I'm Afraid of Men.

by Vivek Shraya

In the morning, as I get ready for work, I avoid choosing clothes or accessories that will highlight my femininity and draw unwanted attention. On the hierarchy of harassment, staring is the least violent consequence for my gender nonconformity that I could hope for. And yet the experience of repeatedly being stared at has slowly mutated me into an alien.

As important as it is to make these incidents visible by reporting them, sensationalizing and digesting these stories is also a form of social control, a reminder that I need to be afraid and to try to be as invisible as possible.

When I have to send emails to men, including male colleagues and artists, I carefully compose each message and include several exclamation marks.

The snobbish, superior attitudes of such men have prevented me from calling myself a musician for years, even though I write songs, record albums, and tour.

But when I’m not feeling as confident (or delusional), I’m afraid that this is actually how I express my self-loathing.

But even in a large city like Toronto, dance parties and bars are the predominant locations for establishing queer connections or even just being queer safely.

But when the momentary visibility fades after someone conveys their interest by pinching me, I inevitably feel devalued and dehumanized.

Trans people aren’t afforded the luxury of relaxing or being unguarded.

Early on, you confess that you’d harboured a crush on me when we first met, but when I proposed friendship, you were happy to change how you saw me, as you too had been looking for new friends. As our buddy intimacy grows, you never once cross a line with me.

Because of my discomfort with my body, casual sex has rarely been an option for me.

by this transition, by the reality that often the only way to capture someone’s attention and to encourage them to recognize their own internal biases (and to work to alter them) is to confront them with sensational stories of suffering.

Why is my humanity only seen or cared about when I share the ways in which I have been victimized and violated?

Sexist comments, intimidation, groping, violating boundaries, and aggression are seen as merely “typical” for men. But “typical” is dangerously interchangeable with “acceptable.” “Boys will be boys,” after all.

The theme of entitlement to space that emerges in many of my recollections of men, and in my own masculine development, is colonial code for claiming someone else’s space. Whether it’s through an emphasis on being large and muscular, or asserting power by an extended or intimidating stride on sidewalks, being loud in bars, manspreading on public transit, or enacting harm or violence on others, taking up space is a form of misogyny because so often the space that men try to seize and dominate belongs to women and gender-nonconforming people.

And so, I’m also afraid of women. I’m afraid of women who’ve either emboldened or defended the men who have harmed me, or have watched in silence.

I’m afraid of women who adopt masculine traits and then feel compelled to dominate or silence me at dinner parties.

I’m afraid of women who have internalized their experiences of misogyny so deeply that they make me their punching bag.

But your fear is not only hurting me, it’s hurting you, limiting you from being everything you could be.