“Typical
of a man-woman - any guy would know exactly what their car is. Only
women don't.” said in a slightly dropped voice as an aside to the
other bloke in the room: a shared confidence of a knowing between
real men. So it starts, the separating off, the marking you out. The
labelling. You’re different, and that difference is now flagged up
between the reals. You feel the undertow of condescension. Your right
to be fully human — a member of the man-club — is no longer
there.
A
chance to reprieve yourself is proffered. OK. You have replaced your
car. So how many miles had the old one done? The question is asked.
“I
don’t know” I reply, honestly, falling straight into the elephant
trap.
Another
aside - audible, but only just, and knowing looks exchanged between
real men:
“Just
what you would expect from a man-woman; men always know how many
miles their cars have done!”
I
am caught out. Defrocked. A sinking feeling of disappointment — I
had hoped for more — some tolerance, if not acceptance — and now
I have that feeling of a yawning gap opening — a knowing inside
that my difference has been spotlighted — that it matters, that it
can’t simply be accepted — that it cannot be left uncommented on.
It needs to be drawn to attention: the real men closing ranks.
I
can’t help being me, and I know that my difference is always likely
to be on the radar, but I hope on hope that it does not matter, that
it will pass unremarked, just accepted, like differences in height,
or the pitch of voices, or signs of ageing, or the colour of eyes. I
would love people to think “That’s how you are — OK — fine —
no problem, after all we are all different.”
But
then something confuses, something is not acceptable, something
cannot be left to pass. It discomforts. I can hear the thinking:
“This seeming man — are you really a man? Or do we switch into
reacting to a woman mode? Definitely not — you seem to be mostly a
man — so maybe your a gay? Or perhaps your a trans? Your not giving
out gay man signals, so perhaps you a mix up - a man-woman – a
transsexual – or whatever the freaks call themselves. So how do we
react to you? Your not a woman so we can't react that way. You do not
seem to be gay, so we don't need to fear you coming on to us, and we
don't need to give you big put-downs, or think of beating you up. So
what do we do? – because you are not completely a bloke, whatever
you are.”
It
would be so much simpler if I were clearly a woman. They’re
different in men’s minds. They are the other. They do not function
the same. They are the ones you ogle, the ones you pass comment on as
to their ‘fitness’ — that is, their shaggability; or comment on
the strangeness of their minds — so utterly unfathomable — that
inability to even understand what seems so self-evident, so simple
and so important — like how the wires go in a plug, or how to
change the oil in a car. No one needs telling those things, no one
needs to be shown, not once they are a bloke. It is just understood
that you know. You learned as you grew up - just absorbed it. You
watched other guys and that’s that. From then on you know. But
women, you tell them, you show them, and then you have to tell them
again! Yes again! Unbelievable! It like they don’t want to remember
- or can’t remember — even simple things, like what is the right
order for turning on the heating, or for setting the security alarm.
And they stick together, think in harmony, gang up on you with
glances and looks to each other; and then on goes the disapproval.
And they are emotional time bombs. You are never quite sure what is
going to freak one out — and then an utter torrent of accusation
and blame — and whatever you say is simply shredded. No, women you
handle with safety gloves. You make forays with sexual teasing –
just in case they are game – will she, wont she flirt? – is she
up for it? That is if she is not a minger, or a moose – but who
would with one of those? Or at least who would admit to with one of
those? Well you have to sometimes – but never let the boys know. As
for the old trouts – the wrinklies and crinklies – humour them
or patronise them – but keep well clear. And then when you are
safely with the other guys, disparage and belittle the whole tribe
with a few shared demeaning remarks and shrugs of agreement as to
their incomprehensibility: a shared distain. Its OK, women are not
actually fully human, not like men; they are not lords of the earth –
they are not part of the man-army. They cannot march with the guys.
They have to be set apart, set aside, confined.
But
I am not a woman — but then neither am I totally a man. I’m a
blend, a cut-and-shut job - dropped by nature to be somewhere between
in that no-man’s-land that is neither fully the one nor the other.
I don’t trigger that “react to a woman mode” that blokes fall
into, somewhere between condescension and allure. Neither do I
trigger the “it’s OK, he’s one of us and he is not gay” which
lets you into the club. No. First the tacit acceptance, then, slowly,
some puzzlement. Something doesn’t fit, something discomforts. The
reactions are just wrong. The movements not wholly manly. Then it’s
the reaching for another label - the man-woman sticker - the
she-male; and you can feel the caution and the distance, and, most
obviously, the contempt and the pity. It oozes, unspoken.
