{I made this comment on a board I frequent. Reposted so I'll remember it.}
[TW: abuse, violence, sexual assault]
Something seems hollow and inauthentic about my experiences as a male. I guess because I never really believed or embraced the gender; I was just pushed into it and barely went along to avoid the consequences of nonconformance. I hated being male and generally disliked other males for reasons far beyond the various manifestations of gendered violence. So when I speak poorly of the experience, there's a hefty grain of salt that needs to go along with it. But, nevertheless:
I hated being male so much. You can't be pretty or desired. You can't break down. You can't be emotional, unless you're angry. You hide all your pain, you joke all the time, and you present or you get swallowed.
Men are disgustingly violent towards women. But they're also profoundly violent against each other. I had "friends" my entire life hit me, constrain me, pinch me, jab me, pin me, take such pleasure in my pain. Whether it's inane competitions in video games, whether it's physically dominating me, whether it's "anything you can do, I can do better." Because they're always proving themselves. They're always clawing, always jockeying.
And when they're embarrassed, when they're defeated, when they're laughed out, when they're humiliated it's stored. And just like my father and so many others do, they let it out upon those who can't or won't fight back [so so often women]. They dominate you, show they're in control, let out every negativity upon you until it's clear that at least they're better than shit like you.
Such violence is gendered, but I know women and girls act it out, too. I was always surprised at the stark contrast between my slumber parties and my sister's: In hers, her disparate friend groups would divide into camps, literally demarcating sections of the house. Some who were acceptable to other camps could cross lines, could flit around, but the politicking was as passive-aggressive as it was still violent. In my slumber parties, guys just hit each other and let out all their aggressions in plain view. There were no politics. Just assertions.
All of this is to say that masculinity needs the deconstruction and liberation significant portions of femininity gained via feminism. Because when girls can cry and boys can't, the boys find other ways to express their pain. So much of their violence was the result of other violence; cultural violence saying they needed to prove themselves, modeled violence showing no other way to be, personal violence with every hurt every person inflicts upon another.
Hurt begets hurt, violence begets violence. My father was molested and never spoke about it, perhaps the biggest hurt in a life of them. He hated himself. He found himself in a point in life where everything was misery, where he fervently believed he was unlovable, where there was simply no hope. So he dominated his family, casting a blanket of fear over us with his very presence. My sister was the one whose hurt was so angry, who hit and screamed and clawed at me, my mother. And I internalized and used the violence to hurt myself. But it all trickles down.
That's why feminism, why social justice can't just be about one group. It's all or nothing. One person's hurt becomes everyone's hurt, one way or another. And masculinity is just one place where there's so, so much work left to be done.
[TW: abuse, violence, sexual assault]
Something seems hollow and inauthentic about my experiences as a male. I guess because I never really believed or embraced the gender; I was just pushed into it and barely went along to avoid the consequences of nonconformance. I hated being male and generally disliked other males for reasons far beyond the various manifestations of gendered violence. So when I speak poorly of the experience, there's a hefty grain of salt that needs to go along with it. But, nevertheless:
I hated being male so much. You can't be pretty or desired. You can't break down. You can't be emotional, unless you're angry. You hide all your pain, you joke all the time, and you present or you get swallowed.
Men are disgustingly violent towards women. But they're also profoundly violent against each other. I had "friends" my entire life hit me, constrain me, pinch me, jab me, pin me, take such pleasure in my pain. Whether it's inane competitions in video games, whether it's physically dominating me, whether it's "anything you can do, I can do better." Because they're always proving themselves. They're always clawing, always jockeying.
And when they're embarrassed, when they're defeated, when they're laughed out, when they're humiliated it's stored. And just like my father and so many others do, they let it out upon those who can't or won't fight back [so so often women]. They dominate you, show they're in control, let out every negativity upon you until it's clear that at least they're better than shit like you.
Such violence is gendered, but I know women and girls act it out, too. I was always surprised at the stark contrast between my slumber parties and my sister's: In hers, her disparate friend groups would divide into camps, literally demarcating sections of the house. Some who were acceptable to other camps could cross lines, could flit around, but the politicking was as passive-aggressive as it was still violent. In my slumber parties, guys just hit each other and let out all their aggressions in plain view. There were no politics. Just assertions.
All of this is to say that masculinity needs the deconstruction and liberation significant portions of femininity gained via feminism. Because when girls can cry and boys can't, the boys find other ways to express their pain. So much of their violence was the result of other violence; cultural violence saying they needed to prove themselves, modeled violence showing no other way to be, personal violence with every hurt every person inflicts upon another.
Hurt begets hurt, violence begets violence. My father was molested and never spoke about it, perhaps the biggest hurt in a life of them. He hated himself. He found himself in a point in life where everything was misery, where he fervently believed he was unlovable, where there was simply no hope. So he dominated his family, casting a blanket of fear over us with his very presence. My sister was the one whose hurt was so angry, who hit and screamed and clawed at me, my mother. And I internalized and used the violence to hurt myself. But it all trickles down.
That's why feminism, why social justice can't just be about one group. It's all or nothing. One person's hurt becomes everyone's hurt, one way or another. And masculinity is just one place where there's so, so much work left to be done.