While trans men are seen in US political discourse as having defective masculinities, trans men’s unique relationship with choosing to become men provides a useful template for cisgender people to expand their mindset. Trans men don’t inherently create masculinity from cisgender, hegemonic ideas about what it means to be a man. Trans men can take pieces of masculinity that they value, and stitch them together to form something distinct from cisgender toxic masculinity. I recognize that this is a generalization -- interviews by Abelson reveal that some trans men create a “goldilocks masculinity” to conform to, rather than dismantle, white supremacist masculine ideals (Abelson 2019). While it is important to acknowledge these biases, this essay is not about trans men who perpetuate misogyny and white supremacy. I focus on radical theorists who see the blurred edges of trans identity. Trans men of color are at the forefront of changing understandings of transition, whether through time (Lau 2018), through grief (Galarte 2021), or through the abolishment of antiblack binaries (Bey 2022). Toxic masculinities don’t occur naturally and are not inherent to men’s development; alternate forms of positive masculinity are possible, and within our reach.
To understand where harmful masculine representation comes from, Lugones provides a helpful framework called “the coloniality of gender”. This refers to the way that bodies are racialized and gendered simultaneously via colonialism (Lugones 2024). Capitalism is a crucial part of this process -- it assigns value to bodies based on how well they can perform labor that is considered important (Lugones 2024, 38). The colonial understanding of gender prioritizes beliefs from bodies that are white and fall neatly into a binary. Non-Eurocentric ways of categorizing gender are seen as “primitive,” and cis white knowledge is most desirable, or “true” (Lugones 2024, 39). Great violence has been enacted to spread colonial practices and erase Black and Indigenous traditions. Historical events like slavery, Indigenous genocide, sexual purity culture of the 19th century, and the development of white feminism are all manifestations of this violence. The aftermath of these violent acts influences our contemporary understanding of gender as a binary that prioritizes white bodies.
Meyerowitz follows the public’s attitudes towards gender non-conforming people throughout the 19th and 20th centuries. Her research builds upon the understanding of colonial gender norms that Lugones presents. Christine Jorgenson’s life is an anchor point upon which trans possibilities are oriented; her transition completely changed the way that people in the US perceived sex and gender (Meyerowitz 2002). In the late 19th and early 20th century, scientists began to see humans as bisexual, or possessing characteristics of both sexes (Meyerowitz 2002, 22). Jorgenson’s case confirmed these beliefs, because she showed that physical characteristics could change, and that masculinity and femininity weren’t inherent to being a man or woman (Meyerowitz 2002, 3). Unfortunately, when transsexualism became a medical category in the 1940s and 1950s (Meyerowitz 2002, 14), it opened the door for trans identity to eventually become classified as a mental disorder in the 1970s (Meyerowitz 2002, 255-256). Stigma came with this medicalization of transgender identity, and both straight and queer people distanced themselves from trans people (Meyerowitz 2002, 255-256).
I present these histories as a backdrop for discussions about trans people today. When politicians say that there are two distinct sexes, and that gender isn’t separate from sex, this argument is rooted in white supremacist understandings of gender that Lugones presents. When someone says that trans identity is a mental illness that should be treated with conversion therapy, this idea comes from attitudes from the medical and psychiatric systems in the 20th century put in place to dissuade transition. Similarly, when people say that trans people have always existed and are silenced by larger systems, they are drawing upon Indigenous and non-Eurocentric ways of knowing gender that colonialism devalues. Many trans people today understand that masculinity and femininity are not separated between men and women, but that each characteristic exists in all bodies. This correlates with the possibilities that Jorgenson’s public transition created for the ability for one to change their physical body and gender presentation. These conversations form the basis for my argument: white cisgender perceptions of gender are limited, and trans men can push boundaries to embody traits that are radical, nuanced, non-physical, and non-linear.
Physical transition methods, like surgery or hormones, are not an inherent part of transition for all trans people. A study by Aboim and Vasconcelos explores what it means to be a man, and they argue that trans men can perform masculinity through bodily-reflexive practices (Aboim and Vasconcelos 2022). Bodily-reflexive practice is the way that the essence of masculinity is embodied and shaped by the individual and their lived experience, and makes masculinities unique to the person instead of hegemonic (Aboim and Vasconcelos 2022, 46). Bodily reflexive practices are not static; they are affected by both past experiences and future desires and aspirations (Aboim and Vasconcelos 2022, 46). For example, many of the people interviewed formerly labeled themselves as a “cross-dresser, drag-king, or lesbian” -- these previous identities are part of one’s current relationship to gender. (Aboim and Vasconcelos 2022, 48). Aboim and Vasconcelos’s ideas interrupt cisgender perceptions of how transition is “measured”. One cannot look at a trans person and gauge how far along they are in their gender journey, what internal changes have happened since beginning transition, or what their gender presentation means to them. A person’s transness isn’t tied to how often they are recognized as their chosen gender identity. Some people never choose to medically transition; others may only want one or two surgeries; and others do not wish to change their bodies at all. We also cannot ignore the role that economic, racial, and regional privileges affect whether or not a person feels safe enough to medically transition, or to have access to tools to do so. Transition is more than a physical process, and it is anything but linear.
