seller addressed me as "ma'am," which made my confidence in appearing male plummet. But later on, a food seller refrained from addressing me either way, even though he called my (cis male) friends "sir," all the while giving me a friendly smile. I don't know what he saw, but at least he didn't address me with female terms - which is still the best I can get most days now.

That was also when I started learning and consciously trying to walk and stand "like a man" and to use a lower voice. One of my friends gave me a great deal of advice on the subject, some of it helpful, some of it disheartening. (The best advice, though, came from my friend J at MD Renn Fest in September. They key to moving "like a guy," it turned out, was moving so as to avoid squishing things. You know what things I'm talking about :P)

The corollary to trying to pass as male was that I started to have a strong sense of crossdressing whenever I dressed overtly feminine. The most extreme case was when I wore a bikini to the beach in early August. When I removed my shorts and tank top to reveal my very skimpy bathing suit, I felt so intensely crossdressed that I was sure someone would see through me, see a man in a women's bathing suit, and come over to me waving their finger and saying, "You shouldn't be wearing that!" It was the last time I ever wore something blatantly feminine in public.

Going out as male also forced me to come up with a different name - for I could hardly try to pass as male, but then introduce myself with my female name. But since I thought of myself as genderless, I wanted something neutral, so I used the name "Sascha" at first. I only used that name a few times though. By the end of August, I couldn’t bear to introduce myself by my female name, even when I wasn’t trying to pass as male. I felt like I was misrepresenting myself, and setting other people up to misgender me. Yet Sascha was never a name I intended to use full time; it wasn’t quite me enough. I still wanted something ambiguous, though, because at the time I still didn’t think of myself as male. And then one day I remembered how a college professor had made fun of Finnish researcher with a name that’s male in Finnish but female in the U.S. It was a name from my heritage and there were family reasons, besides, which made it a fitting name – so I decided to stick it to that professor and use that name.

In August, I finally changed my pronouns as well. It happened very publicly and suddenly. I was at the birthday party of a close friend on August 17, and the friend’s spouse (also one of my best friends) said several things about me to the gathering using female pronouns. It felt so wrong, I couldn’t bear it, and then and there asked my friends not use female pronouns for me anymore. That evening I made an announcement on Facebook that I wished to be called “they” (or “xe” for anyone patient enough to learn an obscure pronoun).

By the end of August, it became clear to me that I was expressing myself in more and more masculine ways. I had stopped wearing anything remotely feminine – capri shorts, women’s sandals and sneakers, any hairstyles other than a “guy” ponytail or simple braid – and attempted to wear male attire as much as possible, especially to my office job, which was the only place I had really worn feminine attire to begin with.

With this tendency toward masculinity, I suspected I might be transmasculine – but I couldn’t find a justification for that, since it’s not defined by presentation. Women can express themselves masculinely – wearing male clothing, acting in a masculine manner – and yet still be women; that’s the very definition of butch women. The difference, I felt, was that I figured butch women would feel proud of the fact that they are women. I felt the exact opposite. I felt that I wasn’t a woman, felt pained whenever anyone perceived me as one, and felt self-loathing whenever I contemplated my female body parts. But still, did that make me transmasculine or just plain old genderqueer?

That didn’t get sorted out for a long time. What was clear to me was how I wanted to present myself and be perceived by others. By September, I no longer wanted to hear anyone call me, or more importantly, introduce myself to anyone by my female name; and I found that being called “they” wasn’t enough, and that I longed to be called “he” and to try to pass as male every day. So on September 11, I came out my friends by asking them to call me by a different name and male pronouns through a post on Facebook.

I thought that that was the end of it, for at that time, I had no wish to physically transition. I did wish I could have a deeper voice and more masculine musculature, but I didn’t want facial or body hair. That changed at the end of September when I met some people from DCATS who had been on T for years. Before that, almost all the trans guys I knew were just starting T, and so this was my first close-up glimpse of the potential power of T. These guys looked like men. That’s not the most PC way to say it, but that was my first reaction upon meeting them. These are trans guys? They look like men!

