Insights: Am I Man Enough?

For a deaf-blind queer man, navigating masculinity and queerness had its own challenges.

What does it mean to be a man? Let me be a little more specific: what does it mean to be a man in a society that perpetuates heteronormativity, patriarchy and the ‘superiority’ of neurotypical, able-bodied experiences? Popular cultural texts tell us that to be a man is to be physically strong, robust and fast, mentally and emotionally ‘less’ vulnerable, interested in sports and science, attracted to women, and perhaps also to have a certain degree of aggression in one’s attitude.

Now where do I, a 33-year-old cis gay man with deafblindness, stand vis-a-vis these parameters? This is a question that has both disturbed me and intrigued me throughout my lifelong journey of negotiating masculinity. Come, let me take you through some of the key experiences of my life which have shaped my understanding of masculinity, sexuality, disability — and above all, my identity.

A physical education

Let me begin with any P.E. period during a regular school day in 2005 when I was in the 9th Grade. My male classmates were instructed to go outside the school premises. Here they would play cricket, football and volleyball. Meanwhile, the female students stayed inside the school grounds, playing wall-touch, handkerchief thief or, more often than not, simply sitting together and chatting. At the time, I was partially blind, and the only disabled child in a class of 75 students. I never wanted to go out and play with my male classmates, and furthermore, I was undesired by them for I was, due to my disability, perceived as "weak", "slow" and quite “incapable”. In a mainstream school where everything from books to teaching methods to co-curricular activities was meant to cater to ‘capable’ able bodied, able minded individuals, I indeed turned out to be "a slow, below average under performer”, as my report cards read. So it perhaps goes without saying that I felt left out and rejected. I lacked confidence, which made me introverted and 'soft spoken’. During P.E. class, I felt more comfortable loitering around alone on campus or being with my female ‘friends’. I felt somewhat safer with them.

I clearly remember that after the ever-dreaded P.E. period got over and we returned to our classroom, I — because I had preferred to stay back with the girls — was severely teased and manhandled by the boys. Being a visually disabled teenager who over time also developed partial hearing loss, I had ‘low’ reflexes, and many of my classmates used to take advantage of this. They used to poke me, hit me physically or even touch, grab and press my private body parts. My slowness, my inability to resist physical abuse promptly, my frequent breaking down into tears, my preference to stay in the company of girls, all led me to be perceived as ‘abnormal’.

My male classmates often said things like ye larka hain ya larki? (Is this a boy or a girl?) On one occasion, I remember even one of my teachers saying this to other students. My speech, my physical mannerisms, my ‘style’ of walking – were all jeered at, and tagged as meyeder mato (womanly, girlish). To make matters worse, the girls often joined in, the ones with whom I actually spent time chatting and gossiping. After all, this is how internalised patriarchy works. Being a disabled ‘effeminate’ boy, I was a source of eternal sadistic entertainment for my classmates. Most of my male peers thought it necessary to bully me to reinstate and affirm their own masculinity, and some of my female peers did not want to ‘miss out’. I was not masculine enough to be included, but my masculinity was not altogether discounted either, for it was against my deficient masculinity that they had to pit their perfect, desirable masculinity, or in case of the girls, their ‘true’ femininity.

By the time I graduated from school, the situation had changed a bit – from being actively verbally and physically bullied, I was now almost completely ignored by all my peers. At our school farewell day, the male students were called up on the stage, followed by the female students — each of them was given a memento. I was not called up with either group; instead, I was later asked to appear on stage for a ‘special’ — presumably because of my disability — memento. This othering was intertwined with degendering, and was the final scar with which I left school, the bitter aftertaste lingering on.

Bernard Perlin, The Bar (1957)

Coming of age

In my late teens, I ‘lost’ my eyesight completely. The condition had been gradually deteriorating, and by the time I was nineteen, I became what the medical certificate would call "100 percent visually disabled." I was also partially deaf — another congenital condition — so around this time, my outdoor navigation skills became, in the ableist parlance, ‘extremely poor’.

I used to go to college with my mother. Naturally (at least that is how it was perceived), an adult man who is being escorted by his mother to college is neither quite a ‘man' nor an ‘adult’. I remember one of my classmates asking my mother, and not me, something related to the syllabus — while I was standing right next to her.

Here, in passing, I want to mention that after my Grade 10 board exams, science subjects were no longer a choice for me, due to the inaccessibility of lab equipment, graphs and mathematical figures. Though I wanted to study Humanities, I was compelled by my parents to opt for Commerce. Later on, when I wanted to pursue Bangla as my major under graduation subject, I was compelled to opt for English. If not Science or Commerce, the only male child of the family should ‘at least’ study English -— that was my parents’ attitude back then.

Presumptions about my gender extended to social realms, too. One evening, a female friend and I had gone to a bar for dinner. When we placed our order for alcoholic beverages, the waiter made facial gestures to my friend, silently asking her, "Should I serve him alcohol? Is it okay?" The subtext was all-too evident: "He may be adult in terms of his biological age, but he is disabled. Therefore, his decision to drink is not valid. We need the permission of an able-bodied person." Interestingly, waiters at the same bar, I was later told by my friend, otherwise always preferred to take orders for alcohol from a ‘man’. The patriarchal setup that associated alcohol with men, neatly dissociated it from me.