Bodily-reflexive practice mirrors Lau’s concept of “trans time,” which opposes “cis time” (Lau 2018). In his essay that describes trans time, Lau shares his experience as a biracial trans man during the first five years of his transition. He concludes that trans people of color are forced to confine complex narratives of transition and racial identity into reductive, cisnormative time frames (Lau 2018). When Lau was perceived as a butch woman, his racial identity was rarely questioned; when he was recognized as a man, strangers saw him as effeminate because of his Asian identity, and they felt comfortable commenting on his racially ambiguous appearance. Cisnormative time sees transition as linear and real when it includes hormones and surgery, and doesn’t allow room for trans people’s complex feelings about their experiences (Lau 2018). Cis time is also rooted in white supremacy. The relationship between race and gender is clear when cisgender white people ask, “What are you?”; Lau says that it becomes equivalent to asking “When are you?” as in, “Where are you in my imagined timeline of your transition? When are you going to get ___ surgery?” (Lau 2018, 35). Trans time directly opposes these questions and categorizations. Trans time, like bodily-reflexive practice, recognizes that the past, present, and future versions of one’s self are intertwined, and that transition is as much about the internal as it is about the external (Lau 2018). However, trans time more heavily incorporates race than Aboim and Vasconcelos do in their study. While white trans people may relate to Lau’s experience, they will never experience the inappropriate racial questioning that Lau is subject to. Lau’s biracial identity, along with his gender identity, puts him in a unique in-between space. This categorization of identity is the coloniality of gender in action. This is a crucial insight that builds upon bodily-reflexive practice, and shows that trans people of color have a different relationship with gender than both cis and trans white people. Lau shows what it is like to live within the margins of the margins, and he asks us to consider what it feels like to inhabit the world from a place typically unseen.
Similarly, Bey connects white supremacy to the categorization of cisgender, and argues that by positioning cis and trans as a binary, queer and trans studies aren’t disrupting norms in the way that they should be (Bey 2022). By categorizing trans people as those whose gender doesn’t “match” their sex, and cis people as people whose bodies do “match,” sex is presented as immutable and binary (Bey 2022, 71-72). Nobody is “born cis; [they are] made diligently, maliciously, cis” (Bey 2022, 19). It is an active, harmful process, similar to the coloniality of gender, because both systems give privilege to one group and devalue all others. This differs from white typical cisnormative ideas because it positions being cisgender as a choice, or a way of being socialized, in the same way that being transgender is seen as a choice. Thus, cisgender is also a deviation from the norm, because our “normal” state should be to exist in a world where binaries are not imposed upon people. Bey asks us what it means to live comfortably within a category without ever challenging it. Additionally, the category of cisgender is inherently antiblack, because Black people are always seen as performing gender incorrectly; if whiteness is the standard, Black people will never be able to measure up (Bey 2022, 21-23). Whiteness and cisness are both the blueprint that all human beings are measured against (Bey 2022, 24). Therefore, all Black bodies are inherently transed or queered, because of their inability to fully assimilate to white cisgender ideals. Bey’s ideas build upon Lau’s perception of cis time as something that relies on binaries and linearity. The categories of cis and white aren’t merely restrictive, they are racist and imposed, insidious because of the way they are made invisible and presented as natural. Bey’s theory doesn’t just critique cisnormative ideas, but also turns trans studies on its head by challenging what it means to be cis or trans altogether.
