So, in a sense, I know who I am/am not. Or, at the very least, I know "he" is a state that cuts the horizon in half, turning a vibrant and beaming existence into a puppet-shadow-show. As a male, I do not identify with myself. This means my "pleasure" mustneedsbe vicarious, my joy a zeitgeist not a bubbling from within. I could hold Laura, as we fell asleep, assured that she was what mattered more than all the small somethings that batter and bruise beyond, and I still, despite my passion, love, devotion, would be apart. I could feel, but her smile reflected in me so much more than one of my own.
It was, I think, one of the fatal flaws of our relationship. I cannot be vulnerable to the extent intimacy demands simply because I am always masked even when bare. I am always deceptive, always hiding, even when revealing. I am distorted, stiff. I am constructed, thoroughly. You cannot truly love a strawman, you can only feel the outlines of what should be real.
It's difficult to wrap your mind around if you're cis (aka not trans), but the best way I can concisely describe it is like a fundamental feeling of wrongness that can't be fixed not for lack of trying but for the implacability of definition. Being called "he," being expected to "act" as a male, being grouped with other males, checking off male on forms, going into the male restroom, having other males view me with a sense of intimate (unearned) camaraderie, having females view me as predator other, these and more are not so much wrong, in a political sense; they are insults, lies, distortions. Every time I check "male" on a form, it feels like a compromise.
It was, I think, one of the fatal flaws of our relationship. I cannot be vulnerable to the extent intimacy demands simply because I am always masked even when bare. I am always deceptive, always hiding, even when revealing. I am distorted, stiff. I am constructed, thoroughly. You cannot truly love a strawman, you can only feel the outlines of what should be real.
It's difficult to wrap your mind around if you're cis (aka not trans), but the best way I can concisely describe it is like a fundamental feeling of wrongness that can't be fixed not for lack of trying but for the implacability of definition. Being called "he," being expected to "act" as a male, being grouped with other males, checking off male on forms, going into the male restroom, having other males view me with a sense of intimate (unearned) camaraderie, having females view me as predator other, these and more are not so much wrong, in a political sense; they are insults, lies, distortions. Every time I check "male" on a form, it feels like a compromise.
Of course, I don't want to be expected to act "female" either; I want the dissolution of gender policing. But that's a political stance. If I was the sex I feel, I would roll my eyes against the forms, speak against policing, transgress groups and norms, but these acts would be assured and with ideology oft in mind. Being referenced as male is a much more personal, much more fundamental affront. It is personal. It hurts, in the way insults, slurs, hatespeech, abuse hurt. It cuts past the armor of reason and assurance to hit a place still vulnerable, still weak. I am Cassandra, speaking truth, feeling truth, and believed by no one. Maleness hurts. It's wrong. It's false. It's a wound that will not heal, but bleeds and bleeds until it's out and I'm out and I am naught but vapors, shadows, masks. Smoke and broken, breaking mirrors.
Comments (0)
Post a Comment