Masculinity and Me.

Before reading this, I suppose a small introduction might be necessary. First, writing this triggered memories and experiences for me, so it might trigger things for you. Second, I was identified as male when I was born. I was raised male my whole life. When I was thirty, I finally had my first physical examination. After a series of test, the doctor "diagnosed" me as intersex-- hormonally, possibly chromosomally-- I am not quite XY-male. It took a little bit to figure out what that meant for me. Ultimately, it means that I am still me and still very much male. I consider myself fairly masculine, but at the same time I have my queeny moments.

The essay here presents little snapshots of my masculinity, through both fictive and non-fictive moments. I won't pretend to speak for all men, or even a majority. I also can't claim to give voice to all those who are not men, but identify as masculine. I can only speak for me and how I have been made to feel over my life. Hopefully it will do some good. 

“You’re too butch to be gay,” my mother would tell me anytime I would affect a Paul Lind/Charles Nelson Riley-esque speech pattern. Honestly, at the time, I had no idea what gay was or that these two men and the way they spoke was associated with homosexuality. It just felt sort of natural at times. Without any knowledge about what being gay was, being chastised made me feel like I really didn’t want to be gay. I just had to figure out what gay was, so I could avoid being it.

“No one likes a crybaby,” a boy told me on the playground. It wasn’t the first time I was told this, but the voice echoes in my mind all the time. Before then, most adults I knew described me as “sensitive,” or the adult equivalent of saying a child is emotional. Until then, I had no real problem with crying and demonstrating my emotions in front of people. After being told over and over about being a crybaby, I stopped being able to cry in front of most people. Being emotional became a private affair and in time even those tears dried up.

“There are three genders in singing: Men, Women, and Tenors,” said the choir director of Capital High School. When my voice changed, I had become a tenor, specifically a first tenor. I loved my high voice, before cigarettes and testosterone changed my voice a bit. But, she and her students were great to remind me whenever we had cross-town choir events that I wasn’t a real man, nor was any tenor. Men are baritones and basses. Boys could be sopranos and altos. But tenors were something quite different.

“What is that thing?” The third time I attempted to have intercourse with a woman, she was less than impressed with my endowment. She was still laughing as she left my apartment. I knew I wasn’t really into women, but I wanted to be straight. I wanted to feel normal. But, not only could I not be a straight man, but my endowment meant I wasn’t a real man, at least not to a random woman from the bar. The next morning, I woke up in a bathtub of cold water. Thankfully, my attempt to kill myself failed.

“I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to father any children.” My world crashed down when my doctor told me. Growing up, the one consistent dream for my future was that I would be a father. When I turned thirty, I finally had a physical examination. The doctor was concerned when he had difficulty finding my testicles and explained that I had hypogonadism. After a battery of tests that found that my testosterone level was significantly lower than the “normal” range for men. The hormones for body hair was perfectly fine and all of the other pituitary hormones were fine. This was the first time the word intersex was used to describe me.

“Well, I’ve found one of them,” the radiologist had been called in because neither the student tech nor the regular ultrasound tech could find my testicles. I had slipped on the ice the day before and due to gravity and the size of my body, I had managed to dislocate both testicles. A few months later, I was given a choice: “We can leave them where they are, We can open you up and pull them down and stitch them into place, but they won’t be able to protect themselves. Or, we can remove them completely. If they can’t regulate their temperature, there is a higher chance of cancer, so you may need to have them removed anyways.” Right now, they are still dislocated.

“Don’t be such a pansy.” While I have spent almost three decades subduing externalized emotions, such as tears and crying, I can be quite passionate at times. She, my boss at work, didn’t realize what she said or how it might affect me. I had made the mistake of voicing emotion, even without tears in my eyes. But it was clear that as a man, I shouldn’t feel anything. Or if I do feel something, I shouldn’t say anything. No one wants to hear a man express his feelings.

“You know that’s not healthy.” After being told by several friends that I should go see a therapist, I finally decided to reach out and get help. It was easier to talk to her about being raped by a friend and that my father abandoned me when I was quite young, than t talk with her about crying. As we were finishing our work on the primary concern, I told her I have only cried three times as an adult. I know it isn’t healthy, but I don’t know how to do it any more. Even if I did know how to do it, who would care?

“You’re a misogynist.” All I said was that I am frustrated by the #MasculinitySoFragile movement. We are all fragile. We can all be broken. Treating all men as if there is only ONE form of masculinity misses the point and puts us all in a box—often a box we don’t belong in. This isn’t about #NotAllMen. We’re told that people understand that it is a small majority who are toxic, but too many people lump all of us into toxic masculinity. They don’t seem to realize the microaggressions that take place every day, the little jabs that happen every day. But we have to toughen up, soldier on, no matter how much the constant bombardment of images, memes, hashtags, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, words. They hurt, but Chin up. Don’t let them see that they are getting to you. Don’t let them win.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.” There was a time when I hoped someone would say this. While I am not suicidal these days, there is someone who is. Someone who has been told over and over that he has to fit into a box—a box that is now belittled—that he never fit in. He has to sit and listen as people poke and prod at who they think he is because of his beard, his chest hair, his penis. If they only knew that at night he wrote poetry that he was too afraid to let anyone see. He cried himself to sleep because no one would listen to him. They always said he was the tough guy, because he stood 6’3” and spent time lifting. Thing is, he lifted because it hurt and pain was the one way he knew he was real. His sweats are crisscross scars from years of cutting. In death, maybe someone would notice that he’d been hurting and no one allowed him to heal.

