Tell me about my masculinity

No really, please do

I steer clear of gender in my writing. Seems safer that way. Even mentioning gender can be a tinderbox. But a recent project has forced my hand.

I’ve been working on an article about the late/great Bruce Chatwin, one of my favorite authors. Chatwin has a conflicted reputation as a man and traveler, but his books are pure magic. Looking for references to Chatwin and his brand of twentieth-century masculinity, I stumbled upon an essay by Professor Michael Kimmel, a retired Sociologist in Men’s Studies (yes, it’s a thing). The essay, titled Invisible Masculinity, is surprisingly accessible and totally rocked my socks.

Kimmel’s thesis is simple: Men are blind to their gender. We fail to recognize that we interact with others through the guise of gender. Looking in the mirror, Kimmel suggests, the average man sees a person, not a gendered man. To us, being a man is a default option, the vanilla upon which other genders are flavored.

Strange as it may sound, men are the “invisible” gender. Ubiquitous in positions of power everywhere, men are invisible to themselves. […]

As the Chinese proverb has it, the fish are the last to discover the ocean.

— Michael Kimmel in Invisible Masculinity

The essay also connects invisible masculinity and privilege (that inescapable term). Kimmel argues that invisibility stems from the relative imbalance of social power between men and women. Women perceive their gender more often than men because men are rarely negatively impacted by their gender. The thinking goes: Only once something hurts us do we pay attention.

On the surface, invisible masculinity is not revolutionary, especially by 2024 standards. Privilege is a familiar term now. Still, Kimmel’s framing felt like a gift to me. I decided to analyze Bruce Chatwin’s invisible masculinity for my article. The concept perfectly fit his enigmatic persona and would give my argument some legs.

I also felt weirdly seen by invisible masculinity. There is a personal truth buried in the idea that I have always had difficulty pinpointing.

While I am a man — and don’t feel conflicted about that at the moment — I have never particularly identified with being a man. Biological sex and gender have little to do with my self-perception. Rarely, if ever, do I closely associate with male gender and sex, as I might do with my short height or bookish introversion. Manhood is not central to my identity.

I also resent traditional masculine traits. I am not loud, strong, aggressive, or tall (I buy women’s pants because of my size). I do not like to compete in male-dominated spaces and often prefer the company of women. I am not overtly sexual, and I clash with men who are. Modern masculinity is, to me, a tiring game to play.

I feel caught in no-man’s-land — ambivalent about being a man, yet not a woman. What else to do than ignore gender as part of my identity?

Upon further reflection, my apathy about my gender falls squarely into the trap of Invisible Masculinity. Just because I don’t feel myself to be typically masculine does not free me from the influence of gender.

To everyone else, I’m sure my masculinity — my performance of my male identity — is evident. I am still beholden to countless masculine stereotypes. Sports rile me up. Male friendships make me feel chummy. Poorly structured campfires piss me off. The list goes on.

More serious expressions of gender also apply to me. Women have felt my gaze. Girlfriends have seen my machismo. Male friends have been challenged by my competitive streak. These interactions are not inherently harmful, but they should also not be ignored. Masculinity has played a central role in defining my perspective, relationships, and lifestyle. That much is plain. Male biology also impacts my encounters with strangers or colleagues. A woman might feel uncomfortable alone in an elevator with me. Or a group of women might feel I change the dynamics of a meeting. Whether I claim it or not, I am a man and have been rewarded (and sometimes punished) by that social status.

I recognize my invisibility. Yet, even as I write this post, I know that recognition is partial. My inner monologue still struggles, not knowing exactly how to think about myself: Can I change my internal identification with my gender? Do I want to? Does my internal identification even matter when my performance of gender is all anyone sees?

Stewing on these questions has given me no clarity. Comparing Bruce Chatwin’s masculinity to mine has provided no new insights. No amount of self-critique ever will. There’s the rub with invisibility — I simply cannot see my blind spots.

