“What does being a man mean to you?” It’s a question I get asked often at speaking engagements.
Although there are occasionally some hostile or confrontational undertones involved, it is usually just an honest question. The questioner really wants to know. And the questioner is, invariably, a man.
I have a snarky reply that I never use in these situations, but that I like to keep on hand for my writing, which is: “It means never being asked that question, because you wouldn’t ask that question of a non-trans man.” Non-trans people are rarely expected to define their identity.
But my public answer is quite different, because the only thing “being a man” really means to me is being comfortable in my own skin and with who I am. I don’t imbue “being a man” with a lot of cultural stereotypes or expectations, both because I’m not interested in them and because I probably couldn’t live up to them, although I won’t deny that I’ve tried – and succeeded, on occasion – to carry out my culture’s expectations of manhood.
But I do ask non-trans men the same question, and when I do, I get a few of the cultural stereotypes – providing for my family, being physically or emotionally strong – but most of the answers seem to revolve around that all-important body part. “What does being a man mean to you?” It means having a penis.
For most guys, being a man is strongly associated with this particular appendage. While I understand where this comes from, it never quite makes sense to me to associate an inner identity with a body part. It’s like saying, “Being a man means having a nose.”
I know the difference between a penis and a nose (although for many of the guys I’ve been with, the nose was the more prominent of the two features), and I understand that a penis is used as a male identifier, while almost everyone has a nose. But if your inner sense of self depends on an appendage, what happens to you when something happens to that appendage?
If your nose is central to your identity, and it gets broken, does that mean you are broken? Most people would say no. But if your penis gets damaged or stops working altogether, does that mean that you are damaged or have stopped working altogether? A lot of guys might say yes.
That’s a lot of pressure to put on something that rarely follows orders anyway, has a nasty habit of letting you down when you need it most, and is so fragile that it can’t participate in competitive sports without a protective cup.
Don’t get me wrong – I like penises. They can be highly entertaining, sometimes cute, and tend to look good in designer briefs (often better than they do without them). But to base an identity on something so undependable and unpredictable is a huge psychological risk.
I honestly don’t know what being a man means to me, at least not in the sense of listing responsibilities or body parts. I know that it doesn’t mean having a penis – and for me, it can’t.
Luckily (or unfortunately), there aren’t that many people in a position to notice. Maybe if I had a better nose …
If you’re trans, what does being a man or a woman mean to you?
I did ask all my cis friends this question once. I got the penis answer, yes. But then a strange thing happened: person after person kept answering “I don’t know”. Many didn’t feel like anything, and just were going with the social flow. My boyfriend put it this way: “It’s like sports fans, where everyone’s supporting one team or the other, and most of them don’t have a really good reason to support their particular team, but they do it anyway. I’m just kinda on Team Man, even though I don’t really have a reason to be other than I’ve always been.”
“I don’t know” is probably the most honest answer, and one that a lot of people will give if they really think about it.
I think the “penis” thing is a fallback position. I think sometimes guys use this answer because they really don’t know. Being a man means different things to different people. But having a penis seems like a logical answer and possibly the only one that can be easily articulated.
What your boyfriend said makes sense: “I’ve always been that way.” I think a lot of us are a certain way or feel a certain way because that’s what we know. We’ve never thought about it or dissected it.
I don’t know what being a man means to me. I’m still working on it. I don’t feel comfortable calling myself a man yet…but I’m definitely not a woman either. What I’m looking forward to with transition is feeling more comfortable in my skin. I have a lot of dysphoria about being female. As far as social expectations, I’m not sure I could live up to them either. I don’t want to go from being stuck in one box to being stuck in another. I just want to be me.
“I don’t want to go from being stuck in one box to being stuck in another. I just want to be me.”
Ditto!
Many have lumped me in with team “Man” though I have never been picked for a team in my life especially at school even though I was larger than average and had fantastic throwing and hand / eye co-ordination from years throwing balls at walls whilst being ignored!
Dumped in the wrong team, nobody ever checked out my liquid waste disposal parts even once. I could have gone through life and perhaps nobody would have ever known what was down there.
Now that I am transitioning a few people have wondered what is down there now! Whatever it is does not define the hard wired female program which has run in my head since birth saying should be female, have female interests and desires even though I can still put up a shelf and just about open a tight fitting lid of a jar.
