By Tanya Meneze (They/Them)
Gender is a test we are doomed to fail, because it doesn’t measure who we are, only what others need us to be. Sometimes, I feel like an imposter within my nonbinary identity. It is difficult to understand whether I am connecting with men or escaping the constraints placed on women.
Men have warped the definition of gender across centuries, designating women to be everything they dislike within themselves. Traditional masculinity is isolating and fragile. It relies on denying the humanity of men, fixated on the surgical removal of their weakest parts.
I wonder if this is the consequence of unchecked power. If all oppressors are doomed by the Sisyphian struggle for control. To live at the top of hierarchy, is to live in constant fear of being overthrown.
Once, I had a beautiful woman approach me at a party. She was attracted to me (I know because she said so) (eek), but felt conflicted over her desire. We embarked on a long, meandering conversation about sexuality, reluctant to reach our final destination, where our time together ended or began.
She confessed only being able to imagine dating a dominant person. I nodded compassionately and placed my arm around her, hoping she noted my assertiveness. However, as she spoke, it became clear that she was not drawn to courage.
She was frightened of autonomy.
The idea of two people exploring each other, without the performance of gender, made her feel vulnerable. It was a pleasure she craved, but a gentleness that scared her.
In that moment, I realized she would always be looking for a different kind of man.
Because my version of masculinity is gentle. A good listener. A good kisser because he asks how you’d like to be kissed. Not passive, but patient with himself and you. Someone you can rest your head on, and ramble to, and take apart later.
I want to grin sheepishly. And awkwardly reach for a woman’s hand. And not know the right way to ask if she wants to kiss goodnight. I want to be tender with other men. Laughing and teasing and listening, grasping each other’s femininity in vulnerable moments.
This type of man won’t fit what everyone is looking for. But I’ve realized most people don’t like how their version of masculinity makes them feel.
I love men, because I’ve taken the time to learn what kind of man I’d like to be. One that refuses to strive aimlessly ahead, but instead gazes carefully within.
This fullness of being excites me. It puts me in community with the best kind of people, who love me in the best kind of ways. But even in these euphoric, breathless moments, I feel a stitch of sorrow.
To think everything I had learned to chase, could have been mine by standing still.