All I could talk to my friends about after seeing the iconic 2023 Barbie movie was that I wanted to be “Kenough.” But my therapist heard a different story: that I am just Allan.
Greta Gerwig’s movie was many things. It was stunning imagery, an incredible cast, fun energy, and a truly beautiful breakdown of how harmful the patriarchy can be to all humans. It was also, intentionally or not, an easy analogy of what it feels like to be a passing trans man today.
First off, it should be made clear that the “goal of being trans'' isn't to pass as cis. Trans-ness will always be valid regardless of any gender expression. My decisions to medically transition were to help with my own dysphoria, and to feel comfortable and confident within my own skin. As a result of my transition, though, I have become quite passing as a cis guy in the public eye. This is how my own Allan journey started.
I live in a blue city within a red state, but even before medically transitioning, my short hair and fairly flat chest had a few unsuspecting strangers calling me “sir,” and others asking what pronouns I prefer. After years of this, my conclusion was that people were confused about which of three identities I held: a masc lesbian, a twink, or a trans person. It was a fun game sometimes, watching people who were hesitant to ask but didn’t want to guess wrong. And yes, maybe it was also amusing overhearing young children asking their parents, “Is that a boy or a girl?” Despite the fun I was having internally, I always had that voice inside the back of my head that said, “They know you’re queer, and not a ‘real’ man.”
I think the saddest part of realizing I was passing was that it only dawned on me in really negative situations. I’d been on testosterone for nearly 8 months, the embarrassing voice cracks had tremendously calmed down, and I was working a retail job when I first realized a stranger thought I was a cis male. As every customer service worker knows, in retail we get to interact with the most ugly parts of humanity. In this instance, a guest was making a complaint on behalf of their partner, and to no one’s surprise, said guests were in the wrong. They had come up to me to ask about the closing crew for the night before—which was myself and my friend, who was also a trans man but, unlike me, had not started medically transitioning. The guest came to the conclusion that I was probably the “Asian boy” their partner had described, and referred to my coworker as the “d*ke that thinks she’s a girl.” This guest went on for about five minutes, and all I could think as they continued to speak of my friend and coworker in such homophobic and transphobic language was “How is this bitch so comfortable talking like this to me?” That is when it dawned on me, for the first time, that a stranger was using the correct pronouns for me because they thought I was cis.
Something that I’ve noticed since transitioning is how quick people are to tell me they “would’ve never guessed,” as if that were a compliment. It’s well-intended, but I find it one, unnecessary, and two, so flat for a compliment. Instead of being told how passing I am, I’d like to know if I look handsome. And while I wholeheartedly believe people are trying to genuinely compliment me when they say that I “pass so well,” it has never been the goal for me. I have pride in being a trans man, and if given a safe space to be out, I want to make it clear to people that I am trans—it’s part of my identity. When the most common “compliment” you receive is “you’re so passing,” it’s like constantly being told “your hair is black.” Yes, I do have black hair, how does it look? Most people’s first compliment to a natural brunette dying their hair blonde probably wouldn’t be “you look like a natural blonde.” Most compliments would probably be something along the lines of “you look great,” and why can’t that be the same for trans people? If the first compliment people can give is how much a trans person passes, it passively says that those who don’t pass are less valid, less attractive. And let’s be real, trans people are fucking hot on all ends of the spectrum.
Having passing privilege has brought some new positives and new nuisances to my life. I feel safer using the men’s bathroom, so I no longer have to be yelled at in the women’s. However, that means I use the men’s bathroom, and those are not fun (salute to everyone who’s ever had to clean those out). For better or for worse, passing has changed how other men talk to me. They often feel comfortable sharing their “locker room thoughts”; there was the time someone informed me I had such a “nice view” at work, motioning to my just barely 18-year-old coworker, or the time a gentleman in his 50s told me about all the 20-year-olds he falls in love with at the store here. On the other hand, when my female coworker, despite being older than me, called out a vendor for breaking store policy, this young boy blatantly ignored her, yet stopped and (begrudgingly) listened to me. I didn’t even think about it until my coworker pointed out that he listened to the guy, but not the girl, despite us both being the same level of management. At that moment, I thought back to high school, when one of my friends was talking about how she and her boyfriend were walking down the hallway, and a guy ran into her, and he paused to look at her boyfriend and apologize to him.
