My Story

The Gardeners

by Whittacker

(The Gender Centre advise that this article may not be current and as such certain content, including but not limited to persons, contact details and dates may not apply. Where legal authority or medical related matters are cited, responsibility lies with the reader to obtain the most current relevant legal authority and/or medical publication.)

My father's masculinity was his armour. He wore it as a barrier. We would escape the house with fishing gear, or fool with electronic kits. He gave me books about volcanoes, trains and the seasons. With the impulsiveness of a young boy and his sharp wit, he revealed the pretentiousness of others.

He was my image of masculinity. His arms and legs, brown burnt by the sun, seemed machines. Solid, rhythmic muscle. He was always outside in the yard. Always building something. Repairing a cupboard or door. Otherwise, upturning row upon row of fresh, dark earth for his vegetable garden. He'd flick his hair back, wiping the sweat through it. The fringe would fall forward again. Replacing a hammer for a saw, saying stuff in his distant, sparse way - concentrating on his project. Then he would burst into the house, letting the screen door go behind him; splat! Self-reliantly crashing around in the kitchen fixing something to eat. The kettle wailing over the gas.

Why then, do I feel like his masculinity was worn as a defence? As if he felt under threat? He showed only emotions coloured of anger or indignation. His masculinity was too tight across his shoulders. His armour rubbed against his soul. And I can't admire the blisters. They bubbled and festered into his spirit. His friendly, open-faced nature closed in upon itself, dry and crackling with anger - his sharp humour now acid cruel.

I wanted to be just like him.

I was always told I looked like him. I am aware that now, I recreate him - just as I used to when I was young.

His gestures and ways breathe easily in me. I sort through the memories of a man I admire and disdain - keeping hold to the ones I'll adapt for myself to wear.

I hope that, as I chose; I recreate only an echo of him. I want to fit my skin. No blisters. I settle to be my own father, as I did in the past.

Now, I'm turning over the earth of darker memories. He started changing back in my childhood. I was as selective then, as I am now.

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