I'm Afraid of Men.

by Vivek Shraya

Exclamation marks soften my message, modifying my tone so that my words convey the requisite submissiveness to communicate effectively with a man, to avoid agitating or offending him. I am not allowed to be assertive or direct.

I realized only after I began transitioning that my lifetime of independence and self-reliance had been largely a result of male privilege.

Instead you farmed a field between us and did what I didn’t do, didn’t know how to do: you assimilated.

Had I, a boy, not worn it, I wouldn’t have been sullied. Your message in saliva is clear and staining. To this day, if I hear someone cough or clear their throat behind me, my body tenses up, shoulders raised, expecting to be a target.

Cautiously coming into my queerness, I am learning the necessity of collecting and interpreting meagre clues of acceptance as a form of survival.

I can’t summon any other word or sound to articulate the shock of having my belief in our mutual attraction crushed and simultaneously finding out that you want to hurt me physically. You want to hurt me so much that you’ve sent a warning through our friend. I avoid our hallway for the rest of high school, and even now I avoid making eye contact with other men, even if they’re colleagues or peers, never again trusting that visual communication provides a reliable clue (or is even permissible).

Although this exchange lasts less than a minute, you effectively jolt me back into my trained state of fear, my rightful place. Trans people aren’t afforded the luxury of relaxing or being unguarded. Mere steps away from “the world’s largest trans march,” trans people are still seen as perverts who touch strangers at crosswalks.

I’M AFRAID OF MEN not because of any singular encounter with a man. I’m afraid of men because of the cumulative damage caused by the everyday experiences I’ve recounted here, and by those untold, and by those I continue to face.

I have always been disturbed 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?

Reflecting on this broader picture of Nick and our relationship, I had a choice. I could either mourn the loss of the idealized man I had thought Nick was, which somehow rendered me both powerless and at fault, a victim of my own imagination, or I could see Nick for who he is—dependable, devoted, and also fallible. Parsing and naming these specific characteristics, as opposed to clinging to “good” as a universal and aspirational qualifier, proved to be instrumental.

First, it allowed me to see that one of these characteristics didn’t necessarily cancel out the others, unlike “good” that must be relinquished if one does something “bad.” Second, letting go of “good” restored Nick’s humanity, as he was no longer forced to sit upon a superhuman pedestal. Third, it returned agency to me.

This praise highlights another problem with the idea of the “good man”—the bar is ultimately a low one, and men are heralded every day for engaging in basic acts of domestic labour like washing dishes.

Although, thankfully, I never pushed myself onto Manpreet, I’m afraid of myself—of the parts of me that even at a young age felt entitled to experiment with or even exploit a female body.

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.

The history and current state of Western masculinity is predicated on diminishing and desecrating the feminine.

When I was learning to be a man, I wish that instead of the coaching I received to take up space, I had been taught to be respectful of space. To be ever conscious of and ever grateful to those whose sacred land I inhabit. To be mindful of the space and bodies of others, especially feminine bodies. To never presume that I am permitted to touch the body of another, no matter how queer the space. To give up or create space when I am afforded more than others.

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.

But I’m especially afraid of women because my history has taught me that I can’t fully rely upon other women for sisterhood, or allyship, or protection from men.