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?

On the Topic of Writing

I always mean to sit down and write, but something always seems to find its way in to distract me. I tell myself, I'll write in the evening, or on Friday when classes are done, or take a leisurely amount of time to myself on Saturday and jot a few things down. Sometimes, I open a blank page and stare at the cursor, willing it to produce even while my fingers sit motionless on the keys. Other times, I will get about this far into something and delete it all, thinking it all sounds like rubbish before I even really get anywhere.

Even when I can get a few minutes to just type, too often it is stolen away for a school project. Weekly reading journals, micro-writing to build up a paper bit-by-bit, forum posts and replies, along with emails to professors and fellow students capture most of my day-to-day keystrokes. It seems, with what little time I have between school, work, relationships, and sleep, I convince myself I just don't have time to get any more words on the page.

"This summer," I tell myself. "I'll set-up a whole series of posts on various topics and then have them timed out to hit the page on a weekly basis. But, then I took up an editing project, balanced that with my internship, and work and pushed aside my writing. It shouldn't be this difficult finding time to do the thing I tell nearly anyone who will listen that I love to do. "I love writing," I say. "I love the way the words feel in my hands. Knowing that those words are coming from some part of me." But, if it is something I love so much, how is it that I can't ever find the time to do it.

Recently, a friend of mine introduced me to the Podcast Writing Excuses. I love the format, as it is only fifteen minutes long and is perfect for listening to in my car on the way to school or work. I got in on it toward the end of season 10 and have been enjoying season 11. One of the early episodes, titled Newton's Laws of Writing, really caught my brain. The first law, then, is a word count at rest tends to stay at rest. It seems so simple, but ultimately true. The only way I am going to write is to write. Thinking or writing isn't getting any word count down. Planning what to write can be beneficial to word count, but only if you actually sit down to write. Set aside time each day. Don't tell yourself that you are going to do it, actually do it.

I live in a fairly textual world. That's why I felt like I was writing. I write funny retorts for friends political rants, fire off witticisms through Facebook posts, use text and private messages as a second form of speech. My eyes are sifting through text nearly ninety-five percent of my waking life. But now is the time to sit down and just let my mind stretch. I really do love to write, as much as a dear friend loves to go walking. It relaxes me. It is my safe space, though why I post my personal essays for the rest of the world still remains a mystery to me. Even if no one reads any of the essays, though, it still gives me a chance to stretch my mental muscles and do something I feel is creative.



I fell in love with writing at an early age. When most kids were running and playing outside, I was inside. When I would visit my grandmother, she'd try to get me to go out and play. But I was more content with causing mischief inside. To quell the potential danger of an overly energetic youngster in the house-- one that on more than one occasion broke some of her jewelry because I was too fidgety-- she sat me down in front of a typewriter. She taught me how to type and I would spend hours plunking away at the keys. I am sure I looked rather comical, having to go one key at a time and really jam my finger against the keys to get them to leave a good mark on the page. She taught me how to set margins and type columns of print, which I would cut and glue to make my own little news papers.


Each time I write these days, some part of me reconnects with that little boy. The one who was smiling ear-to-ear as he would jab his tiny fingers at the keys. Occasionally, when I get stuck, I am more like the little boy who got his finger stuck between the keys and yelped for grandma to come help. Yet, despite the sticks and sputters and false-starts, writing is the one thing that lets me really let go and relax.

My best advice, for myself and anyone else, is take a deep breath and write. It doesn't matter how perfect it is. It doesn't matter if it is only a couple hundred words. Even if it is only for a couple minutes each day, it is time well spent. Over the course of a month, a couple hundred words can add up. You can build momentum, and you will find yourself spending more time doing the thing you love and less time staring blankly at Facebook or Twitter waiting for the next witty response.

Gender - what is it good for?

I suppose this works as a follow up to the post I wrote the other day. The news of the day (well, really the last couple of days) is our public introduction to Caitlyn Jenner. The first moment I saw the cover and looked at Caitlyn I thought to myself, "She looks amazing!" What I saw was a woman who looked comfortable and confident in her body. When I watched the interview with Diane Sawyer, I saw something different, a person that looked uncomfortable. Perhaps this was partially projection on my side, but looking at the two side by side, there is a difference.