According to patriarchal norms, independence — which is any way highly glorified — is seen as an important feature of masculinity. To be physically dependent is seen as something less than masculine, even shameful. Being a person with multiple disabilities, I am to a great extent dependent on my caregivers, peers and acquaintances. On the one hand, this overt dependence makes me less masculine, and on the other, it gives able bodied men an opportunity to pit their chivalry against my deficient masculinity. On occasions of carrying luggage or lifting heavy bags, my male friends often say, tui parbi na... chere de... ami nichchhi... (Leave it... You won't be able to... let me carry it...). They would then simply pick up my bags, without my asking them to do so.

On several occasions, even my father, a senior citizen, has done something similar. And if some last minute shopping needs to be done, it is almost always my father who is compelled to rush to the market. While a young man of thirty-three is at home, his 65-year-old diabetic father is made to do all kinds of tiring, physical chores. Perhaps, then, it wouldn't be very difficult to gauge the extent of mental stress this causes me, reinforced by the social stigma attached to ‘physical weakness.’

Out of the closet, into the shopping mall

Now let me talk about what it means to be visually and visibly disabled for my experiences as a queer man. In my immediate family, I never felt the need to officially come out. My mother had an idea — I do not know for how long — that I was not interested in women. My conversations with my father are fairly brief, so the question of discussing my sexual orientation with him never arose. Furthermore, because I am disabled, I never had to face the typical pressure of marriage, although I am employed and ‘otherwise’ quite an eligible bachelor.

I remember coming out to some of my classmates during my Masters in English at Jadavpur University. In a department where Queer Studies is taught and where research on disability is overtly encouraged, the experience of coming out was smooth, comforting and even rewarding. But outside the English department, the scene was different.

I understand that queerness is to a large extent about the visual performance of gender, beauty and sex appeal. As a person with visible disability, I usually remain (am made to remain) outside these parametres. I remember going to a highly celebrated queer event in my city, where I was just sitting all alone in the front row. Someone of course assisted me to the auditorium and brought me refreshments — but that was it. Exchanging glances, meeting new people, being approached by others, or simply striking up a conversation? Nothing happened. No one in that gathering took the initiative to move beyond the safe zone of courteousness. The entire experience was becoming utterly unbearable when a friend of mine spotted me and rescued me from this embarrassing situation.

On another occasion, this time at a private queer party, I found people talking about make up, clothes, dating apps, and showing each other photos on their phone. I was absolutely unable to participate. I felt left out, and others too, had no idea how to make me feel included. This time things became even more awkward, and I left the gathering with an unsavoury feeling.

Salman Toor, Bar Boy (2019)

This brings me to queer dating apps like Grindr, which are not accessible to visually disabled people. First of all, navigating these apps by using Text To Speech software is extremely difficult, if not impossible. What’s more, I have heard from my sighted queer friends that these apps are almost entirely photo dependent. Posting, sending and receiving personal photos is the most important prerequisite for even starting a conversation. For blind people like me, however, photos are entirely beyond the scope of access and also privacy. As a queer person compelled to stay away from one of the supposedly easiest and most effective ways of connecting with members of the community, I experience a deep sense of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). I feel that I am utterly inadequate for the queer market. Since I can't see my outfit, physique, body shape or gait, I often find myself seeking validation from other people. This leads to lack of confidence, and a constant feeling of anxiety.

The queer market — a term I use deliberately — is driven by normative ideas of masculinity, defined by a toned body, facial hair, and a kind of ‘nimbleness’ or leanness. I do not (want to) fit into any of these body ‘types'. My blindness prevents me from going to the gym or engaging in other rigorous, calorie-burning activities. Where do I, as a blind man, stand in this queer environment? This is a question that shows me how slippery, arbitrary and ableist the prevalent notions of queer masculinity are.

Mixed messages

While my masculinity has often been perceived as deficient and inadequate, it is not always that simplistic. As an upper caste, ‘gainfully’ employed individual, born and brought up in an urban area, with access to higher education in one of the most inclusive public universities of West Bengal, and a certain command over the language of power — English — I carry a certain cultural capital. These privileges are often translated into a currency of masculinity.

For instance, after I started earning a salary and contributing directly to the family finances, I was a participant in various economic decision-making processes. This marked a shift in societal attitudes towards me — I saw this change in my family members, neighbours, peers and friends. My decisions were valued, and my assertive confident demeanour, which was largely engineered by my economic independence, projected me as a successful man — albeit with disability and therefore some inadequacy.

Who and what qualifies as manly enough is based on extremely arbitrary, context-bound, erratic parameters. In contrast, my close relationship with my mother and my bonds with a few of my friends, encourages me to love myself and my identity, and to assert who I am. Today, in my day-to-day life, I attempt to move beyond fragile definitions of masculinity, and instead to embrace my body, mind, feelings and interacting identities with authenticity and sincerity — to not feel the need to conform to any imposed system of thought.