After half a century assumed to be a member of the wrong team whilst obviously not fitting in it is beyond words to be living as close as possible to the life most people take for granted.
“…the only thing “being a man” really means to me is being comfortable in my own skin and with who I am.”
I like that answer.
I have been struggling with this very question for several months, now that I present properly (as a man).
After asking (too many to count) cisgender & transgender men and women what being a man means (including my therapist) and many giving me the penis or the hunter/gatherer/protector (not including my therapist) line, I stopped asking people & accepted, that for me, it is undefinable. I just know that I am one, even on the days that I don’t feel like one.
Two years into medically transitioning and I still feel like a being in between the sexes, which has been a lifelong sentiment ( I am older). I have not had top surgery yet, and (for me) that does not help.
My worst day of struggling to define who/what I am on this journey is still better than my best day trying to be the gender that I was assigned at birth.
“My worst day of struggling to define who/what I am on this journey is still better than my best day trying to be the gender that I was assigned at birth.”
So true! My stress now mostly stems from being read by others as the wrong gender. But even still, it’s so much better than trying to fit in as the wrong gender. I can’t control what other people do, but I can make peace with myself.
“I can’t control what other people do, but I can make peace with myself.”
Amen!
“…the only thing “being a man” really means to me is being comfortable in my own skin and with who I am.”
That’s a sex-neutral condition. Women can be comfortable or uncomfortable with who they are and the same applies to men.
I have asked cis guys too. Surprisinly many said, they don’t particularly feel like men.
To me feeling like a man means that I identify with other men on some gut level. Also that I felt early that my body should develope male.
Kind of like what you said, being a man means being myself. Simple as that.
It’s curious that people constantly challenge the manhood of a man, as if that were in jeopardy, and they constantly have to prove themselves as men by being manly. But it’s much rarer to question the womanhood of a woman. In general it’s much less “questionable” to be a woman who’s into football than a man who’s into ballet.
So let’s flip this around. What does it mean to be a woman? The same answer would be: “being a woman means having breasts.” Some women do feel this is so, when they get an involuntary mastectomy they feel they’ve lost their womanhood. But the connection is to a much lesser degree than penis == manhood. I’d venture to guess the definition of womanhood would revolve much more around stereotypical social features (taking care of my kids, building a home, being sensitive, etc) than physical ones.
Moreover, having an appendage (or two) does not CAUSE anyone to feel a certain gender. And it does not DEFINE your gender – otherwise we’d all be happy with a purely physical transition.
Thanks Matt, I think I needed this post just now, for reverse reasons. My voice therapist has been asking me what kind of person Jill is, different from who John was, trying to help me find my authentic female voice. I was struggling with the idea that I didn’t feel any distinct sense of “female” other than just being more comfortable now in my own skin. As I’ve talked about that with cis(?)-females, they have commented that they don’t know what it means to be a woman, either. Many have said they really identify with what I’m going through, although they are not trans. I’ve been thinking a lot more about GRS lately – the pro argument for me has been that as long as I have the original equipment, I think I will be defined as “man” even though “man” doesn’t feel right to me at all. In my head, I don’t need surgery to convince me of what I am. In my heart, I worry about my “authenticity”.
It was my therapist asking, “what is transition for you?” and “what does transition mean to/for you?” The question annoyed me. For a while I struggled to answer it, then I realized what it really was and got tired of it. I just want to be done with it (and, 2.5 years later, I’m finally close to full social transition.)
My SO had a difficult time with a fear that I would “be a better woman” than her. She finally came to realize at least some of the many problems with that statement.
I also struggle with thoughts about GRS, though for me the biggest is legal identification.
It means being confident enough not to be ashamed nor feeling menaced by my feminine side. (though I still loathe my feminine body parts)
Agreed.
Thanks for all your comments. I honestly think that the concepts of “man” and “woman” are so vaguely defined and fluid that most people, trans and non-trans, have difficulty articulating those concepts, other than “This is what I feel like.”
These concepts change, too. In different time periods in our history, being a man (or being a woman) has been defined differently by our culture than it is now. It just depends on what the culture needs at the time. And every culture has its own way of being a man or being a woman.