And so, later that evening I lay on my bed and daydreamed about having a male body, and thought for the first time about starting T.

It took me months to sort out whether to actually do it, though. Even now, on the eve of starting HRT, I still have my doubts. (Is it safe to admit that?) I still think sometimes, what the fuck am I doing? Do I really have to do this? But the pang every time I'm misgendered, the discomfort at the thought that other parents at school see me as my daughter's "mom," the way I can't stand to look at or think about my body or fully share it with my current romantic partner, these all tell me that, yes, if I want to happy with myself, then I have to. And I keep in mind the words of that person who helped me through my first dysphoric crisis, once I started changing my life: "Think of how awesome you feel now. Feeling awesome is always better than the alternative."

It took months, months of fighting self-doubt, and the fear of change and of coming out, and internalized cissexist attitudes - and I will likely go on battling those things for some time. But I have a fairly definite idea now of what makes me feel awesome. Accepting and taking pride in the fact that I am a man, even though I was born with female anatomy. Living as a man, and being perceived as one by others. And finally, I think that inhabiting a male body, being able to live as a man more thoroughly, to be more consistently perceived as one, will also make me feel awesome.

Some people know the endpoint of their gender journey when they start out, but I didn’t. I still don’t know where it will take me – how things will go on T, what changes I’ll pursue after that. For me, it’s a journey of exploration. There may be a destination, there may not. As long as I'm feeling more awesome about myself, it's all good.

Masculinity - For everyone, defined by no one

A few days ago I read an article about why someone would date a masculine woman instead of a (cis) guy (and why you probably shouldn't even ask that question to begin with). The article doesn't directly relate to my romantic relationship, since I'm not a masculine woman or a cisgender guy. But it makes a valid point and, more importantly, to me, the way it discusses masculinity made me think about how I define my own masculinity, and masculinity in general.

The article says that "masculinity doesn't belong to any gender" and that "a man’s masculinity [is not] more authentic, more natural, [or] superior to a woman’s masculinity." Men don't have any exclusive claim on masculinity. Which makes sense to me, since I lived as a woman with masculine traits for many years, and fully support women who want to express masculinity to do so. (And now I'm the converse, a man who expresses femininity from time to time. Or maybe a lot of the time :P)

It's not just that women can be masculine, though - it's that women's (or genderqueer or trans* folks') masculinity isn't any less authentic than (cis) men's. Masculine women or queers aren't imitating cis men; they're expressing themselves in the way that feels most natural.

At least, that's what I'd like to think. But where does masculinity come from if not from how cis men act? We could call it a loose collection of behaviors and attitudes that used to be most associated with straight, cisgender men, but can now be adopted by anybody. But even defining it that way has a really gross heteronormative ring to it. Yet what is masculinity if not "how mainstream heteronormative society expects men to act"?

Masculinity is important to me, but I have a hard time pinning down exactly what it is. It's in the way I dress, the way I walk and move, the way I act toward my girlfriend, and to a lesser extent the way I interact with pretty much everyone (especially at metal concerts and martial arts dojos). But a lot of that is defined by the general consensus of "how men act" (or dress). I won't wear a lot of things that are considered "women's clothing." I try to walk and move "like a man" and I try to "be the guy" in my romantic relationship. Part of that is intense discomfort with being perceived as female, or with feeling something I'm doing or wearing is heightening the impression of me being female. I long to be seen as male so I try to do and wear the things that cis guys do.

To a point, anyway. Many a time I've said to myself, "What's the point of all this if I can't be myself?" And so I haven't cut my hair, and I sometimes wear shirts that don't quite hide my curves just because I like them so damn much, and I still love pink and purple and anything with hibiscus flower print on it. I still cry sometimes - or a lot, this past week. I would definitely argue that being willing to let out my feelings, even in tears, doesn't make me, or anyone, less of man. Some people would disagree and say that crying isn't "manly." But I also have friends who would say that expressing one's feelings is a sign of strength, and therefore, not "unmanly."