Galarte critiques cis white ideas about trans life as well, but he focuses on the grief and loss felt by Latinx trans people, which he captures with the word dolor (Galarte 2021). Dolor, as Galarte defines it, is the connection to brown trans narratives from someone who has experienced violence; it is not superficial, but a deep despair that shapes the lives of disenfranchised people. He says it is a “brown feeling,” and that “for racialized subjects, loss is integral to subject formation” (Galarte 2021, 26). Brown trans lives are devalued and seen as secondary to white cisgender bodies, and thus they are more prone to being victims of violence. Between trans people of color, there is a recognition, or a camaraderie almost, within dolor. It is a way of saying, “I see you. I feel what you feel. I know that you are hurting, and it hurts me to see you hurt.” Galarte is concerned with the ways that “brown trans subjects are figured as inconceivable, stuck, deceptive... and most importantly impossible” (Galarte 2021, 13). Like Bey’s point about Black trans bodies being unable to measure up to white cis ideals, Latinx bodies also fall short. Grief and loss are parts of being the subject of systemic violence, and trans people’s lives are often only acknowledged in death, or to be used as tools for white queer people to gain legal rights (Galarte 2021, 58). I focus on Galarte’s dolor because mainstream white perceptions of trans life do not necessarily create distinctions between the experiences of trans people of color and white trans people. If the violence that trans people of color experience is acknowledged, it is often through a simplified view, and their lives are reduced to tragedy without a focus on the relationship between living brown trans people and those who are gone. Essentially, brown trans lives are seen to matter only after they are lived. Galarte invites readers to allow dolor to be recognized, while asking that trans life be more than an existence defined only by tragedy. Additionally, trans people should be allowed to define their transition on their own terms, instead of flattening their experiences to be palatable for consumption by cis audiences.
I prioritize the perspectives of trans men of color for several reasons. Their voices are the least heard, though their lives are the most heavily affected by white supremacist gendered systemic violence. Progress cannot be measured by the most privileged members of a group gaining more privilege, but by the most marginalized being uplifted. Additionally, the lives of trans people of color are vulnerable in the current political climate, and now is the time to prioritize perspectives that are typically ignored. Including race in conversations about gender roles is essential because bodies are gendered according to the way that they’re racialized. Yet white trans voices dominate the limited pool of literature about trans people, and the even smaller sect of theory that centers trans men and masculinity. Finally, cisgender interpretations of trans life dominate media, and it’s time for trans people to lead the discussion about what it feels like to be trans.
What cis people can learn about gender from trans people is this: it’s not simple, linear, or bodily-focused. The roles we are all expected to adhere to aren’t normal or natural, and are rooted in white supremacy. There is more than the “born in the wrong body” narrative, and many trans people don’t feel that there’s anything wrong with their bodies. Transition timelines don’t look the same for each person, and enacting masculinity is a bodily-reflexive practice (Aboim and Vasconcelos 2022) that occurs within a trans timeline (Lau 2018). Gender roles are both racialized and racist, and all people are affected negatively by being “thrown into” the cisgender category at birth (Bey 2022). Trans people of color traverse through the world with different risks than white trans people, and to truly liberate all trans people, we must focus on the ones most heavily targeted. The authors whose ideas I engage with each provide a different lens through which we can view the gendered body. Together, their theoretical viewpoints become a kaleidoscope of perspectives; they illuminate tired, reductive, cisnormative conceptions of what it means to be a man.
Abelson, Miriam J. Men in Place: Trans Masculinity, Race, and Sexuality in America. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2019.
Aboim, Sofia, and Pedro Vasconcelos. “What Does It Mean to Be a Man? Trans Masculinities, Bodily Practices, and Reflexive Embodiment.” Men and Masculinities 25, no. 1 (2022): 43–67. doi:10.1177/1097184X211008519.
Bey, Marquis. Black Trans Feminism. Durham: Duke University Press, 2022.
Bey, Marquis. Cistem Failure: Essays on Blackness and Cisgender. Durham: Duke University Press, 2022.
Cohen, Cathy J, Mae G Henderson, and E. Patrick Johnson. “Punks, Bulldaggers, and Welfare Queens: The Radical Potential of Queer Politics?” In Black Queer Studies, 21–51. New York, USA: Duke University Press, 2020. doi:10.1515/9780822387220-004.
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Galarte, Francisco J. Brown Trans Figurations: Rethinking Race, Gender, and Sexuality in Chicanx/Latinx Studies. First edition. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2021.
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Lau, Jacob R. “Transition as Decreation: A Transfeminist Phenomenology of Mixed/Queer Orientation” in Graduate Journal of Social Science. Vol. 14, Issue 2. 24-43. September 2018.
Lugones, Maria. “The Coloniality of Gender” in Feminisms in Movement: Theories and Practices from the Americas, edited by Lívia De Souza Lima, Edith Otero Quezada, Julia Roth, 35-58. Bielefeld, Germany: Majuskel Medienproduktion GmbH, 2024. https://library.oapen.org/bitstream/handle/20.500.12657/87485/9783839461020.pdf? sequence=1#page=36.
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