The downside to such a public transition is the very public voice that begins to emerge. Of course, in my news feed I see many comments of support. When I click on the various articles and links and look at the comments on them, a different voice is seen. People refusing to use the new name. Refusing to use the correct pronoun. People describing this as disgusting and against God's Will. And, of course, those who see this as nothing by a stunt to get more ratings.

My first experience with transgender folks was back in the late '90s. I was working for USWest at the time and one of my co-worker's husband was beginning to transition. As a male, he struggled with depression which fueled an alcohol addiction. He felt trapped in a life that wasn't right. He loved his wife, but hated his body and who he was. My co-worker had taken the job at USWest partially because she needed the pay it offered, but also because of the medical benefits it provided her spouse. These benefits included hormones and surgery.

This co-worker was the first I'd come out to at work. I was out in my private life and USWest had an LGBT employee organization that gave me the courage to be out at work too. After I told her, she had someone that she could open up to about what she was experiencing with her spouse. I didn't know really anything about transitioning. I especially didn't understand why someone would want to. I was raised as a boy and always felt comfortable with all of my bits and pieces. I couldn't really wrap my brain around the idea, but I lent a sympathetic ear.

The hardest part for my co-worker was that she wanted to get her spouse out of the house. Living in Helena, her spouse was terrified of going out. Of the looks and the comments. I left USWest and started managing a movie theater. It became their special treat with one another. They'd come during the week, when we didn't have many customers. They knew that I'd make both of them feel welcome. The first time I met my co-worker's spouse I was confused. I didn't know what to say or how to act, but I smiled and thanked them for coming in. I keep using the word spouse because that was how they preferred to recognize each other.

I understood immediately why her spouse was afraid to go out. She had a very masculinized body, even after being on hormones for quite sometime. She told me on one their nights out that she hated that all anyone saw was a man in a dress. I told her that I didn't see her that way and she told me I was sweet. But it was true. I didn't see her as a man in a dress. I saw her as a woman. With tears in her eyes, she kissed me on the cheek.

After I moved to Missoula, I had the good fortune of meeting other people who were in various stages of transitioning. I still didn't understand it, but I supported them. I made a few stumbles, mixing up pronouns or deflecting my own insecurities and lack of internal understanding with my usual off-color remarks. One particular moment of stupidity on my part came when I asked a friend if she planned to have surgery. She said she wasn't sure and my brain hit a speed bump. Until then, I thought the end goal of transitioning was complete transformation. I made a remark, which I won't repeat here, that ended up ending our relationship. It wasn't my intent to insult her or hurt her. I reacted without thinking. It has been years since it happened and I still feel utterly ashamed of it.

The first moment of understanding happened when I had my first complete physical examination from a doctor. I was thirty at the time, which probably sounds odd that I was that old before having a physical. I was never involved in any athletics or other activities which would require it and I had never thought to actually schedule an appointment to have one. After the urging of my husband, we agreed to do it together. Our doctor's office let us set up back to back appointments with our doctor and he examined us together. I was the first one of us to have to "turn his head and cough," and that was when it happened. He couldn't find my testicles. I was horribly embarrassed in the moment, especially when he looked up at me and asked why I had never noticed that I was different, given that I am a homosexual man and likely had seen other men. I figured everyone is a little different and just chalked it up to genetics. He eventually found them, but was concerned and ordered an extra set of tests.

When my lab results came back, I met with the doctor again. He explained that normally a male should have a testosterone level of between 300 - 1000. Mine was 60. Another round of tests looking at the pituitary gland and other areas that could affect it showed those levels as normal. He said it was possible that I was XXY. We could run tests to confirm it, but they'd be expensive and my insurance wouldn't cover it. This visit was the first time I had heard the term intersex and he used it to describe me. He wasn't convinced that I was XXY as I lacked many of the tell-tale body signals for it, including the fact that I had quite a bit of body hair. Before meeting with me, he had contacted an endocrinologist and showed him the test results and the recommendation was to treat me as if I was XXY and put me on testosterone replacement.