But regardless of what the culture says, I believe that almost everyone has an innate sense of their gender (or non-gender). But it’s difficult to describe. It’s just “who I am.”
Which is why I think body parts are a fallback position, because they are something visible that a person can use to verify or justify his or her gender (but only if those body parts are a culturally defined acceptable “match”). Or they can be used against trans people in an effort to say, “You are not in the club.”
Maybe one of the reasons why some non-trans people feel so compelled to grab onto body parts (no pun intended) as a means of verifying gender is because it is otherwise so elusive that they have a hard time explaining it, and because they can’t explain it, it is a part of identity that is easily threatened.
I hope I’m making sense. I just recently woke up.
You made perfect sense. Good morning.
I also think some guys use the “having a penis” answer to express that they consider it a simple question. Men are those with a male body, women are those with a female body, period. And if a man loses his penis, he’s still a man because he had one when he was born. Lots of non-trans people don’t think about their gender identity – their gender is what their body is. That’s why it’s hard for them to understand our obsession with it.
Helloooooo handsome . . . nice banana! ;D Yes you made sense – even before I had my morning coffee.
You can add me to the list of those who can’t definitively define what it is to be a man (or a woman, for that matter) and just wants to be, without being shoved in a box and labeled. And yes, I also agree with those who have stated that it’s not about the plumbing, though good luck trying to explain that to most cis people.
The boys and girls in my kindergarten class were segregated from each other and only allowed to play with “gender appropriate” toys, and what I know for sure now is exactly what I knew for sure then – that I belonged on the other side with the boys (though I couldn’t explain why).
By the way, Matt, you call that snarky? If you’re snarky, then I’m downright mean. I get the feeling you’re so nice that even when you’re being sarcastic, you probably sound polite.
Thanks for another brain-exercising post.
I try not to be too snarky. My snark is snark-lite.
[...] What Does Being a Man Mean to You? (via Matt Kailey) "What does being a man mean to you?" It's a question I get asked often at speaking engagements. Although there are occasionally some hostile or confrontational undertones involved, it is usually just an honest question. The questioner really wants to know. And the questioner is, invariably, a man. I have a snarky reply that I never use in these situations, but that I like to keep on hand for my writing, which is: “It means never being asked that … Read More [...]
It’s funny; when I was much younger I recall my girlfriend of the time didn’t like me drinking spirits because they were girls’ drinks. Men only drank beer in her part of the world.
So what does being a woman mean to me? Whatever the hell I want it to mean!! I am a woman, therefore anything that I like is, by definition, a woman thing.
One thing that really annoys me is the attitude that a man without his penis is a woman. It’s like saying a mororbike with the engine removed is a bicycle.
Exactly. In fact, that reminds me of something I used to say – if I’m a man, then whatever I do is manly by definition. If you’re a woman, then whatever you do is womanly.
I love the motorbike analogy.
This isn’t necessarily trans* related, but it’s relevant to this whole “being a man” thing:
On CNN recently there was a profile of an organization Steve Harvey started specifically for children of single mothers (single mothers being the source of all the world’s problems, apparently). It focused on teaching boys how to be men, which Harvey defined as being hard-working and having respect for women, as if a son of a single mom has no role model for those things. Nobody works harder than single moms, which by itself should demonstrate to any kid that women deserve respect.
Girls were included in a separate area of the program, but they were just taught to follow their dreams or whatever. There wasn’t any urgency to teach girls how to be women, though that would have been just as ridiculous as teaching boys how to be men.
If you have to teach gender roles, that just means they’re not natural in the first place.
I just found it highly annoying that Steve Harvey contemplates the world’s problems and thinks, “you know what would set things aright? More gender binary enforcement!” And on the CNN segment this organization was lauded as doing such necessary work that will heal us of all our ills! Yeah an after-school thing for children of single or low-income parents is cool, at least to give their parents a little me-time. But why the “how to be a man” nonsense?
That is one of my arguments for why gender is not entirely a social construct. If it was, you could “teach” trans people the gender that is “acceptable” for their body. There has to be some biological origins to gender identity, or everyone could be taught his or her “correct” gender.
