An open letter to masculinity

From deep within the vault of “holy crap, am I really going to post this??” comes a brutally personal take about facing the parts of me that are underfed and desperately afraid to look back at me.

I know we don’t talk much, but I’m trying to change that. We’ve had this thing we’ve done for years, you and I… Is there a chance we can fix it?

We met under some pretty strange circumstances. You were always talking to all the other guys in elementary school, on the playground, at birthday parties. But I would overhear you and the things you said to them, and I paid attention to every word. It hit me in the gut when you said that thing about crying. That bit about how it was girly and stupid, and no boy should ever be caught with tears in his eyes. I get that. And I believed it for a long, long time. I wanted to show you I could be strong like that, but when those mean kids called me a “he-she-it thing,” I know I disappointed you. You walked off, shaking your head, and I knew you were their friend and not mine. That stung for years.

When it was my chance to turn it around on others, I did. I was brutal and cold and angry as hell, and they feared me. I made them cry for a change. But it cost me something deep down in the pit of my stomach, like I had to pull the sturdiness from my own bones to build that armor I was wearing, all pain and scraped up flesh and sinew to prove that I didn’t feel a thing.

(I felt everything.)

You saw me not long after, and you nodded from the side, this little imperceptible movement with the dip of your chin to your masculine chest. I had won your approval. By then my shoulders were stronger from the weight of that armor, from wearing it day and night.

But late at night I would cry, praying you’d be asleep beside me, that you’d never know my truth.

By morning I would brace myself all over again.

You were there, hand in hand with Self-Loathing and Shame, and when I saw them in the mirror, I knew I was outnumbered. Three against one, and I was always smaller, always skinny.

I was never enough.

“Work harder,” you said through gritted teeth. Do you remember that? How you pushed me to be something I couldn’t possibly take on? How you laughed when I was mocked for it? I know you have a particular distaste for poverty, for the kids who start out with less, but I promise you, none of us chose that life. I wore my brother’s old hand-me-downs with glee and delight, and you hurled all of those good feelings in my face with taunts ringing in the tone of fourth-grade voices, “You’re so ugly. Ugliest girl ever. Look at the lesbo. She thinks she’s a boy.”

Those years were unimaginably hard for both of us, I think. You were going through things of your own. I would see you from time to time, isolated, frustrated, unable to express your own emotions for fear of judgement. What a vicious spiral you created.

Our paths diverged for a while. It was longer than either of us remembers now. We’ve shut that out because the loneliness and longing for each other wasn’t something we could say out loud. Oh sure, you would see me at the end of the hallway in middle school, all awkward movement and no friends for miles, and you would sneer. But you were awkward, too, and I’ve heard you say more than once over the years that it would have been nice, just for one day, to play again like we had when we were little. The sandbox, the petting zoo, the warm grass in the park; you and I got along so much better when it was just the two of us. We made up our own games, you with your daring spirit, me the one always looking to nurture, both of us angling for trouble in the best of ways.

I hurt you. I know that now. It must have felt like the worst kind of rejection to see me do it, right in your face, sucker punch to the gut, legs kicked from under you. There’s no good excuse, I was just… trying desperately to find a place to fit in. It was survival for me.

Can you forgive me for that?

I was just a kid. Thirteen.

By the time we faced off again, you were barely recognizable to me. What did the other boys do to you? What did the fathers say? What tone did the mothers use on you to make you so mad all the time? So defensive, so wounded.

And the others? Oh, they were wise to my old friendship with you. We had history, and they were begging me to cut ties. You were worse than drugs at a Just Say No rally in the gym during assembly time. You were an ABC Afterschool Special. Hell, you were probably one of the first guests on Jerry Springer.

It was such a mixed message for me. Everyone loved you; your cool hair, your muscle tone, your suave demeanor, your power. You could strut in and own the place with a glance and a tilt of your aviator sunglasses. I tried those moves and promptly lost every “friend” I thought I had in the span of sixty seconds flat.

The message was this: you can love him. You should love him. You should want him. You should feel an aching desire for him with your every breath.

But you cannot BE him.

It was a wedge driven between us, you with all your friends and lovers and admirers, me with… no one. Nothing.

I know I have some of that wrong. You’ve said enough now that we’re older and wiser, and I see that your suffering came without the ability to speak up. You had no voice all that time. We were both crying ourselves to sleep at night, but the penalty for you getting caught was death. For me it meant I fit in, even though it went against the structure and content of my soul. Maybe you tried to say something one of those nights, but I couldn’t hear you. I think I tried to shut you out.