I remember trying to reconcile myself as intersexed. Up until that moment, my understanding of myself was that I was born male, I was raised male, I felt male. I had a rough time growing a beard, but had long attributed it to the Native American genes I'd inherited from my father. I had some struggles at first, but resolved that I was male. There was no question in my mind about this at all.

This changed a couple of years ago. It was a particularly icy winter day. As long as I can remember, I have been terrified of icy conditions, always afraid I was going to slip and crack my head open. I got to the bottom of my stairs and slipped on a patch of ice landed on the right side of my butt. After a couple of failed attempts, I struggled to my feet. I walked around the corner of my building to my car. As I stepped off the curb, my foot found another patch of ice and down I went, landing the same way as I did before. I was frustrated, cold and wet as I pushed myself up. I drove in the early morning darkness to work. I noticed I was running late, I tried to walk quickly and carefully towards the office doors. I saw the glimmer of another patch of ice and figured I would try to get to the get around it, but missed the snow covered ice patch in from of me. Down I went, but this time with more speed and force. Like the previous two times, I landed on my right side. This time was different. As I got up, I felt like I had taken a swift kick to the groin and my stomach was in knots.

I told the security guys about my fall and had to write up an incident report. I reported it to my supervisor and she gave me the Worker's Compensation information. I told her I was certain that it wasn't necessary, but took it anyways. The whole day was one of general pain, as anyone who has been kicked can attest.

I didn't realize anything was wrong until I got home and started a shower for myself. I saw the dark bruise along my thigh from my wallet chain. I could see each link in the bruise. As I started to wash up, my mind became aware even if I didn't want to be. Two things were missing. They might be different from other males, but I knew where they should be and they weren't there. My testicles had vanished. I was too embarrassed to insist on going to the ER, figuring a trip to Urgent Care in the morning would be ok. I was in shock. I couldn't really think. The next morning, the doctor confirmed they were not where they should be. After a trip to radiology to get an ultra sound, I was told by a student technician, a regular technician, and then a radiologist that they couldn't find both of them. The radiologist did find one, but not where it should be. Returning to Urgent Care, the doctor said that they may have retreated and the trauma may have caused swelling. He gave me some NSAIDS and sent me home. I dubbed this whole even "Finding Nemo," only we still hadn't found them.

I scheduled a follow up with my doctor for a few weeks later. They had moved, but still hadn't returned home. The doctor felt around and eventually found both of them but was unable to get them to go back to where they should be. He let me know that both of them were dislocated, something I didn't know could happen. It is rare, but can (and clearly does) happen. My doctor's initial assessment was that since they seemed to drop down to regulate temperature, it could be left as is. We could also set up surgery to pull them down and stitch them into place. The last option was to have them removed, since they weren't doing their normal job anyways. He cautioned that if they stop regulating temperature, it may lead to testicular cancer, at which point removal would be the only viable option. To date, I haven't had any surgery.

The accident brought back up the questions I had about my sex. Now, part of my external was missing. It created a good bit of dissonance for me. Inside, in my mind, I felt male. Outside, in my body, I felt distinctly not male. Given their size, I was surprised that it could feel so different, but it did. Over the years I have questioned myself if I'd feel more male if I had them pulled back into place. Or should I have them removed and see if replacement would work. Since I haven't done it, I don't know, but the veil had been pulled back for me. I realize that this isn't quite the same for transgender folk, but I started to understand. The accident dropped my testosterone level even lower (putting it at 40). I felt externally more akin to the doctor's diagnosis of intersex. But, that isn't who I am inside.

My mind started to settle when I took a class on Gender, Race, and Class. Added to this, I also took a class focused on Queer Theory. Through these classes and by reaching out and talking to my friends who are transitioning, I started to consider sex and gender differently. I realized that I could be intersex and male. That the bits didn't define how I, or anyone else, had identify or express themselves. I can be masculine most of the time and have my feminine moments and still be male. People transitioning don't need to have surgery. The goal, at least as I have come to understand it, is to be happy and healthy and be who you are supposed to be. And, ultimately, to have the world see you for who you are.