Whenever I hear this question or one like it, I think of this passage from Jamison Green’s book (Becoming a Visible Man, pg. 43):
“It’s not a penis that makes someone a man. Being a man is a gestalt, a wholeness of mind and body in which one part may have to be stronger than another in order to make the whole complete; it’s being a human being who happens to be some combination of masculine, and maybe some feminine thrown in. And it all has to be okay because that’s just being part of being alive.”
Just before and after I came out to myself as trans, people started calling me “Sir” before I had changed anything about myself — my hair, my clothing, my name — the exterior clues were all still the same. And yet, *something* had changed. Maybe it was the way I moved, the way I talked… I’m not sure, but strangers who didn’t even know me saw me as a man before I even let myself see myself that way.
So I wonder… rather than asking, “What does it mean for *me* to be a man?” maybe it’s easier to ask what we see in others that we think makes *them* a man. The answer would have to be devoid of any reference to the genitals, because when we look at others, we can’t see their genitals.
americantransman: That’s a very interesting question! What makes us think someone is a man? I suspect body language is a very important factor. Before transition, when I came out to one of my classmates, she told me that she had noticed I had a male body language. I had men’s clothes as well, but that’s not remarkable; many women wear masculine clothes.
Good passage. Thanks for printing that.
When I set out to transition towards what I thought would feel more like being a man I expected at some point to “arrive” at manhood, but it turns out never to have happened, and so, although I present unambiguously male in American culture, I have to say that I have no idea what being a man could possibly consist of.
It seems to me that most cisgendered people are happy with the gender assigned to them at birth, and given that it is usually assigned solely on the configuration of one’s genitals at that time, it makes a certain amount of sense that, without further reflection, one might think that one’s gender is indeed dependent upon that configuration. But so much gets layered on top of that, starting almost immediately, that digging down through cultural assumptions about gender and weighing them for oneself seems to me a possibly life-long project.
So I don’t know when or if I will ever get the sense of having arrived at “male,” but I am quite sure that I am not “female”–even though that is also an ill-defined category–given that I am much happier being read as male by the people around me. I now have some of the things I have wanted since I was little–a beard and a deep voice in particular–but there was no guarantee that I would get these things when I began transitioning. But I knew that “female” was the wrong assumption to make when seeing or meeting me, so I do feel that I have moved closer at least to presenting the image of whatever it is that I have been from the beginning.
It can be frustrating in some ways not to have a clearer definition of one’s gender. There are very few cultural narratives that include people like me, for instance, and so I find it difficult to identify with most of the mythological explanations for human being that I have come across thus far, and to that extent I sometimes am not sure whether I even count as “human.” It can be disconcerting, to say the least. Perhaps I should be looking a little more closely at those few narratives that do include a more open idea of gender for a better idea of how to define myself relative to how others define themselves. They can be difficult to locate and they tend to have been suppressed when they have arisen anywhere near Western cultural influences, but that might just make them more valuable.
Western culture allows for very little wiggle room. Years ago, shortly after I started to transition, I read a great book called Coming Out Spiritually by Christian de la Huerta. It was for and about gay men, but the trans references were everywhere, particularly when he talked about various Native American cultures. It was very validating to me, and it helped me get away from the Western binary and the Western idea of male and female. I don’t know if it would resonate in the same way with a trans man who identified as straight, but at the time, it was so transformative to me that I had to write to the author to tell him the impact it had.
I think sometimes we search for ourselves in a culture that doesn’t recognize us because that’s all we know. But there are other cultural models where we can find validation for who we are without appropriating the culture as our own.
I will try to find that book. I have read some about Native American conceptions of gender and how some Native cultures differed in their ideas from Western culture and were subsequently persecuted and/or punished by European moralists. It might be a good idea to revisit that effort, although as a white dude I feel I need to be a little careful about how I handle any knowledge I gain in such a project. I have tried to find alternative narratives from pre-Christian Europe but if there are any they are very difficult to locate. I suspect, though, that attitudes were different at some point in European history or prehistory but those differences have been suppressed for a very long time. It’s just a hunch right now though.
Erik,
I wanted to thank you for replying, because a few things that you wrote about ‘man’ really resonate with me.
It’s nice to know that I am not the only one who feels this way.
Matt,
Thanks so much for writing this piece.
