Other Men: On Socialising While Transmasculine
Barbara Kruger’s Untitled (1981) is known for its typographic assertion that “you construct intricate rituals that allow you to touch the skin of other men”. You have probably seen this image already as a sarcastic reply to a display of homosocial behaviour: hobbies typically straight-male coded, such as contact sports or football or drinking cultures, have embedded within them codes of touching men. The act of touching men’s skin, hugging their shoulders in celebration, slapping them on the back or shaking their hands is inextricable from the male identity. Other men are integral to the identity of the individual, and none cannot exist in isolation from the skin of others.
Having seen this image many times, I previously never gave it much thought. But I think I understand now. Where Kruger was looking at homoeroticism, I approach this – as all things – from the perspective of transmasculinity. The most intimidating thing for me, as a young queer transsexual, is negotiating my place with codified spaces of “intricate masculine rituals”; be it in pubs, barbershops, gay bars, bathhouses or orgies, I am aware that these spaces are ‘typically’ not used to the active presence of trans people. The fact that these intricate rituals exist, and are hard to penetrate, points towards a gatekept masculinity that is the preserve of cissexuals. I cannot speak for all trans people, but I know that the existence of “intricate rituals” which could reject and mock me for not being the correct form of “other man” forced my transition inwards, on altering the body in isolation from the rest of the world. Through centering my transition on changing the self away from prying eyes, I denied myself the possibility of “intricate rituals” because, in my core, I was terrified of rejection.
In an act of self-preservation, the body was isolated away from the rituals of masculine identity and cultivated in secret. Jules Gleeson’s recent essay in Transgender Marxism (2021) labels this model of transition the “aleatory encounter”, the act of centering “passing” as cisgender to strangers, to blend so well with the cis populace that you become impossible to decipher as trans - “trans people struggle with mastering the way they in particular will be perceived, and mastery of this moment of encounter (the aleatory exchange) is the focus of transition… perfecting this art requires not only a self-directed transformation, but a new orientation to the cisgender majority.”
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Whilst I identify with some of this definition, I depart from it somewhat as Gleeson doesn’t expand on the self-imposed loneliness that this form of transition can sometimes take. The aleatory encounter assumes that the transsexual will aim to encounter with their sex along the same set of rules, that upon reaching the state of “deep stealth” they will adopt the patterns of cissexual socialisation. Speaking only for myself, this was never something I considered within my remit. That the aleatory encounter is “self-directed” points towards, but does not elaborate, on how isolating and lonely a transition based reactively off how cisgender individuals perceive you can be. Loneliness that I now realise was in part fuelled by the annexing of my skin from the skin of other men; not in the erotic sense, although this is a factor, but moreso how the distance from masculine rituals impacted on how I perceived myself in relation to cissexuals.
“Cis men would be less paranoid of their manhood if they were transsexual and stepped back from mastering their aleatory encounters with their fellow men.”
The first decade of my transition was a solo mission to alter my signification to the world, restricting myself to merely ‘signifying’ without entering masculine dialogues or rituals. I “became” a man slowly and deliberately, through a long process of social transition – name, pronouns, dress – which reinforced my later legal and medical transition, being granted hormone replacement therapy at sixteen through informed-consent and an M on my passport a year later. On a fundamental level, this transition was effective. It worked. I have a male body and move through the world as a queer man. Five years of testosterone injections redistributed my bodyfat, added two inches to my height, made my shoulders broader and moved my hairline backwards; on a more intimate level, changes have occurred that, to me and others, shift my biological sex away from cisgender female towards distinctly transsexual. I have become perceptively, tangibly male – but I am (still) apprehensive of male spaces. The thought of being within typically ‘male’ spaces filled me with an indescribable emotion – not fear, but some form of paranoia of being identified as Other within a space not designed for someone with ovaries. I was five years on hormones (twenty-one years old) before I stepped foot in a barbershop. I used gender neutral or disabled public toilets where possible. I was paralysed by the thought of men’s gym changing rooms. My transition was conducted adjacent to a concept of male homosocialisation, but consciously separate from it. The first decade of my transition sexed my body male. But it was a male body annexed from other cissexual men.
I am able to recognise these behaviours because, writing in October 2022, I no longer consider myself as isolated. I attempted to enter intricate masculine rituals as slowly and deliberately as I socially and medically transitioned. And it was fine. Its very anticlimactic to discover that this world that I was terrified of for a decade was disinterested and disinteresting – just an everyday part of lots of cissexual’s lives. In the men’s changing rooms, I am just another twink who pretends he isn’t exhausted by running for fifteen minutes. When getting my hair cut, the barber carves out lines to shape the hair around my ears. His hands often brush them, his eyes intently analysing my face as he holds blades to my skin. He doesn’t know, or care, that I am transsexual: I am a man sat in the chair asking for a skin fade. He asks me what I’m doing currently, my plans for this evening or comments on the previous barber’s handiwork. He enters into dialogue with me as a man, affirming my identity without even knowing he is doing anything out of the ordinary. These moments of homosocialisation are often taken for granted by cisgender people. But to me, they’ve shifted how I view my transition and my status relative to “other (cissexual) men”.
It’s important to stress that trans people should not exclusively seek confirmation through cis people; trans people should always seek to create and become part of queer communities that don’t centre cissexualism, if only to ensure their safety. Alongside the aleatory encounter, Gleeson expands on “transition founded in community action.” Using the analogy of “trans circles” instead of a homogenous trans community, Gleeson notes: “Trans people most often draw strength from interacting with other souls like-minded enough (often, not exclusively, trans themselves) who offer reciprocal recognition that identity requires… there is also collective progression brought by the shared pool of expertise and experience.” Community should be central to transition. For me, a turning point was learning to stand my ground in cis-coded spaces that I previously excised myself from, but I have always felt supported by networks of trans friends and mentors. But trans people will always need or want access to single-sex spaces, or merely the ability to be present in acts of homosocialisation.
I realise that as a trans man, my experiences are entirely different to trans women who face consistent, concerted attacks on their abilities to access single-sex spaces, or to homosocialise with cisgender women. I am in less danger than a trans woman who wants to access single-sex services, use women’s toilets or changing groups, or even join a women’s reading group. I speak from a place of passing male privilege, and this essay likely comes across as idealistic or naïve to those who are regularly and repeatedly rejected from such spaces. My point is to emphasise how the hyperbole of single-sex spaces being invaded cruelly undercuts the basic need for all trans people: that transition necessitates our presence in homosocial spaces. To disallow this, to annex us, is to deny a crucial part of collective identity.
Returning finally to Kruger, since transitioning into accessing these spaces I now understand how fragile the cissexual male identity is. “Intricacy” implies that it is complex, easily broken and not easily replicated. It is not merely the transsexual (me) who has problems deciphering this code, but many cis men. Cis men would be less paranoid of their manhood if they were transsexual and stepped back from mastering their aleatory encounters with their fellow men.
Words: Elliott Rose