And I feel like this isn't just a thing among my friends, but that society as a whole is slowly shifting in this direction - allowing men to express their feeling more, even through tears. The idea of what's masculine is changing. And so perhaps we can't pin down what exactly masculinity is or who defines it, because it's a diverse and fluctuating concept. The idea of what constitutes "masculine" behavior varies not just from culture to culture, but from person to person. And it's constantly changing over time. Fathers are much more involved with their children now (at least, in the US) than they were in the 1950's. "Sensitive" guys are starting to be valued, and people keep telling me, "it's ok for guys to cry." My generation takes equality and egalitarianism between men and women for granted (at least in name if not always in deed) when that wasn't the case 60 years ago. And individuals and organizations are focusing on teaching healthy masculinity that doesn't contribute to sexism or relationship abuse and can lay the basis for true equality between men and women (and everyone else).

With so much change and variation, is there even any point to the concept of masculinity? At some point, will this individualistic and varied (and hopefully, progressive) spectrum of what constitutes masculinity become so broad that it's meaningless, because the definition of "masculinity" is different for every person, and ultimately it just boils down to people expressing themselves how they want, regardless of sex, gender or norms?

I think eventually we'll arrive at a freer, more progressive, more egalitarian concept of masculinity, but I don't think the concept will go away. Due to the demands of biology, I'm fairly sure the distinction (not dichotomy, or binary, but just the difference) between female and male, and with them their associated behaviors and attitudes - femininity and masculinity - will go on existing for quite some time. But the definitions will only become looser, more open to interpretation, more available to be practiced in diverse ways by various people.

So who defines masculinity? Whoever practices it does. This used to be restricted to cis men, but more and more, anyone can do it. Anyone can claim a piece of masculinity for themselves, and no one can tell them they can't or that they're doing it wrong.

What's Right Ain't Always Easy

I've been poly for, gosh, over two years now. It's hard to believe it's been that long.

Especially considering that I still feel like a poly n00b. Because in fact, poly can still be really hard for me at times.

I got into poly because I liked a girl, and didn't want to break up with my boyfriend for her, and it just so happened we all liked each other and formed a triad for a while. But I stayed poly because I believe in the tenets of openness and honesty - to myself as much as to my partner(s) - and freedom - for my own feelings as much as for my, and my partners', actions.

And that's why, when given the chance to back down from a boundary that turned out to make me a little uncomfortable in practice, I chose to hold my ground and fight the good fight against my own insecurity and jealousy. Because I didn't get into this just to slowly slide back into monogamy because that's what's comfortable and my girlfriend would be fine with it. I got into this so that I and the people I love can express their love and affection freely, so that I don't have to censor myself, and so that I don't control the bodies of other people in my life.

The thing is, change, even good change, is uncomfortable. I've experienced this in a variety of contexts recently. Even though I prefer a male name and pronouns now, introducing myself with them was a little awkward at first. Confronting my privilege on various fronts is uncomfortable. So why would living as poly when I've grown up in a largely monogamous society be any different?

It's worth facing the discomfort, though. I wouldn't feel right with myself if I didn't support my girlfriend's freedom to do what she chooses with her body. The boundary that we have concerns what can be done spontaneously and what needs to be discussed first, and I think it's a reasonable boundary. It's something that allows us to express ourselves, our feelings, freely to a certain extent, without having to delay to discuss it first.

The spontaneity part, however, led me to feel that something was sprung on me without being discussed first (earth to Tal: that was the whole point of the agreement!) which made me feel uncomfortable. Why didn't she tell me ahead of time? After a long phone call and equally long series of text messages, I realized that was the point. She didn't have to tell me ahead of time. That was what I had wanted - for us, both of us, to be able to do things to a certain point without needing to stop and talk about it.

Now, what actually happened - she wanted me to clarify so there are no misconceptions, since people we know IRL read this blog - is that while she was out of town, she slept next to someone and let them spoon with her. This is no big deal. I definitely have no problem with spooning, since there are about half a dozen friends that I would happily spoon or cuddle with, without it even being sexual. Physical contact is a nice thing. And I want my girlfriend to have nice things.