You’re welcome! Thanks for letting me know it was useful for you.
Hard though it might be for us to say exactly what makes us “male” or “female” I do know that on my first day at school both teams silently and instantly knew I was wrongly assigned and did not fit so rejected me there and then.
We may not be able to say what makes us one thing or another but that gut feeling is the strongest we shall ever have.
See, it’s just a sense of knowing. It’s like when they have trans children on Oprah or whatever, and the audience says, “They’re too young to know their gender.” Well, I would ask non-trans people how old they were when they knew their gender. Most will say around three. So if non-trans people know who they are by the age of three, why would trans people be any different? You just know.
My boyfriend has a really hard time understanding why I feel the need to transition. In an effort to try to help him understand, I recently tried asking him if he could imagine what it would be like to feel like the man that he is, but have a female body. This question didn’t really work, because he couldn’t locate the part of him that felt like a man. He just assumed that he felt like a man because he was born a man. He did say that to him being a man meant having the potential to become a father and a grandfather, or another male role model. But then, these words are just as ambiguous: what does it mean to be a father (as opposed to a mother)?
So I do agree that many cis-gendered people don’t really realize that they feel comfortable with their gender assignment because they are so used to it. And I wish that they did because it would make it easier for them to understand what it is like for those who don’t feel comfortable with their gender assignment. On the other hand, I do have a friend who has told me that she can imagine that it would be hard to feel like herself (a woman) and have a man’s body. And I have heard Cher talk about the same thing =). So maybe some cis-gendered people have a sense of that gestalt feeling of being a man or a woman and others aren’t able to identify it.
Sometimes I think that posting comments on this blog is more helpful for me as some kind of catharsis, than it might be to anyone who reads my comments. I wish that glbt support group meetings were more like the discussions on this blog – it would be nice to talk more about these deeper issues.
That’s why my readers are so great – they offer the best comments, insights, and experiences. I learn so much from their experiences, and I know that they benefit from the conversations with each other.
I can’t represent all trans people. I can only represent myself. That’s why these conversations are so important. And they also give non-trans readers various perspectives so they know how diverse we are as a population.
You might not think that others are benefiting from your comments, but I think that all comments are beneficial. You never know when someone out there is looking for an answer and you have it, or feeling alone and suddenly realizing that someone else feels the same way.
Since reading this blog entry, Matt, I have a strange craving for bananas…
Me, too. Bring on the bananas!
Let’s see… I realized I was trans about a year and three months ago, and over that time my feelings have changed pretty drastically as I’ve come into my masculinity. And, lucky for me, I am a very introspective guy who has spent a lot of time and energy thinking about this.
The thing is, I really can’t nail manhood down to one specific field. I could say “I just am,” but that would do an extreme disservice to the amazing complexity of gender. So I’ll just have to lay out a list of the ways in which I feel male and the ways that feeling male affect me.
Just knowing that something is associated with men or masculinity makes me want it more.
When I look at, or interact with, someone who fits the social definition of a man or male person, I feel a mix of things. I identify that person as being like me. If there is something about them that I find admirable or beneficial to maleness or general human success, I feel a desire to be more like him. And I hope that he will recognize me as being like him. This is the oldest and most pervasive feeling of masculinity that I have ever had.
Being described or seen as being like women or girls makes me feel profoundly wrong, sometimes to the point where I become sick. Even without acknowledging that I feel male, I feel like I don’t fit, that my very being is incongruous with the idea of womanhood. I cannot even look in the mirror and see myself as a whole woman – I will invariably perceive myself as ugly and malformed.
And there are some other things which aren’t so much necessary to the integrity of manhood as side effects of feeling male that are nonetheless part of how I see myself as a male person.
It means having a penis. No, hear me out. I’m not talking about a five-inch meat tube that shoots jizz; I’m not even sure that I could handle that psychologically. But I think of my clit as my cock, and I think of the… er, anterior mons as my balls, and the fact that they bear rather low physical resemblance to the organs that most people apply those terms to isn’t really the point. The nouns are for men and I am a man and therefore I prefer to use them (and to have them treated in similar ways, inasmuch as is possible and practical). Of course I am aware that lacking these things does not make someone NOT a man, but as a a man I feel I ought to have them (and I feel that that argument is often a disingenuous method by cis people to deny me transition-related treatment).