We worry about toxic masculinity, but we forget how toxic our criticism can be to those who experience and live other types of masculinity. We reach out and slap others down for trying to put people in a box, but then we put certain people in a box and label them. We want men to be able to communicate, but silence them. We want them to express emotions, but we offer little compassion. In order to heal the toxicity, we need to help men be the people we want them to be, not tear them down for any perceived flaw. We need to remember that just as there is no universal sisterhood, whereby all women can be lump together, there is no universal brotherhood. There is no set standard for masculinity that all men can be judged by.

This should not be construed as a Men’s Rights Activist manifesto. Men have plenty of rights and privileges conferred on us just because we have a penis. Instead, this should be read as an appeal. That many of us are hurting and feel trapped. We can’t deny that we are men, but we also don’t like that our bodies lump us into a box that seems so terribly despised. I understand, there are some that specifically want men to feel as powerless as women have felt. To be universally treated because of your sex/gender. What does a win look like from that perspective? Men lashing out because no one taught us how to deal with our emotions? Suicides because we feel trapped?  How do we get it to stop? To begin the healing?

Oh, is this your Wife?

I saw a great picture recently saw this picture come across my Facebook feed. Being in a gay relationship, I have had people ask this question a number of times. And it gets more frustrating each time it's asked.

The hardest one was from my mother. I called her to share with her that my partner and I had exchanged rings. It was private, just something between us. I meant the world to us. We sobbed and held each other and promised to be with one another for the remaining days of our life. The first person we called after was my mother. We were still in the car. Britain was holding my hand as I dialed. We were still teared up, and my eyes were blurry from the tears as I dialed the number. She picked up and a smile spread from ear to ear.

"I have something to tell you," I knew I was going to be a smart ass. "We're pregnant."
"Oh my... wait, what?" She was very confused.
"Nah, Britain and I wanted you to be the first to know," I took a deep breath. "We exchanged rings."
There was a moment of silence and then she finally spoke up. "That's great. Are you the wife?"

My heart sank when she asked the question.

Growing up, I would occasionally act effeminate. When I would do it, it wasn't because I thought I was a girl or even that I was gay. It just felt natural. My mother had the same response each time: "You are too butch to be gay." It was her mantra. Any time I would act "girly" or "gay it up" she would tell me that. It was her way of telling me to man up and act like a boy.

Toys were another place she would try to "butch" me up. For years, I asked for an Easy-Bake Oven for Christmas or my birthday. When Santa failed to bring it, I would ask why he didn't bring me the one thing I really wanted. My mother's response was,"Santa doesn't bring girl toys to boys." I should have figured the whole Santa thing out sooner. Maybe if I asked my Grandma for it, I would have found it under the tree. My Grandma was the one that would get me all my Care Bears and other "softer" toys.

These memories flashed through my mind when my mother asked me if I was the wife. I was hurt and offended. I suppose I had associated a number of negative feelings with being feminine in any way. I felt like I was a man. I dress like a man. I was raised to be a man and I am a man. Why the hell would I be the wife?

After a moment, I answered, "No." I know I sounded a bit indignant.

"Is Britain the wife," she sounded extremely confused.

"No." I wanted to yell. I am a man. He is a man. There is no wife. Relationships do not need a perfect binary experience of male/female or husband/wife to be validated.

"Well then how do you..." I cut her off. I finally realized what was prompting her questions. I have never had THAT talk with my mother. And, while we do have a pretty open relationship, I don't imagine I will ever have that talk with her.

I have had similiar experiences when some of my wonderful heterosexual friends have asked these types of questions. I have come to realize that in many cases, they are not asking because they want to define our relationship through heteronormative roles. It is more like when you are trying to learn a new language. If you have a native tongue, you are often going to filter other languages through it. And I do appreciate when my friends have even reached out to learn the lingo or idioms, like tops and bottoms or pitchers and catchers. It is still frustrating that they want to define relationship roles through something as private as what we do in the bedroom. However, for me, I have realized that I define myself by what I do in the bedroom. After all, I proudly announce to the world on a regular basis that I am a homosexual man.

Most people, once they get to know Britain and I realize that our relationship isn't really about husband and wife or any other role-specific terms. Hell, even in our own relationship, we have a hard time really defining roles. Sometimes, we are partners or lovers; at other times we are best friends; some days we act very much like siblings; and sometimes, we act like the parent of the other.  But in the end, the roles I prefer are just simply Brit and Will.

