Running through Penn Station in New York City, sweating and out of breath I was moments away from dropping my four huge duffle bags and missing my train. I saw an Amtrak employee, flagged him down and hurriedly asked him to help me get my bags to the gate.

“Help you with your bags?” He looked at me with disgust, then rolled his eyes and walked away. I stood there confused and embarrassed, wondering what I could have done that was so offensive. Did I break some man code about asking for help?

As a transgender man, I’ve had to cultivate my manhood instead of being born into it, so I have taken deliberate time and intention to examine tropes of masculinity, to interrogate what I wanted and what I didn’t want to engage in. But it was in that moment on the Amtrak platform that I still had a lot to learn about this fraternal order of pride and masculinity I was about to join.

I’d thought becoming a man was a righteous undertaking. It was about setting an example that is strong and compassionate, that listens and protects, that is self-motivated. I was going to be a part of a population of people who were stoic, strong and pragmatic. Pillars of our community and protectors of the family; a brotherhood of responsibility and care. I was ready to transition not just into a masculinized body but a masculine way of being.

I short, I wanted to be an action hero.

As I went further into my transition, more often “passing” as a man, I found that the reality of manhood didn’t always jibe with my original romanticized notions. I’ve learned that manhood is deeply bruised at the smallest slight while pretending to be a pillar of strength and stoicism. There are very rigid ideas that define masculinity as something that denies itself vulnerability in any aspect, be it pain, sadness, compassion or affection.

These very basic emotions that make us human are shamed and mocked. I’ve literally been laughed at by a cisgender man for being too “emotionally invested” when I showed outward or enthusiastic love and affection for my wife, whom I love boldly and with no reservations. As a black, queer and trans couple, it’s important for us to be models of love and possibility for our community. But it read to him as weakness and bad judgment.

“Bros before hoes” or “these girls ain’t loyal” are more than just funny quips on a T-shirt or a hook in a hip-hop song. They’re ideas that precede us, and have an enduring hold on how we view masculinity. And they’ve made embodying healthy masculinity an uphill battle.

I’m constantly embroiled in arguments and debates and dialogues with cisgender heterosexual men about our treatment of women and the violent and vile sexism that influences our relationships. The masculinity I present looks more heteronormative and “passable”, but that doesn’t mean that this is the standard. Masculinity manifests in a myriad of ways and no one is more valuable then the other.

I’ve had to step away from everything I thought I knew about being a man and everything the world told me it was supposed to be in order to develop a manhood that worked with femininity and wasn’t diametrically opposed to it or afraid of it. I want my manhood to be something that isn’t seeped in irrational entitlement and fear that leads to violence. I want my manhood to create space, not take it all up; that doesn’t assume any rank or entitlement over anyone because they aren’t men or masculine.



I know that compassion and love are not emotional weaknesses but are the points where inclusion and empathy begin. Being a good guy is deliberate. Deconstructing sexist ideology and not engaging in entitlement that subjugates anyone is hard work that has to be done every single day. But when I look at myself in the mirror and love the man looking back, it’s all worth it.