What It Means To Be a Real Man, God Fucking Dammit

On Sunday, I attended an orientation for students who are planning on being involved in Greek Life. A man on a podium spoke of standards of excellence that we are to abide by. He demanded dedication to the highest ideals of manhood, ideals that resonate deeply with someone who has always dreamed of embodying a man.

I grew up hearing my grandmother tell stories about her brother, Wayne Bardy, a person that I am honored to call a relative. Before he was killed in a motorcycle accident at the age of fifty, he came out as gay to all of his loved ones at a time when homosexuality was considered a disease. He founded the first gay synagogue in Manhattan. He would don a tuxedo and fool everyone at celebrity parties into thinking that he belonged there-and with his charm and exceptionally good looks, he probably did. He worked an honest living on a cruise ship and consequently had lovers and friends all over the world. On freezing cold winter days, he would stock up on peanut butter, jelly, and bread so that he could give sandwiches out to the homeless, even though he struggled with his own living expenses. He designed original clothing, including a pair of jeans with an embroidered pattern so exquisite, I want to showcase it somewhere at Rutgers.

Everyone loved him not only because he approached life with an affinity for adventure and an unflappable sense of humor, but because he always, always, always treated other people with respect and kindness...

Right before I started taking testosterone, I swore to my grandmother that I would adopt the middle name "Wayne" when I have it changed legally because he is the kind of man that I want to become.

I carry every day in my heart not only his legacy, but the legacy of anyone who has ever called himself a man.

And every day, I strive to be worthy of the highest precepts of manhood, because that is not a title I take lightly.

Unfortunately, it means nothing to the majority of people in this world that I will always treat a woman better than I would treat myself. It means nothing to my doctors, my professors who accidentally call out my wrong name in class, and the people who don't understand what trans is that I will never hook up with a woman who is wasted or that I will give up a seat for her on the subway.

It means nothing to them that my transition was as much about getting to be a gentleman as it was about getting to be a guy.

And still, it means nothing to them that when my mom abused me my entire life, I never raised a hand to her, because I firmly believe that someone who calls himself a man should never hit a woman, ever.

I have to fight so hard just to be perceived as male from an aesthetic standpoint. It has cost me hundreds of dollars and hours of travel time. I'm risking cancer and all kinds of unknown and untested effects from the long-term use of a highly controlled and potentially dangerous substance. I'm destabilizing myself and exacerbating my mental health issues by throwing my body into a chemically imbalanced state of chaos, and seriously jeopardizing my own sanity and well-being, just to be able to call myself a man.

So when I hear nearly an entire room of people who have been designated male at birth laughing when the person on stage makes light of girls losing their right to say no if they are at a frat party late at night, I just want to fucking scream at the world. They do not deserve their chromosomes. They are not real men...and yet, their legal documents purport authentic maleness. And mine don't.