20th Feb - What to do when you're 'not a man'

We're always taught conventional ideas of what is expected of us, and our gender, from such an inherently young age that it becomes part of our social construct and forms part of our character, whether we want to admit it or not. Girls play with dolls and tea sets and prams and form daisy chains, Boys play with Action Man, and guns, and swords, and take their football to the park for a muddy kick-about. But as we grow older, there are certain narratives which no longer fit our ideology of who we are. 

Of course, the idea of genderless beings is now a trending topic worldwide, as are the areas of transgender identity, and sexuality. But I'm referring to parts of life which have zero relatability to any sexual side of our being. If a woman walks into a pub and downs a refreshing pint of Stella, cocks her leg up to fart on the bar stool, and then munches her way through a pack of pork scratchings, try as you might to deny it, she'll be on the end of a series of pre-judged misconceptions about her character by strangers who have not one iota of knowledge on her life to date, or the events and happenings which have contributed to her overall character. 

Likewise, as a man, I find myself judged by my reluctance to partake in what would traditionally be considered 'working class' activities, such as physical labour. American philosopher Noam Chomsky coined the term 'caught or taught', questioning whether our behaviours were biologically programmed into us and our DNA, or were influenced by our teachings and surroundings through childhood years. I can tell you now, in a resounding success for the 'caught' camp, my own youth was intermittently spent around a partially absent Father who would regularly have his hands under various bonnets, and his penis in various women. A real 'lad lad lad' if that's how you prefer to define toxic masculinity. His blue stained work overalls would smell like engine oil, his hair would smell like petrol, and his breath would smell like premium lager and cigarettes.

Despite this, I couldn't have been less interested in cars, spanners, and anything else he associated himself with. By the time I owned my first car shortly after my 17th birthday (an off-white Volkswagen Polo, affectionately termed 'The Muff Wagon'), I knew fuck-all about the workings of the motor itself and would regularly guesstimate by way between A-B, developing an ill-informed and unhealthy obsession with my dipstick (get your minds out of the gutter), believing that to be the over-arching remedy to all problems. Steering pulling to one side during road trips to McDonalds? Check the dipstick. Engine wheezing during ascents onto the dual carriageway? Check the dipstick. Broken down on the side of the A34? Check the dipstick. 

Throughout school, I excelled in just about every academical subject, possessing a particularly God-like skill for all things English-related as some sort of universally acknowledged class deity. but once again, there was just one subject I couldn't (literally) get to grips with: Technology. Whether it was sanding down  medium density fibreboard during woodwork creations, chiselling away on various metals when asked to create our own steel-clad trophy, or (embarrassingly) being placed in the 'special needs' set during textiles through my complete inability to sew together a simple wooly hat. Nobody ever really changes, and these days, my partner is very much 'the man of the house' when it comes to screwdrivers, hacksaws, and my own personal arch-nemesis, IKEA flat-packs. 

Her background, similarly to mine, was spent around a Dad with an array of such skills (though my future-Father-in-law is a brilliantly kind soul, and is two thousand times the man my own Father ever was, or ever will be). At first, I felt guilty about such a lack of skills on my behalf, particularly under the watchful eye of her adorable grandparents, (most notably when I was tasked with a complex early morning gardening job alongside her lifelong-green fingered Grandfather, during the Summer heatwave, whilst on the receiving end of a truly sickening hangover from the night before). But as time has passed, I've managed to find solace, not by analysing what I can't do. But by analysing what I can. 

These days, being a 'man' is not dependant on how tight you can wrench a bolt (see, I don't even know if that sentence makes sense!), whilst being a 'woman' is not defined by how well you bake a cake or clean the kitchen counter. I know that my own Father, who was illiterate to the point where my yearly birthday cards looked like they'd been written by someone with Parkinsons, such was the jittery smudge-ridden biro handwriting inside, could never form a living in the same way I do. I'm aware that every memorable trip to foreign countries, romantic hotel rooms, treats, and gifts which I'm able to lavish my other half with, have been paid using money earned from my ability to form brilliance behind a keyboard, mobile phone, and laptop screen. I'm exceptionally good with my fingers, you see. Maybe I'm not 'a man' in the traditional sense of the word... 

... But the world is changing. I'm a man, and my name is Jake.