For those straight folks, friends, families, and allies, my best advise is to not make assumptions based on your own personal experience as to who is what in the relationship. Even within heterosexual relationships, gender roles don't always apply to who or what your function. If your friends are open, they may explain how things work. They might not. Listen for titles they may use to describe one another. I usually refer to Britain as my husband, husbear or partner, depending on the audience. He usually picks the same ones. Ask them if they are ok with you using them to refer to the other. I am always fine with people asking about Britain using any of those terms. And know that we love that you are interested and want to be accepting and loving of who we are. It means alot to us.

What the Hell is a Bear?

Growing up a big, hairy gay male wasn’t always easy for me. When I was younger, I was teased for my large frame. As I started to realize my attractions, I felt further dejected. There weren’t any characters that looked like me. They were all slim and or muscular guys that were attracted to men that mirrored them. I thought for sure I was going to be alone my whole life, as I didn’t have the build that seemed attractive to these men.

I didn’t really have any kind of gay role models. Hell, I didn’t even really know any other gay men. I knew they were out there. Just didn’t know any personally. Thankfully that changed when I moved out on my own. I met a young couple that lived in the same building I did. We would hang out as often as possible. Thankfully they were quite willing to answer all of the questions that had built up inside me. One day, I shared with them the fear I had that I would grow up alone. That I felt no one would really be attracted to a big, fat, hair guy. They both chuckled. One of them shared with me that I was a “bear.” I remember looking at them quite perplexed and asking what that meant.

There is a whole sub-community within the larger gay community of men that are just like me. This small revelation gave me hope. I knew that I was attracted to guys that were like me, large (not necessarily fat) and hairy. But the fact that my attraction was so radically different from the image that the media had fed me for so long made me even more miserable. But now I knew there was no need to be miserable any longer. There were guys out there that not only would be attracted to me, but that it was ok for me to be attracted to them.

It took a few more years before I found other folks in the bear community. Thinking back, I wish I had just gotten on my computer and looked up more information about bears. Turns out that bears tend to really utilize technology to their benefit. They were some of the first to use the internet to find one another. Now, there are tons of gay sites out there to meet all sorts of people. When I met my partner, he was the first bear that I had really gotten to know. He in turn introduced me to several other bears and together we continue to find more guys that fit in our community.

When I identify myself now as a bear, I have straight friends that ask me what that means. So I figured I would put together a little primer for them. Scouring the internet I found the following information to help those who don’t know what a bear is or don’t know much about the community.

There isn’t a clear picture of when the Bear subculture began. Some say that it started as early as the late ‘70s, while others suggest that it started in 1986 with Bear magazine. Regardless of when it began, it has stuck around. Bears tend to be heavy-set men who tend to have hairy bodies and facial hair. However, these are not strict requirements. There are muscle bears, with little body fat and there are those with little body hair as well.

One of the things that I think really defines the bear community is acceptance. The bears I have found online and in person accept people for who they are. This is especially important for those that, like me, thought there wasn’t a place for them in the gay community. There are bears of every shape, race, age, etc. which is incredibly empowering. In addition, bears tend to be friendly and easy going. Both of these are also very inviting.

Bears  have certain terms that they use to refer to one another. Even I get confused by them at times. So I include a brief lesson on bear vocabulary. Use at your own risk.

Bear Basics

Bear – “The most common definition of a "bear" is a man who is hairy, has facial hair, and a cuddly body. However, the word "Bear" means many things to different people, even within the bear movement. Many men who do not have one or all of these characteristics define themselves as bears, making the term a very loose one. Suffice it to say, "bear" is often defined as more of an attitude than anything else - a sense of comfort with our natural masculinity and bodies that is not slavish to the vogues of male attractiveness that is so common in gay circles and the culture at large.” – Urban Dictionary definition

Cub – A term used to describe a young, husky, hairy gay man, essentially a young bear. Typically, cubs have smaller frames than a bear does. It can also be used to describe the submissive partner in a bear relationship

Goldilocks – A woman that hands out with a group of bears. These are our “fag hags”

Otter – A slimmer or less hairy bear

Wolf – A bear that is rugged and outdoorsy

Types of Bears

Black Bears – Bear of African-American descent

Brown Bears – Bear of Latin descent

Daddy Bear – An older or mature bear

Ginger Bear – A Bear with red facial and or body hair

Grizzly Bear – This can mean a couple of things. First it could reference someone that is extremely masculine/dominant. It may also reference someone that is extremely tall, heavy or hairy.

Koala Bear – A bear of Australian descent

Panda Bear – A bear of Asian descent

Pocket Bear – A bear that is short in stature

Polar Bear – A bear with white or grey hair

Hopefully, this helps folks out there understand who I am and the community that I belong to.