A Word In Edgewise: Thoughts on Changes Past — No Regrets

One of the books reviewed in this issue is Shannon T.L. Kearns’ “No One Taught Me How to Be a Man,” centering on his journey transitioning to his proper self.

I mentioned the title to a friend who commented that he’d confronted his own dad, saying, “I had to learn this from a book!”

“How do you think I learned?” his father replied.

His father was what is now termed a cisgender male; my friend was born male but “gay,” while Kearns falls under the rubric of “trans man.”

Kearns brings needed nuance to the discussions and dissections of the term “masculinity” and the confusions of its expression, still, in this 21st century. How a “wrong” presentation, whether born with an “M” check on a birth certificate or an “F,” can lead to bullying or injury — or worse. I’m not writing here to engage Kearns, but simply to offer a few thoughts concerning the pre-trans era, a time before even elementary school kids knew the word or questioned whether or not the term applied to them.

I was born before “transgender” was a word. Before TV was ubiquitous, before there was an iPhone or internet connection to spread everything everywhere. Not that there weren’t such folks on the planet, of course. I was 10 when George William Jorgensen, Jr., traveled to Denmark to undergo sexual reassignment. They used “transsexual” and less complimentary terms when she returned as Christine to blazing headlines. I read those newspaper articles, but they made little sense to a youngster who wanted to be a boy.

In the 1940s, the topic wasn’t talked about anywhere, since it didn’t exist. Gender as a concept wasn’t discussed at the dinner table, at school or anywhere else; the word transgender wasn’t coined until 1965, when psychiatrist John F. Oliven used the term in his book “Sexual Hygiene and Pathology.” Jorgensen is now referred to as “transgender,” but wasn’t in the headlines in 1952.

I had had a rude awakening at 8 when I was told I could no longer wear my yellow swim trunks with the gray sharks and green palm fronds, though my mom did take me to the boys’ department at G. Fox to buy boys’ dungarees. (Granted, I had to try them on in the girls’ department.) At that time, girls’ jeans had zippers down the left hip. Really? Nobody of any sex or gender peed from the left hip; and boys’ pants had deeper pockets.

And life went on. At camp one summer, I dared a friend to get crew cuts, and that’s how I appeared that fall when I was a freshman at girls’ prep school; gym there included basketball, with girls’ courts which were divided into lanes — two dribbles and you had to pass. While abroad the summer after senior year, my mother signed me up for the Holly Ball, where I “came out” in December the old cotillion way, white gown and long gloves and a press-ganged escort.

All of this occurred before 1965. By the time “trans” surfaced and I learned there was anything one could do differently (and went and did it), I was already on the threshold of geezerdom. This was well before one had to jump through hoops, and my doc just said, “Well, you obviously aren’t crazy,” and that was that. I had, by chance, landed in Minneapolis, which had and has a large GLBTetc. component, so many of the problems and fears around masculinity that Kearns discusses didn’t arise within my group.

One could — still can — hug hello or good-bye, have discussions, get together for dinner and talk and have avenues to make new friends. A valid concern Kearns addresses is the masculine barrier (my term, not his) concerning men and their difficulties with expressing emotions or having close friendships other than through sports or activities. Here, I found weekly two-step dancing, breakfasts after Sunday morning runs and numerous opportunities to bond. That’s not to say there weren’t rough spots, but the first impulse wasn’t to duke it out right then and there.

Kearns brings up many topics worth considering and some suggestions for solutions. Well worth the read.