I have to thank all of my friends of all sorts of genders. I know I haven't always been the quickest learner. Sometimes, as much as I'd like to just be able to understand and empathize/sympathize, I need to experience some part of it. All of you have been wonderful about answering questions, especially when I have felt awkward asking. I have always felt like we have grown into a culture that is too afraid to ask personal questions. Sometimes the answer, isn't any of our business. And I am always ok with the answer of  "None of your business, Will." But, for me at least, the easiest way I can understand to question. To take the answer and mull it over and take into me all of what I can of it. Sometimes, it leads to more questions. Other times, it clicks and I get an "AHH GOT IT!"

I decided to write this after seeing so many hurtful comments out there about Caitlyn and others in transition. To me it seems odd. As we grow up, we change. For me, I have changed names a few times. I was Cody for a while (and still am to my family). I have been Bill. Most of the time, anymore, I am somewhere between William and Will. And when I am especially Irish, I am Liam. I am not the same person I was when I was 6. Nor am I the person I was in my twenties. I can't even say that I am totally the person I was three years ago, before I started school. At no point, was I ever met with resistance about my changes. No one ever told me that it was disgusting that I had changed. Nor was it unnatural. Or against God's Will. Now, admittedly, these types of changes aren't the same as people who are transitioning. And most people, looking at me, wouldn't know that I am classified as intersex. But, I feel like people should accept the changes people make in themselves. It takes a good deal of courage to be who you are. Love them. Accept them. Support them. Even if you don't fully get why they might have changed-- because life is too short and precious to fill with hate.

Embodied Identities and Social Othering

I would never consider myself an attractive person, in general. Certainly there are people that find me to be, my husband being one of them, and I am thankful for that. But, I just don't see it. Our appearance is the first thing people judge when they see us. Even if we consider ourselves fairly open minded, our brain is studying the body as we come into contact. The body language we emote is being mirrored in the observer's brain and attempting to relate. We also spend a good deal of time looking at each other's faces and especially the eyes of another person. Whether we are conscious of it or not, our brain is attempting to classify, identify, and understand each other by looking at one another's bodies.

I saw a meme recently that really got me thinking about appearance:

This image bothers me because I identify more with the image on the left. Attractive, non-geek/nerds, have said similar things to me as I was growing up. But, at that time geek wasn't chic, so I am sure even if I was attractive I'd have caught hell-- probably more so because I was break attractive protocol and operating outside of my designated areas. Yet, now that we are in a world that has embraced the geek and is profitting from people's geekiness, here we find a terrible othering that is happening. 

I will not say that I am an absolute expert on cultures, but it is one of my areas of study. Biologically, we are more apt to be attracted to attractive partners as they are often more fit and our offspring will benefit from the coupling with such a person. Additionally, related animals (even humans) are more likely to be altruistic towards members who have high fitness. I suppose it is important to clarify that fitness in this sense isn't necessarily your ability to run a three-minute mile and then immediately go for a swim and then bike. But, rather fitness in this sense is actually our ability to produce offspring that will survive to breed and ensure genetic material is passed to subsequent generation. Altruism in this case, especially among related folks, helps ensure familial genetic information moves forward. But, what is beautiful and attractive cane be quite different from culture to culture and region to region. 

What is frustration, is that when something is not identified as beautiful culturally, we (at least as Americans) tend to reduce them, othering them and separating those who are not from those who are. These physical characteristics which we may or may not be able to change become part of our embodied identities. I was recently talking with a co-worker. She and her daughter had gastric bypass surgery done a year and a half ago and her daughter has had some startling changes happen for her. Since the surgery, this young lady has lost over 190 pounds and looks great. But, she still has her big girl attitude and has made the comment that she just could never be a "skinny bitch." For this young lady, her size had become part of her identity, yet now without the size, she retained the identity and attitude that had been forged from it. 

Being a person of size, people have often asked me if I had considered weight loss surgery as a way to get healthy. My immediate reactions are: just because you have lost weight doesn't make you healthy and currently, other than my testosterone serum, all of my numbers are fine. This includes my heart rate, blood pressure, and my body chemistry. I have thought about surgery and each time I remember I have spent 36 years in this body, it is part of who I am and how I see myself. Drastically changing it may not be the best for my mental health. 

