Top Tweets for #WhatIsAMan

So a woman I know has a friend who's FTM. This woman - the FTM - had a child right before she decided to transition. This little girl, now 8, has been told her entire life that she has two dads, both male, and that her mother is not in the picture. She struggles with this, and frequently expresses a wish to meet her mother. Y'all, I've seen people do some genuinely evil things in my day, but in a way, this might just take the cake. How in god's name can any woman be so unbelievably selfish as to care more about her game of make-believe than she does about giving her crying child the comfort of knowing that she has a mother who loves her? And how in god's name can Dad just stand by and let this go on? The truth is going to come out one of these days, and when it does, it will erase every single shred of trust that little girl has ever had in her parents. There's already been an incident in which she accidentally saw a picture of her mom pre-transition, and asked if that was her "dad's" sister, and her mom, only to be told no. Right now she's still young enough to believe what she's told, but the older she gets, the harder it's going to be to maintain the charade - and this is the kind of lie that can derail and destroy a child's entire life. This is a huge part of why I say that trans people shouldn't have kids. Parents must be willing to put their children above their own needs, let alone their own selfish desires, and that has to include not lying to said children about something that is so fundamental to their sense of security as to whether or not they have a mom and a dad. If a woman can look her child in the face as they cry over wanting to have a mom and not admit that she is their mom, she does not deserve to have that child.

Am I less of a man if the ground floor hanger fits my wardrobe? Maybe less of a man when two cards orbit our leftovers? Am I less of a man when the beermat’s stained in tonic? Maybe less of a man if a padlock, long forgotten its locker, attracts layers of snow like a family antique? But what does it mean to be a man? A man means what? Or who? Am I? Is it me? Will I be less of a man should my body not cut your finger? Or less of a man if I treat paintings like Hollywood stars? Will I be less of a man should my jaw bear no shadow? Or less of a man if I carry my self-esteem in two halves? My body shattered, my mind a pendulum, To wreck, it has one purpose, destroy. The target is what. What does it mean to be a man? A man means what? Can you tell me? Please? You say I’m less of a man when I feel the scream of a woman, You say I’m less of a man when I marry the one who loves me, You say I’m less of a man when I divert from the chaos, You say I’m less of a man when I end my questions in please. I believe I’m a man despite the strings of the orchestra, I believe I’m a man despite the experience of others’ dreams. I believe I’m a man despite the gravity of my tears, And I believe I’m a man despite the words of my father, “You call yourself a fucking man?!” he chiselled in to me. Is being a man skin deep? Hair length? Clothes straight? Eyes down? Shut up? Punch down? Written down? Feeling down? Man down. It’s a feeling? A finding? My dream? I’m as much of a man as those fathering children, As much as those men who wish to turn back. As much as those men laying bricks in to houses, And all those with a heart rate set to attack. I’m as much of a man as those defending our colours, As much as those molten moulders of rifles, As much as their masters marching to orders, And all the men configured, awaiting instruction to cock the striker back. They lay down and shoot, lay down their lives, lay down their arms, guarding their hearts, their bloodlines, they’re crying. An excuse for the heads to unlock machine gun feelings of fire. In their rain. It’s our day to join in, until needed once more, to stand alongside them. My identity of man was not decided by someone, My identity of man was never declared by me. My identity of man will forever be written, My identity of man is beyond six foot deep. It is not a suit, it’s the material. It is not a shape, it’s the space in 3D. It is not a mindset, it’s the body. And my answer’s chiselled forever within me. Despite my envy, my lack of worth to this country, a family and a long awaited retirement from grief, I know ultimately, who I am. What I am. I’m exactly as much of a man as any other can be.