It’s a funny thing. I hear guys, boys mostly, taunt and yell at each other all the time: “Fag!” “Hahaha! that’s so gay, yo!” “Aw man who the fuck wants to be so gay?” And I have to laugh. They are, they think, proving their manliness. They’re proving how strong, how confident and able they are. They strut and they pose, like wild monkeys, to prove to each other that they are all Alpha Males. They’re very very proud of themselves for fitting a mold they have decided they should fit like a snug glove.
Of course they ignore that molds don’t exist, unless you mean the green, fuzzy kind that lives in the back of the fridge. What they enforce, by mistake / ignorance / bigotry / confusion is limitations. They want to be manly men, and for them that means a very slim spectrum of behavior. Go outside of that range and everything falls apart for them.
It’s scary in the wilderness, or so they seem to think. The unknown is scary and it leads to uncomfortable places. They’re convinced of this, listening to tales at the campfire of their lives, and never daring to just walk beyond the firelight to see what the reality of it all is.
You want to be a badass? You want to be strong, fierce, powerful and capable? You want to exude that and have people know, when you walk into a room, that you are perfectly capable of dealing with life, in whatever form it may take – from throwing a punch to taking a drink to talking to people and having a good time?
Yul Brynner was a badass. Go watch Magnificent Seven or West World for example. There was one badass motherfucker. Brynner walked across a dry, dusty street, wearing all black, and managed to make you understand that while he could kill you without thinking hard about it, he could also pour you a drink. He was a man’s man. An action star, a hero commanding a huge screen presence. And he did musicals. He could sing, and he could dance and twirl with the best of them. Brynner knew something:
Limitations do not serve you well.
Selecting a small slice of gender identity for yourself is doing yourself a disservice. So you say you are “100% male”, and that’s great. I guess. But what does it mean? Do you have to make moaning noises if someone wants you to watch a “chick flick”? Are you supposed to hate pink, Hello Kitty and ponies? Are you supposed to shun fruit cocktails that are fancy, tall and refreshing?
Because in that case, and I say this from the heart, fuck off.
I’ve been in a lot of fights. I’ve had my share of hard times, drunk my drinks and smoked a goodly amount of fine cigars. I’ve learned that when I want to back down out of fear I should always push forward, smartly. I’ve faced down a lot of my own fears and come out standing. I’m not afraid to live life, enjoy the fuck out of it, and go back for more the very next day.
I also love musicals, ponies, rainbows, John Hughes films (Some Kind of Wonderful, I don’t just mean The Breakfast Club) and Gregory Hines movies (White Knights is just divine).
I see no disconnect there. Stopping and saying that I have to be one thing or the other in order to fit some faked up definition of a gender role is patently silly What do I have to gain by it? Limiting myself, denying myself things I enjoy? For what? So I can sit with other blind, narrow boxes on a shelf somewhere and rot?
Or I can admit that gender identity isn’t caused by physical sex, and isn’t sexual identity either. It is its own thing and needs to be respected as such. And then I can be who and what I want.
Because every badass I have ever known, ever seen, and ever heard of, is comfortable with themselves first (Bruce Lee was a cha-cha champion, don’t forget). It’s like a friend of mine said: “It’s a pre req.” And let me tell you something: She’s a badass. As manly as anyone I know, by the traditional standards. You want her at your back in a fight, and you would turn to her when the shit goes sideways. She’s also as girly as she feels like being. Because none of those labels truly matter.
Until we all understand that we simply can’t get anywhere useful.
Who are you, today?