In addition to my size, I also have noticeable psoriasis on my face, scalp, and ears. Each time I go to the doctor, usually the clinic on campus, I get the questions, "do you want something to help with that rash?" I explain that it isn't a rash and identify what it actually is. I previously was on medication for my psoriasis that made it less apparent, but with changes to my prescription coverage, this medicine is too expensive and I ceased treatment. We usually end up talking about alternatives and I explain that I am ok with the way it looks. I have dealt with people thinking that these red areas are sun burns or, worse, something that is contagious and treated like I am infectious, even after explaining what it is. But our preoccupation with the external causes many folks to question why I don't "do something about it." They feel that it is gross and, by extension, I am gross for just letting it be. 

Returning to the picture, we see two young women. Both with glasses and both with longer hair. The acceptable one is depicted as blonde and slim, even athletic. The othered is shown with red hair, which currently seems to be an "in" hair color even if gingers are socially discussed as soulless. The one characteristic that seems to make the young lady on the left "unattractive" is that she is a bigger girl. Admittedly, having her hair pulled back also conveys a look that suggest her hair is oily because of its sheen. We can't see enough of the left's clothing style, but it can be difficult to find "trendy" clothes when you are plus sized. Without being able to talk to the girl on the right, we don't know if she is poser-geek or geek for chic, but if we approach from the idea that these two are equally nerdy/geeky, with similar tastes in TV shows, video games, table top gaming, etc, then the only things that really differentiates them is a few pounds and the ability to find "attractive" clothes that flatter their body. Yet, these incredibly superficial things create a privileged identity for the young lady on the right and the other is a marked other, who is diminished verbally and socially othered and shamed. 

This doesn't just happen for women either. There is another co-worker who is animatedly into anime. During his breaks, he can be found pacing from the cafeteria to the cozy nooks near the books, cellphone to ear, talking about some aspect of his geeky interests. I remember one day, he was having a particularly loud discussion about Dragon Ball Z. The gentleman has dark hair that often looks greasy, glasses, usually some kind of unkempt stubble, nasalated voice, a shifting/shuffling gait that just adds to the perceived oddness of him. His clothing style is suggestive of thrift shop, but not in the Macklemore sense, but rather colors and styles that have fallen from popular and hispters haven't re-trended them. This particular day I became conscious of the ways I was internally othering him. The nasalated voice and his gait particularly affected the way I thought of him and I caught myself thinking this is what the world sees when they think of geeks. In that moment of awareness, I realized that I was doing the same thing that I wished others wouldn't do about me. And I wondered, if he looked different, would I think differently of him than I did in that moment?

We can't always control our thoughts, but I would challenge you -- just as I am challenging myself -- to try to be more aware of your thought process. How are you othering people in your thought and how would that be changed if they looked different? What do you normalize and what do you other? What modes of internal or external identity are privileged to you and which are marked and are cast out or aside? I know a few in my circle that will socially say that they see everything as equal, but you might be surprised when you take a step back. I have found that the people that are most interested in free thinking spend most of their time trying to get others to think like themselves, because they have privileged their own thoughts and others anyone who doesn't agree with them. 

Reflections -- Gazing and Understanding

This last week has found me much in my head. I suppose I spend most of my time; or rather I spend all of my time here. All of the things I see, feel, experience and think all exist within my head. Most days, I feel like I am outside of myself, connecting and interacting with the people I come in contact with every day. Friends, acquaintances, professors, customers, random people I am never likely to see again. As I observe them, in my mind I am thinking about them. I wonder what they are thinking or feeling in that moment. What is going on in their world and in their mind.

Then, rather suddenly, I was pulled out of all of this. A friend, or rather a person I think of as a friend and exists as a friend in my mental framework, pointed out that he and I had only interacted once physically. The rest of our interactions have existed as text, passing back and forth through text and instant messages. We had been having a rather intellectual exchange over the course of a couple of days and then he pointed out that in all reality, he doesn't really know me.

It seemed incredibly odd to me. We have been talking for several years. Sometimes, there would be months where there was little contact, followed by periods of frequent communication. When we are talking, I am quite open about my thoughts and feelings and who I am (or, at least, who I feel I am). These are all of the same things I do with people I have physical contact with as well. Yet, he didn't really feel that we knew each other at all. And that got me thinking about how little I really know about any of the people around me.