What got me is that while telling me about what happened, she said she told the other person, "I already cleared it with my boyfriend." Wait, what? When? That's when the anxiety kicked into overdrive. It took an hour of talking and texting for the emotional part of my brain to calm down and let the rational part remind me, We talked about it months ago. She cleared it then. I had just never processed it that way. I had been so focused on not going past the boundary, reminding myself, "Don't kiss anyone without talking to the girlfriend first!" (and, I even messed that up once >.<) that I didn't even think about what I could do. Or what she could do.

So I was caught off guard. I got confused, and anxious, and jealous. It took a bit to calm down the green-eyed monster and remember that, No, this was what I wanted, for both of us. I want this freedom for her.

During our long talk, my girlfriend expressed that since I was uncomfortable, and since she has pretty much no interest in other people, we can take a step back - she can avoid things like spooning with other people without talking about it first. It was very tempting to give in to fear and jealousy, and say yes to that. But that, I realized, would be tantamount to a slide back into monogamy, or even worse, a one-sided relationship where I can be poly because she doesn't get jealous, but she can't because I do. How is that fair? I don't want to give up on being poly, and that means I can't deny my girlfriend the same freedom. In fact, I want her to have it, to be able to express her affection and fulfill her physical needs as she sees fit. Those things make people happy, and I want her to be happy. Of course, it's preferable to do it with open discussion and awareness of each other's feelings. But to say that that we have to discuss before anything physical happens with anyone else seems unreasonably restrictive - being allowed to be mildly physical with other people without needing to talk about it first is reasonable, I believe.

Even though surprises unnerve me, and when I'm unnerved, the chain reaction to jealousy can get set off.

So what that means is that I have my work cut out for me. Because no way am I going to let this relationship be ruled by anxiety, insecurity and jealousy. I am better than that. I want something better than that for both of us. In a way, the incident was a wake-up call, that I had gotten complacent in the battle against the ingrained paths of fear, jealousy and control that monogamous culture has created in me. Because of those thought patterns, it's really not easy being poly - at least not for me. But it's something I believe in, and so I won't succumb to jealousy. It snuck up on me this time, but now I'm on my guard, so hopefully, the next time something spontaneous happens, I won't be surprised.

Isn't it enough?

Is this good enough?

Every now and then I look in the mirror, and I'm happy enough with what I see that I think to myself, maybe I don't need to change myself physically after all. Yesterday (when this picture was taken) was one of those days.

It probably helped, of course, that I didn't leave the house at all, so no one noticed my girly face or my not-quite-flat chest. It probably helped that I was wearing some of my favorite clothes - camo cargo pants and this shirt that Someone handed down to me, which is so soft and comfy yet doesn't emphasize my curves; in fact it does the exact opposite. And that I could wear my hair down and messy - death metal hair.

If I could look like this every day, would I be happy? Well, for one thing, I can't. Sometimes I have to go to work and tie up my hair and wear things that aren't cargo pants and T shirts. Sometimes I even have to wear a military uniform, and oh boy is it tough to be a guy with long hair and a girly face and high voice when in uniform >.<

And sometimes I have to undress and come face to face with my curves. I try to ignore them as much as I can, but sometimes something forces me to confront the fact that my body is shaped like a girl's body, and it makes me feel sick.

And then there's the fact that no matter what I wear, I still get called "Ma'am" sometimes (or "Mom" when I'm at my kid's school), I still get weird looks and awkward questions in the restroom, I still hate the way my voice sounds when I answer the phone at work.. It's not all about passing, but do I really want to live the rest of my life having people assume I'm the wrong gender, and getting them to acknowledge the right one only as a favor or through sheer brute force of will?

Yes, in a way wearing my favorite clothes and my death metal hair is enough - for now. It will get me through. For every day of being miserable while being constantly misgendered in uniform, there will also be a day of feeling good cause I'm wearing what I like and think I look tough and metal. But it's a bandaid. It's the bare minimum of being myself. Wouldn't it be cool if I could be myself no matter what I'm wearing? If being myself wasn't just an outfit that I have to take off at the end of day, but my actual physical reality?