The thing is, we were still walking side by side every day, you and I. Do you remember the day my friends bullied me for walking like you? They hurled names at me to get my attention, to strip you from me, to take your stride out of my feet, to yank you free of my spine. Those mannerisms were not things you could help. They’re in your nature. They’re in mine. You hid with me for a little while that day, softly whispering when no one else could hear, “Walk however the fuck you want.” And I nodded back. It was the first time you and I looked at each other’s faces in so long that I barely knew you anymore. Did I look foreign, too?

Girlfriends were part of that chapter. You always eyed them with skepticism, like you didn’t buy the bullshit. But at least we could talk from time to time. We had an excuse to get to know each other again, even if I was hostile and distrustful as hell.

“Don’t share your feelings,” you warned me. “It makes you look weak.”

“I’m not weak,” I spat back.

You taught me how to lock down emotions, how to internalize them, how to beat up my body and my organs. Tough but important lessons. Boxing sessions between us, you with the padding, me with the bloody knuckles. Antacid afterward, borderline eating disorders for a job well done. I wish you’d given me lectures about muscle mass instead. Or bone density. But we were both nearsighted.

Tightly in lockstep with Body Shaming, you on the left, her on the right, me in the middle like some sick version of the Wizard of Oz on a trip down the yellow-brick road, the three of us lost control of our relationship for the next decade or more. I mistook her for Femininity, you know. Laugh all you like, it’s the truth. They look a lot alike to me. When I finally met Femininity many years later, I realized my mistake. Even now I blush at my ignorance. You should see my letter to her. It’s just a sticky note that says, “Sorry.” I’m afraid anything else I say might come out like mansplaining, so I’ll just keep my trap shut.

It was the house I bought that finally did it. We both showed up that day, you in your faded jeans with the drips of paint on the thighs, me with my grandfather’s DeWalt drill. I caught you out of the corner of my eye when I walked inside with the key that the real estate agent had given me. My girlfriend (eventually wife) wasn’t there yet. It was just us.

“I’m going to build a family here with her,” I whispered to you, nervous you’d walk away if I faced you.

You checked out the beams in the basement, the electrical panel, the single pane windows. “Place seems nice.”

“Lots of room,” I hinted, a tiny shrug with one shoulder. Room for you, I was implying.

You set up shop in the house that night. It was awkward at first. All those years of quiet between us had built up something impossible to get past right away. How long did we spend just handing tools back and forth as our only form of communication?

There was so much about me you couldn’t come to terms with. I heard you grumble about it late at night when we couldn’t sleep. I was too free with physical affection. You’d seen me with the dogs, with the woman I intended to marry. I spoke up too much. I smiled too much. I was free with my feelings and my thoughts. Jesus, I was uppity.

I returned the favor by snapping at you about my identity as a girl, as a lesbian, a feminist. I stopped short of saying I didn’t need you, but I worried that you felt that secret lurking in me.

We both knew the risks of saying anything else.

There was a secret agreement between us back then – we knew, but we couldn’t say it out loud. We couldn’t give it shape or form, or all of the other magical, wonderful things in life would vanish. And for the first time, we weren’t alone. We had love. Both of us had it, even if she didn’t look you in the eye either. It was your shoulders under her warm hands. It was your stride matching hers as we walked sidewalks together. Maybe she is the real reason you stuck around. I can’t blame you. She’s worth it.

And then, in some incredibly magical moment, we both saw each other clearly on the day my first child was born. The nurse placed him on my chest, and all I could see was his tiny, perfect hand. I wanted you there, and I felt so much joy sharing it with you. He would grow up to need you in much the same way I had, but this time I would help all of us do better.

I saw your fragility, your vulnerability, your gentle nature with him, with such a tiny being who needed all the love you could give him. When you gave that love to him, it was a gift to me as well.

Still, it was ten more years before you found the courage to say my name out loud. In the struggle to listen, I almost lost all of myself. I was so afraid of losing my wife and my children and everything I knew that I couldn’t see the obvious friend standing right beside me all along. Those were difficult days and weeks and months, and yet you didn’t walk off. You didn’t abandon me. You were faithful in a way I never expected, and I’m sorry I thought so poorly of you.

It turns out you’re more than just a line about being tough and not showing emotions.

You are soft and warm when my children hug me.

You are patient when I feel anxiety about how others will perceive me.

You are firm about boundaries, about the things we declare together to let the world know that our strength doesn’t come from being angry or from bullying.

Your laugh is infectious.

You’re a badass with that pink Olympic weightlifting bar.

I am a better man with you by my side. My children love you. My wife is learning to, and your dad jokes are helping despite how she rolls her eyes at them. I’m so glad we grew up together even though it’s been impossibly hard. We are both worth what it took to get here.

Thanks for waiting for me.

Your trans friend¹,

Robin

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1. I’m turning 45 this week. That can mean a variety of things, but for now it means moving forward with no regrets, no matter how scary it might feel. Celebrate with me. Do something bold. Live out loud.