How To Be A Man Jed Kass

Like a lot of people, my first model for masculinity was my father. I did not know him for long. To me he was an intense and frightening man. He was physically abusive to my mother, they split up when I was 2 years old and he sent her threatening letters for decades afterwards. My mother would collect them in a shoebox in case she ever needed to call the police.

I always had a fear in the back of my mind that he would turn up at the house one day when I wasn't there and hurt her, but he never did. A few years ago I heard that he returned to Lagos. As well as my first model of masculinity, this was my first model of a Black man.

I'm biracial, my mother is white, and I grew up in a small town on the south coast of England. I was the only Black person I knew. The place I'm from is kind of rural and the standard for a man involves being able to handle tools and fix things, having a trade like carpentry or roofing, having a car or van, being a husband, not getting emotional and paying for things.

I transitioned at 23. By then I knew what it was like to be read as female and androgynous. Being read consistently as male over time, I began to feel the burn of society's standards for men.

I noticed shortcomings that had never existed before: I went from average height to short, my ability to speak about sports was lacking, I was too quiet and emotional, I had a laughably small dick, I was impotent, I was weedy, I was young looking and not responsible, I was a threat to women, I was probably going to steal something, my presence sometimes irked middle aged white guys. In theory of course, I didn't care. But as the years went by these shortcomings got inside my head. I started to try and live up to the standards for men and to beat myself up when I couldn't.

Being a trans man, of course, I wanted to be one of the 'good guys'. One who protects women from toxic masculinity. But I found that in relationships I had a lot of toxic traits, mostly related to childhood, but now viewed through the lens of masculinity, I felt I must be one of the 'bad guys'. This binary made me feel guilty and inadequate. I feared I was turning into my father.

I struggled at the beginning with shame for transitioning at all and for abandoning my label as a lesbian woman. It felt like being a transgender man was somehow offensive to women, as many trans-exclusionary feminists will gladly confirm.

Shame has been a big part of my life both as a Black person and a trans person. These are labels which can incite a great deal of ugly and dangerous hostility. I internalized this hostility as self-hate and have spent a lot of energy unlearning that self-hate. In the past I wanted to remain unseen, believing my life would be safer if I could blend in as much as possible. Now I want to be seen so that I can be recognized by others like me so that I can feel less lonely and belong where I belong with others who are either like me or who can empathize with my experience as a Black Trans Man.

I've only recently begun to claim what masculinity means to me. I no longer feel guilty for being masculine. I no longer want to be validated by being chosen over a cis man. I no longer even want to be seen as cis. I see myself as a free soul with a beautiful human body and a strong inner compass. I do my best to be loving, strong and encouraging. I'm nowhere near perfect, nor do I need to be.

This may not be how others see me, but one of the things about the sense of masculinity I am discovering is that I am most invested in my own standards, not those of others.

This may not be how others see me, but one of the things about the sense of masculinity I am discovering is that I am most invested in my own standards, not those of others.