I don't know what I'll look like after hormones, what extent of physical changes will truly constitute enough. Facial hair or no facial hair? How big of muscles? How small of a butt? A face that's only slightly less girly, or a lot less girly? I think I'll just know it when I see it. One day I'll be able to look at my body and not feel like it's a bad costume, but rather that it's me, really me.

And then finally my death metal hair will be just a part of a truly badass whole.

I Haven't Known All My Life

Yesterday my girlfriend told me to watch this scene from Glee where the football coach comes out as a trans man. Naturally I was very interested to see how this would play out. Naturally I was very gratified by the "happy ending" of the scene. But there was one line in it that made my heart sink.

I'm not denying that there are a lot of good things about this scene. The hugs and unconditional acceptance at the end of the scene. The fact that the character gets to keep his job after coming out as trans. The fact that trans men, who haven't gotten nearly as much screen time as trans women, are being portrayed at all, and in an overwhelmingly positive and accepting way at that. It's almost enough to outweigh the one unfortunate thing I heard in this scene.

And yet.

In spite of all the good in this scene, it still gets under my skin that yet again, a trans person is shown in the media with the words "I've known all my life" coming out of their mouth.

I haven't known all my life. I didn't figure this shit out until I was 28. Most of my trans friends have told me the same thing. "I figured it out when I was in college." I can only think of one trans person whom I personally know who might be able to say, "Yeah, I've known my whole life." It's not a story I've heard much at all. Matt Kailey, probably the most respected trans man activist in the U.S., didn't know all his life. He didn't figure it out till he was 42.[1] If my therapist is to be believed, the majority of trans people don't "always know" that they're supposed to the gender opposite the anatomy they were born with. Most people figure it out gradually.

In particular, this seems to be a thing with trans men. All of my trans male friends (who have told me their stories) have told me some variation of "it clicked for me when xyz happened in high school/ in college/ etc.." My guess is this has something to do with the fact that in the Mid-Atlantic United States in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, it's been ok for "girls" to be masculine - to wear cargo pants, to play rugby, to cut their hair short. So a lot of trans guys have been able to live the way they want without becoming aware of their gender identity until... something happens and it clicks. Wait a minute - I don't just want to be manly; I want to be a man.

Of course, that doesn't mean there couldn't be people like the coach on Glee who have known their whole lives. It's just that (judging from my very limited exposure to TV or movies) this is the only perspective that's being portrayed in the media, and it doesn't represent the majority of trans people, trans guys in particular.

When I've talked about this sort of thing with my therapist (because one of my doubts, early on, was, Wasn't I supposed to have known since I was little that I'm really a boy?), she has posited that this narrative of "I've known all my life" was created to help non-trans people better understand trans people. I guess it gives gender dysphoria and the desire to transition more urgency or poignancy if you can say, "Ever since I was two years old I've thought my body was wrong and I desperately need to get out of it!" For some people this is true, and it does make a touching story and whoever has had to suffer through dysphoria for their whole childhood - and sometimes much of adult life - before transitioning has my deepest sympathy. (Really. Someone close to me has a story kind of like this, and I feel a pang of sympathy whenever she tells me about her school-age years.) But this story doesn't represent trans people as a whole. And that's where the narrative fails. If it isn't depicting us the way we really are, how is it helping cis people to understand us?

It's wonderful that trans people are being shown more in the media, and being shown in a positive, sympathetic way. But we need to be shown in a way that reflects our reality, the truth and diversity of our experiences, and not with a monolithic narrative that tries to squeeze us all into the boxes we're trying so hard to escape from.

Works Cited
[1] http://www.one-colorado.org/news/meet-matt-kailey/
(Note: I don't endorse everything Matt Kailey says; in fact, my next post will probably be my beef with something he said in his book Just Add Hormones. But he was undeniably one of the foremost voices making trans men more visible in the US and for that he deserves a lot of respect. May he rest in peace.)