Writing The Self 4: I am a Man

The November wind rustles leaves along the front steps of the school as students trudge along towards the front doors. This morning, just like all the other mornings in Regina, was cold and sent sharp tendrils of frostbite to nip at any exposed skin. All the female students here must have been reluctant to listen to their parents as they wore skirts that either met the ends of their fingertips or slightly higher and tops that struggle to cover their midsections – I was no different. Today, I wore a sundress. The roses were stitched on every empty surface on the cotton fabric and the hem fell just over my knees. Mama gave me a strange glance when I scurried out the front door to avoid any type of scolding. I would have heard the usual “that’s what girls do” lecture she is so intent on giving me. She didn’t need to worry though as I gave myself that lecture numerous times before putting on a dress this morning. I put so much thought into how I look and the impressions I’d make but very little thought had gone into how blue my skin would turn in the fifteen-second march from the car to the front doors. 

My hand grabbed the cold silver door handle and slung it open and warm air rushed out to greet me. I walked through the main commons area with sly confidence and hints of trepidation. It was about fifteen minutes before the first bell would ring – signalling all students to rush with panic to their first class – so there weren’t many students to gaze at me as I strut to my locker. Once I got to my locker, I quickly entered the code to hide my face in the comfort of the coffin-like box. Perhaps a coffin would be more suitable at this moment. Before I could get too comfortable in self-pity, my group of male friends came up to me to get a good look at me and applaud my courage to “wear something a man wouldn’t”.  

I’m sure they were attempting to compliment me, but it came off as a slight and gave me insight into what they thought was masculine. To them, a man would care what others thought of them. To them, a man would confine their clothing to a specific set of items. To them, I was not a man. I try to take no offence to their double-edged compliments, but I know that I won’t measure to their definitions if I wanted to be my truest self. And so, I take solace in the fact that I will be more of a man than any of them would ever be and more of a woman than any of them would ever get. A man does not care about anyone else’s opinion of them. A man does not limit themselves to the boxes that society demands we live in. A man does not define his manhood but lives their own truth. I am a man.