So I decided to do some leg work. Over the last two weeks, I’ve called up some of the important women in my life. Referencing Chatwin and invisibility, I asked them, “Can you please tell me about my masculinity?” What I heard back surprised me.

Encouragement was the first reaction. Each of my friends seemed elated by the question. While I came in nervous (I feared talking about the subject would make them uncomfortable) they were totally on board, almost like they’d been waiting for me to ask. A few of them gave me kudos. One complimented me, saying, “I think it’s brave of you. Very well done.”

My takeaway from this unearned compliment: The bar is low.

The second thing I noticed was a general concord about invisible masculinity. Yes, the women in my life feel as if they perceive their gender more often than men. This is true in ‘men’s spaces’ — bars, sports venues, hostels —but also in more mundane arenas, like the office or on the train. My sister also mentioned how the infrastructure of our society is designed by men who see themselves as the default ‘person’. Street layouts, table heights, and air-conditioning are just a few examples of how women are ignored. As evidence, she referenced a 99% Invisible podcast episode ironically titled Invisible Women, which she recommended to our dad (a civil engineer).

Each woman felt differently about her relationship with gender. Some said that womanhood was central to their identity. They felt empowered by their relative status. To my surprise, others described how they do not strongly identify with their gender. They are not wedded to being a woman — at least no more than any other role they play. The constant focus placed on their gender felt constricting, or uninteresting compared to their whole personhood.

Regarding my masculinity, I was slightly disappointed by their responses. A part of me expected a tidal wave of pent-up animosity from my friends. I was sure they had stories tucked away from my past: Ugly little moments of masculine caricature just waiting to be revealed. If nothing else, they would have opinions about my lack of masculinity. Maybe they saw me as boyish or had at some point assumed I was gay or asexual.

Their actual responses challenged my internal narrative of gender ambiguity.

“I wouldn’t describe you as what some people would say is effeminate. I think you have some typically masculine ways of behaving. […] You are not someone who easily expresses emotion. You often present in a way which is very ‘rational’ and ‘systematic’.”

“I actually think of you as quite the man’s man in many ways. Motorcycle t-shirts, your love of grilling, the way you are very particular and nerdy about some things also seems like a male trait somehow.”

The miniature experiment reported that, yeah, I’m kind of just a dude.

I exhibit plentiful male-coded traits, which, I was told, do not impede my relationships with these women but do mark me as a male figure. My confidants see me as a person who plays a relatively healthy role in their lives — who also happens to be a man.

Thankfully, these women also said I’m doing okay avoiding the worst that masculinity has to offer. “You’ve always been good at not being this toxic masculinity, even though you’re from Texas,” one woman said.

This comment or any other comment does not exonerate me from any misogyny I’ve committed in my lifetime. Without a doubt, I have made women wary or said sexist things. Apparently, I once said to an ex-girlfriend that, “I found it sexy that she could drive,” when she drove us around mountain roads in a manual car. We laughed about the memory, but hearing back my words made me uncomfortable.

This entire exercise has been uncomfortable. I’m thankful to have these conversations, but each one has felt like a perilous overextension of my abilities. And here, now, writing this post, I tread lightly. Gender is not stable ground for me. As joked, growing up in Texas two decades ago did not teach me much about gender. Men were taught to act like men and women like women; the binary was more than unassailable — it simply was. Talking critically about my gender identity or performance does not come naturally.

That’s why I’ve buried this exploration of gender behind a writing project. Bruce Chatwin is a scapegoat. His masculinity is not all that interesting to me. I used my writing for cover so that I might bring up my gender to others. That’s how lost I feel here. There is a clash between my external and internal identities that I cannot resolve myself.

What is now apparent is that I can’t explore gender by looking back at dead male authors. Or by looking in the mirror. From my vantage point, I don’t have a complete view of who I am. That piece of me is invisible.

So please, tell me about my masculinity.