Something Queer
Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you’re alone, if you’re with a stranger, if you’re in a group, if you’re in a group of strangers, if it’s dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you’re carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you’re wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who’s around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who’s at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn’t follow all the rules it’s your fault.
Shakesville | Rape Culture 101
So here’s my question about this: how does this affect our masculinity as trans-entities? Lately, I’ve had a fair number of conversations with people about the misogyny that can exist in the queer community, and specifically in butch and trans-masculine spaces. Please note, I am not saying it’s everyone, or pointing fingers, but I am observing that it exists, and in many places. Here is only one site.
I would like to hypothesize that it has something to do with being socialized as female. That even if we have always been male within ourselves, we were taught certain behaviors, attitudes, fears, and expectations. And how can those possibly not affect how I approach my masculinity? What happens when I stop trying to be a “girl,” and instead inhabit the male spaces in my person? Suddenly, I exist in the image of myself as male, and must grapple with the representations of all those things I was told at some point about men and what, if anything, they mean about me.
Now that other people see me as male, and if I have always been, even unto myself, then do those tendencies I have been taught to fear live inside of me? Are they a part of being a man? Even as I push with my fellow sisters/brothers/trannies/beings to change the dominant perception, I must ask how I live in relation to this newfound privilege and expectation that site heavy on my shoulders.
Suddenly, I struggle, finding that a part of “masculinity” as I know it means entitlement, arrogance, a focus on my own pleasure, and on the role of someone being as one to please me. These things worry me. They force me to criticize the male-ness I want so much, the identity I thought so fully struck a chord.
Then I think, “Would a ‘real’ man immediately think about this, if no one had called his privilege to light?” And because I have never been in the place of masculinity without effort, I must wonder how to stand and try to change the way they see their identities. Because without outing myself, I can’t tell them I’ve known the other side. And by outing myself, I admit that I’ve never known what they know, and can only stand outside trying to build a better structure based on what I’ve seen and been told, both by them and by the women who warned me against them.
I remember that no matter what I think about my masculinity, part of the point is that I will most likely always think about it. For me personally, my masculinity will always be queer in some way. It is impossible for me to start a new gender over as a clean slate. There will always be subtleties I miss, things that beings who have always been treated as male will know and experience differently than I will. I can queer masculinity, but only masculinity as I experience it.
Masculinity wasn’t handed to me as a birthright; I didn’t inherit its mantel when I push squalling into the world. Instead, I coveted its lines, emulated its images, and stole its suit from a brother/cousin/father/friend/society. I tailor it to my body, and sometimes, I tailor my body to it. Pinstripes smooth and camouflage my curves, a double-breasted coat disguises the flesh someone called breasts, not pecs, and I believe in every detail from my cufflinks to my pocket square. And in my eagerness to stand next to the other gray flannel suits, I have let go of details I didn’t know I was supposed to know as a man, because it’s an unspoken understanding. While I proudly display the buttons on my suit jacket, I remain unaware that the monogram on my cuff is ever so slightly to the left, not quite perfectly placed, because I picked up the skill just a little late.