Certainly, we know the parts of each other that we present as forms of self and identity. Yet, this is a singular dimension. It was in this moment that I realized that the only person I may be able to claim knowledge of is myself. I know how emotions feel to me, but I struggle often to describe them. For example, when I say I feel depressed, it is short hand for both an emotional feeling as well as physical sensations in various parts of my body, and a series of thoughts that occupy my mind. Yet, if someone else tells me that they are feeling depressed, I don't know what that feels like for them. And, I have learned that it isn't necessarily best to assume that their feeling is much like mine at all.

When we share an experience, such as a social experience together, I know how I feel being surrounded by the other people. Yet, I have no idea how the other people who are sharing the experience are feeling. What types of thoughts are they having? Are we experiencing it in any way that is comparable or really shared?

Feeling rather out of sorts about the whole line of thought, I reached out to another friend. He shared that he has similar ideas and expressed that, for him, it felt more like we are all little islands with a dark sea around us. Each of us has these lights on that show us that there are other little islands out there, but we can never build a boat and go to another island. We have to content ourselves with knowing the other islands are there. I suppose the best we can do is try to float messages in bottles to the other islands in an attempt to communicate.

All of this then made me profoundly aware of my self. I suppose for the bulk of thirty-five years, I have taken for granted that I am just a single mind, peering into the world through two eyes. Of course, I am aware of my body: the girgling tummy, the painful joints, the vibration in my shoulder and chest when I am happy. Despite all of these things feeling like me, they are all being observed by my brain.

People often remark that I am rather preoccupied if there is a mirror nearby. My eyes will dart towards my own reflection and I find myself gazing at my body. Exploring my appearance and trying to reconcile what I perceive with what I feel inside. When I realize that perhaps I have gazed too long, I try to return to looking at those around me, but always the pull of the mirror is felt. There are times when I see that part of myself and I can't make sense of it. Why is it that he looks so foreign and infinitely (and intimately) familiar? There is pleasure felt in gazing at my reflection, much like the pleasure in looking at other people around me. But, the pleasuring in looking at myself is somehow different and also somewhat disturbing. Not that I feel that I am unpleasant to look at, but that the practice of looking at one's self is unpleasant. That we should not look too much at our self. And, unless I am alone, I become quite self-conscious of my own self-gazing.

I don't know how it is for other people, but when I close my eyes and attempt to bring to mind the image of self, I look nothing like the reflection I see in the mirror. My inner gaze depicts me as smaller than I am, both in height and weight. My skin is both whiter and darker. My hair is redder and my beard fuller. I see myself as bigger in the chest, thick with muscles that spread to my shoulders. My legs are also more muscular. My eyes are brighter and my cheeks always seem a bit more red with dimples that appear when I smile. My complexion is clear, free of the scaling of psoriasis and other blemishes. My nose is unscarred.

As much as I try to look at myself in the mirror and introduce what I see to the inner self, nothing really changes. I find myself looking at the differences between what I see and what I feel and try to understand them. Always, I feel compelled to look away, though. That it is unnatural to desire to gaze and to understand. I don't feel this way about other people. In fact, I feel quite comfortable with looking at them. And, I am fine with them gazing back at me until I realize that they are doing so. Then, I become anxious. Which me do they see? Maybe they can see something about me that I can't see or make sense of? I don't know what they are thinking. I don't know how they feel. I only know how I feel and what I am thinking.

Maybe it is safer to not know. I am quite sensitive about things. Small comments made by others become much bigger in my mind. Yet, if there was some way for us to really know what each other are thinking, maybe I wouldn't be hurt by little comments. I'd realize that I am not so very different from those around me. I'd know that we all have these little thoughts about ourselves and about others that just happen. And I'd know it was ok to just be who I am. Maybe the world would be a better place if we didn't just look at things from our own perch -- from our own brain. Maybe we'd all learn to love one another for the beauty we bring to the world instead of being made to feel like we have nothing to offer. Maybe we can build little ships to visit all of the islands and we wouldn't have to be so alone in the dark.