Written by Julian Dindal
Art by Julian Dindal
Julian Dindal is queer, genderfluid, and transmasculine.
If you had told my younger self that I would be close friends with a group of almost entirely cis men, they would have been scared shitless. As a child, I rarely socialized with boys
unless they were the object of my affection. I was typically inseparable from a female best friend and close friends with an array of other girls. Boys were fun to annoy or tease, but gross to touch, and that was that. That is, until I hit 5th or 6th grade and my crushes swelled into something closer to full-blown obsessions.
In 6th grade, two whole boys liked me, one of whom I viciously liked back. I think that’s the highest my ego has ever been. I walked around that elementary school classroom like I owned the place. But as I grew older and underwent the horrific and ego-crushing experience that is puberty, that confidence slowly became more and more dependent on male validation. No matter how much I loved myself, I didn’t feel complete without it.
Fast forward to freshman year of college: I’m moving into a dormitory with my current inseparable best friend, both of us transmascs. We were placed on the girl’s floor in an otherwise extremely (cis) male-dominated dorm. This by itself was a culture shock. I knew nothing about boy culture; I lived with my older brother my whole life, but he was even more socially awkward than I was. Having struggled profusely to rid my anxiety around girl social norms, it was discouraging to think I had to start all over again.
Even though I was intimidated, I knew it was vital for my gender expression to learn boy culture and living with all boys was definitely a full immersion experience. So I observed them. I watched the way that they sat, the way they laughed, the way they leisurely strolled around the hall. I borrowed a mannerism or two from each of my friends. I wish I could give you a list of what I got and from whom, but to be honest I don’t remember. These little ways of doing things slowly became second nature to me until they seamlessly became a part of who I am now.
Slowly my best friend and I found a group of boys from the dorm to hang out with. At first, I would only speak to a select few who I trusted. I was constantly thinking about how I was being perceived. Am I standing like a boy? Am I talking like one? Lower your voice. Cover your chest. Don’t giggle. Oh god, he’s trying to dap you up, don’t you dare fuck this up. These thoughts absorbed me whenever I hung out with them or considered hanging out with them. I was always late to the function because I was obsessively changing my clothes beforehand, trying to ensure that I would fit in. When I finally got there, I was still so preoccupied with my anxiety that I could barely speak.
I was worried that at any moment, I would slip out of the shadows and be spotted as an outsider. One wrong phrase or comment and they would know: “That’s a girl! Not one of us!” So I watched quietly instead. Of course, the problem with watching quietly is that you don’t make much of an impression. I wasn’t in the group chats. I had to ask one of the cis boys I trusted to let me in on the plans. I would drop everything when I saw them leaving the dorm. As someone who has always had a debilitating fear of abandonment, rejection, or being left out, even the slightest hint of exclusion can trigger insecurity within me. Insecurity that tends to lead to self-sabotage and self-isolation.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to diss my friends here, and I don’t believe that they’re all conspiring to spite me. When my skating ability starts and ends with riding in a circle and I’m in a group of guys who love skating and BMX, it’s no wonder I feel pushed to the outskirts. This isn’t their fault. I know this. However, when compounded with my gender identity, it can become rather discouraging. There’s nothing that’ll make you feel more like a girl than sitting on the sidelines while boys play.
The thing about craving male validation is that it makes you act like the male-idealized version of yourself. During puberty, this had become my default when talking to boys. If I thought of them as potential suitors, I would morph into some small, complacent, girly version of myself. I didn’t want these college boys to see me as a date because, in my mind, that meant it would already be over, I would never be one of them. This made the idea of talking to a boy–who I found attractive–daunting.
However, this fear couldn’t stop me from being my romanticizing, fantasizing, idyllic self. And while I am attracted to all genders, that first year, I seemed to always be surrounded by boys. One day I happened to be in the common room when a horde of boys came in. Everyone was in good spirits, myself included, so I talked to one of them. A pretty boy who was outside of my immediate friend group. Distant enough that I felt safe in case I fucked it up. I lowered my voice, tried to contain my nerves, and we talked about film, something without gendered connotations that I’m passionate about. I was exhilarated. Here was a boy I thought was unbelievably cool, the prime subject to trigger my male validation-seeking self-feminization, and I fought it, I remained genuinely myself. This experience was encouraging, but still scary. I was worried my silly little crush would rear its ugly head, making me into someone I’m not. So, naturally, I avoided him at all costs. I took the confidence I gained and moved forward.
One night, I spoke out during a game of mafia and one of the boys said something like, “I trust what Julian’s saying cuz they never say anything.” At first, it hurt a little bit. Great, I’m back being the shy girl who never talks, my voice of self-doubt told me. This time, Instead of succumbing to that voice, I decided to think it through and I noticed something. They weren’t making fun of me for not talking, they weren’t banishing me for it, they just… noticed it. It’s funny: when you’re so used to being an observer, you forget that you can be seen too. Although it was embarrassing for me to recognize just how silent I had been, this interaction gave me confidence. They weren’t judging me for being quiet so it stood to reason that they wouldn’t judge me for talking either. I decided then that I would stop letting my anxiety get the best of me. I cared deeply about these guys and I felt like I owed it to them to be real, not some quiet performance of myself. I had been so paranoid about how I was being perceived that I forgot perceptions aren’t what build bonds, genuine connections are.
This marked a change for me. While I still struggled to contribute at times, I felt more comfortable speaking my mind. It slowly got easier to relax around the guys. I could finally enjoy the goofy bro moments I always longed for.
As happy as I was with the progress I had made in the boy culture department, I didn’t want to leave girl culture behind altogether. I still identified with aspects of femininity; I still lived girlhood. I felt robbed thinking I had to give that up in order to gain boyhood. I didn’t want to lose holding hands and huddling for warmth in a circle of girls, exchanging knowing glances and sweet giggly compliments, or the other little remnants of my femininity which I enjoyed. I sought a way to hold onto my feminine side without being seen as a girl. This meant that although I may have gotten the boys to stop seeing me as a girl, now I needed the girls to.
Last month, I was walking home from a film set late at night. A pair of figures were headed towards me on the sidewalk. I was a little anxious about them until I determined they were a pair of girls. I was put at ease and continued towards them. But then something funny happened: they crossed the street before we met. They didn’t scare me, but I, in my big Carhartt jacket, scared them.
This helped me become more aware of my masculinity. As a trans person, you spend so much time convincing people of your gender that it becomes surprising when they believe you. I was seeking something that I already had: I was no longer always assumed to be a girl. I felt liberated. Girls could still include me in their intimate moments and conversations without disrespecting my gender.
Newly aware of my privilege as one of the boys, I wanted to honor my girlhood and use my experience as a transmasculine person to foster respect for women. In practice, that can look like a lot of things (many I’m sure I haven’t even discovered yet). Whether it’s crossing the street so women don’t have to question their safety, keeping quiet at times so I don’t take up their space, or fighting toxic masculinity from the inside. Whatever I can do to make others comfortable in the same way that I had been seeking at the start of freshman year. That’s my favorite part of being genderfluid: the ability to see and be seen by both ends of the gender spectrum.