It also means not having breasts. And, unfortunately, there is a pretty clear definition in my head of what constitutes breasts vs. normal, acceptable man-boobs, and I cross that line. That makes me feel deformed, flawed. I feel especially horrible when I think that I could learn to live with them if I accepted them as a potential part of manhood, and yet few other men are expected to make this kind of mental leap, therefore as a man I feel I’m allowed not to.
There’s also the strut.
I think for others it has something to do with the kyriarchy. For me, the man-strut (or, more accurately, the ability to walk casually with your head held high knowing that you are TOTES AWESOME) is… well, the ultimate outward expression of manhood. It says: I’m a man, and I’m okay. I’m trans, and I’m okay. I may be 5’3 and fat and have boobs far too big to be written off as manboobage, but my brain is just as manly as yours so shove off already. When I get in the “man zone,” everything is better. I am more physically capable (I know, it makes no sense), more confident, and more at peace with myself and the world at large, and it’s a guy thing, and possibly if I was MTF I wouldn’t be able to pull this off because – let’s be honest – society isn’t so tolerant of women on the whole and it takes a LOT of courage to reach this point.
And there’s another thing that manhood means to me – privilege. In my day-to-day life, I don’t see a lot of it (being pre-coming out as well as everything else), but it’s out there. Mainstream media has illustrated in no uncertain terms that I am part of the AWESOMEST GENDER EVAH. I’m not required to define my gender by “not being like the other ones.” People always get my gender right first try on the Internet (there are no girls on the Internet, ha ha ha). People of my gender seem to be entitled to get into relationships with women who are way better-looking (gay men are another matter). I have the privilege to wear clothing that expresses my gender without risking physical harm in most circles. I have the potential privilege of belonging to an all-male group that is so insular that everyone calls each other “bro” while deriding the women in their lives for getting together with other women for the same reasons. I have the privilege (if you can call it that) of, when I am seen as male, being seen as smarter, more competent, and generally better equipped than a woman in my situation (this one has happened specifically to me). As long as I am seen as a man, I have less to prove (except in the field of manhood, where I am expected to fight an uphill battle to be allowed into the gender group). I can easily find video games, movies, television shows, and books depicting people of my gender who are not objectified for the expected audience. People of my gender and body shape can be oppressed for their body shape, yeah, but they’re still given a place at the table whereas short, fat women are often thought not to exist unless they are also old and wise.
However, as a man, I am also inheriting problems that I would not have as a woman. It’s now considered a liability rather than an asset that I have a fully functional vagina and “female” reproductive organs. If I have problems with those organs, I have to fight language that restricts those problems to being women’s issues and risk undermining my gender in the eyes of others. My gender legitimacy in the eyes of others will come prepackaged from a pharmacy, whereas if I was a woman (still inhabiting my own body) it would be easily manufactured in my own womb. I will be judged, unfairly, on the size (or absence) of my penis. My manhood will be under almost constant scrutiny from a variety of people ranging from family members to complete strangers, and if I am not manly enough I may be harassed or even physically assaulted.
Some might argue that the things in the last paragraph are a part of being trans, rather than being a man, but that is ridiculous. Since I have what is traditionally called a woman’s body, I cannot be a man without being trans, nor am I trans in any way that does not involve being a man. Therefore, anything that happens as part of my trans-ness is also intrinsically part of my manhood. I don’t believe there’s anything destructive in saying that trans manhood does have certain fundamental differences from cis manhood, therefore it will mean different things to me in some regards. It doesn’t mean that I’m any less of a man, just a man with different experiences in those areas of my life.
And I think that sums it up.
“Since I have what is traditionally called a woman’s body, I cannot be a man without being trans, nor am I trans in any way that does not involve being a man. Therefore, anything that happens as part of my trans-ness is also intrinsically part of my manhood.”
I like this. Your whole comment offers some very interesting thoughts and insights. You really have done a lot of introspection, and thanks for sharing it.
“When I get in the “man zone,” everything is better. I am more physically capable (I know, it makes no sense), more confident, and more at peace with myself and the world at large, and it’s a guy thing…”
It makes sense to me and you were able to articulate it much better than I.