Ed Note: Title taken from this amazing campaign.
Despite my ovaries, I am not a lady. There’s no English word for what I am, but for the sake of simplicity let’s say that in American society I operate socially and sexually much like a man. My buddy Battle and I have a regular “boi night” where we consume substances and watch hockey,* my girlfriend introduces me as her “personfriend,” and I buy the drinks. I glare at people who call me “Miss” and give all the change in my pocket to the occasional panhandler who calls me “Sir.” I wear boxer briefs, pack literally four pieces of clothing when I go on vacation and I don’t dance, I sway.
I carve the goddamned turkey, ok?
Being a “man” when I have Brad Pitt‘s face, Cherie Currie‘s hair, Rosario Dawson‘s ass, Anne Hathaway’s crazy-ass smile and Justin Bieber‘s fashion sense; identify as part of the lesbian community; have some (but not all) stereotypical female anatomy; and was raised and socialized as a girl makes for some amount of cognitive dissonance in my daily life. But that I can handle–I’ve learned that boxer briefs are not incompatible with an addiction to CuteOverload dot com. But being a feminist “man” when my masculinity is rarely acknowledged outside the queer community (and often not even inside the queer community) is a C-H-A-L-L-E-N-G-E.