Carving Out My Own Masculinity as a Disabled Trans Man The Body Is Not An Apology
When I was in the Job Corps and had to choose a trade to learn, I chose the one that most of the male students and the masculine-identified AFAB (assigned female at birth) ones did: construction. It was, to the sensibilities of a bunch of working-class 16-to-24-year-olds, the only trade offered that was macho enough. And I sucked at it. I was clumsy. Motor coordination and balance have always been issues for me, and I was constantly dropping things or tripping over things. I couldn’t ever seem to swing a hammer or push a saw with the proper motion; in fact, due to a bit of scrambled programming in the part of my brain that controls motor function, I can’t even do a push motion smoothly. For most things, I find a way to pull and still accomplish the task, but when safety regulations are involved, “I’m doing it the way that works for me” doesn’t quite cut it. The instructor kept trying. If I couldn’t pound nails or cut wood, maybe he could make me into a painter. I held the roller wron...