Growing up as a girl, I had many instances where I could come to the conclusion that this (cis)male was some combination of woefully ignorant, painfully oblivious, annoyingly self-centered and, above all, just sexist. Yet having this sort of “insider’s view” has set in stone that there really are men out in the world that truly believe that all women in this world are here for them. That women are for their enjoyment, that all their decisions are based on either attracting or deterring them. If at this point we’ve reached the “not all men” argument, you have missed the entire point. Yes, not all men are wilding entitled sexists—but plenty are, and they show their true colors to the passing trans guy who’s working with other guys (both trans and cis alike) to call them out and promote a healthier version of masculinity that includes empathy, a basic understanding of feminism, and much better grooming habits. Allans are the guys here to uplift and support the Barbies, while the Kens are trapped in their patriarchal ideals. Claiming “Kenergy” is fun for the joke, but I identify as Allan, because I do not want to be “Ken.”
In plenty of instances, around friends making general negative statements about men, I’ve playfully announced myself as a prideful exception to a less-than-desirable stereotype. But when I pull the “not all men” card in jest, I am shut down by a very serious, “Yeah, but you don’t count.” It’s common, as a trans man, to feel like “male lite” and to have your identity diminished or never truly validated in some relationships. I do hope for everyone to be able to surround themselves with people who genuinely validate them. But that’s not the point of the essay.
I’ve found, since becoming a passing guy, that I’m not always “not man enough.” I’m now so much of a man that I don’t have a place in conversations with the girls. I’m not talking about being excluded from girls’ night, but having serious discussions with AFAB people. In a group including two cis women, two non-binary people who haven’t had any medical transitions, and myself, I was now the man out of place.
The discussion at hand was how disproportionately women are the victims of violent crimes, and how crime podcasts glorify serial killers and normalize violence against women. Growing up, I was the only girl among the children in my family. I had protective parents, who put me in taekwondo, and a grandfather who brought me down to the range. I grew up learning that there are lots of bad people out in the world who would like to kidnap a pretty young girl and do horrific things with her. Like most girls, I was taught to remain vigilant, to stay alert, to protect myself in society. Over 20 years of these lessons being drilled in my head, and I found myself getting cut off because I “look like a guy,” and I would be much safer walking alone down a street at night than anyone else in the room. And that’s true. But the thing is, all those years of building up the hyper awareness, of feeling that borderline paranoia about being the next Amanda Berry has never disappeared. I don’t walk the streets confidently thinking how passing I am. I am still incredibly anxious, because testosterone can’t undo decades of cautionary tales that have shaped my views of the world.
I’ve always had a firm stance of “no uterus, no opinion” on matters of reproductive health, but I’ve had a hysterectomy now. It was a procedure that’s brought much ease and joy to my life. But it also doesn’t erase the years of everything that comes with periods. I just remember sitting there processing how I could have male privilege with my decades of female experience.
That’s the thing about Allan: he can get along with Kens and Barbies alike, but he’s Allan. I’ve lived so much of my life under the female perspective that I can't conform to the patriarchy like a Ken. I spent many formative years learning and embracing the identity of a strong independent woman. I became so passionate about quality WLW representation in media because I had identified as a bisexual woman. I was (and still very much am) adamant that womanhood can be feminine, masculine, and everywhere in between. Transitioning has brought a lot of disconnect with my AFAB identity and my childhood in many aspects, but it can’t be erased.
If I had seen America Ferrera’s Barbie monologue before I started exploring my gender identity, I probably would have been in tears. But even after one year on testosterone and roughly 3-5 years of no longer identifying as a woman, I could still relate, because those were feelings I have felt. When a trans man has such feminist views, they’ll often be asked, “If you hate men so much, why do you want to become one?” And the thing is, if gender was a choice, I wouldn’t have gone through all the trials and tribulations of becoming confident in womanhood, only to later say “I’m not Barbie.” Yet here I am, not Ken, not Barbie, but just Allan. And that’s perfectly okay.
