Masculine Reading amateur woman

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In the course of reporting the book, Thomas became the first transgender man to ever fight in Madison Square Garden. He speaks internationally on the intersection of gender and culture and also writes for television. Enhance your purchase.

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As he questions the limitations of gender roles and the roots of masculine aggression, he finds intimacy, hope, and even love in the experience of boxing and in his role as a man in the world. Through interviews with experts in neuroscience, sociology, and critical race theory, he constructs a deft and thoughtful examination of the role of men in contemporary society. Amateur is a graceful and uncompromising look at gender by a fearless, fiercely honest writer. Print length. Publication date. See all details. Next. Frequently bought together. Total price:. To see our price, add these items to your cart.

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Thomas McBee. Alok Vaid-Menon. Jared Yates Sexton. Susan Stryker. Jackson Bird. Customers who bought this item also bought. Kai Cheng Thom. Review "Brave, honest and touchingly human…a beautiful book that will resonate…with anyone anywhere in the world who is determined to become a better, kinder human being.

Inside the fight, McBee finds reconciliation. McBee describes the journey as a way of grappling with his newish place in the world of toxic and privileged masculinity It is in many ways a happy dismantling of these expectations, an opening of masculinity to make room for love, support, and tenderness — something McBee is pleasantly surprised to find along the way. It is also a classic fight story. Superbly written and keenly observed, Amateur manages to juggle all of these elements with grace and wit. Yet at the end of Amateurafter all the punches, interviews, and introspection, the author does not arrive at any simple answers.

Instead, that initial question about men and fighting multiplies into larger ones While he gets closer and closer to that eventual fight night in New York, his investigation of men is made more powerful by this lack of certainty—ultimately asking whether anyone, including those who flaunt their political strength in Washington D. He wants to know, as a man, how to fight gender inequity At a time when equity of all kinds is being suppressed, Amateur is a reminder that the individual can still come forward and fight. Author of the award-winning memoir Man AliveMcBee expected men drawn to boxing were motivated by bloodlust.

Instead, he discovers mentorship among men overcoming weaknesses. In finding the vulnerability guys hope to hide, McBee finds hope for all men. Nothing short of superb. It all adds up to a gripping and fascinating journey. In this memoir from Scribner, [McBee] grapples with masculinity, gender, and violence as he recounts his training to become a boxer. Amateur is more than a boxing story, just as it's more than a trans narrative. It's a highly recommended case study in manhood. Amateur is a warm hug.

I want the world to read it. Thomas McBee confronts fears and realities with grace, toughness, and poetry. A beautiful book. McBee grapples with enormous issues such as masculinity, identity, transformation, and loss with great depth and intelligence, and in doing so, explores so many of the tough questions we should all be asking ourselves. Though slim and sharply concise, Amateur enlarges the world by opening up greater, more hopeful realms of possibility. I am a better man for having read this book. Amateur shows us a warrior of the human spirit, courageously investigating masculinity itself.

His prose—both fierce and delicate—reveals a struggle to become a better man, and to create a better self. Amateur is urgent, generous, and fearless.

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Kennedy, author of All the Rage and Serious Sweet "Amateur provocatively describes the ways in which an increasingly fragile patriarchal culture needs to keep men in their place. A quest for self-liberation, this loving and deeply intelligent exploration of contemporary masculinities is essential reading.

All rights reserved. Amateur Am I a Real Man? Mendez Boxing gym was wedged between anonymous buildings in the Flatiron, under one of those ubiquitous green Manhattan awnings that al perpetual construction. I circled the block, fashioning it, three times before finally heading in, looking foolish in my brand-new Adidas boxing shoes, pulled-high athletic socks, and neon yellow shorts.

I told him I was looking for an acquaintance, Chris Lewarne, a rep from the boxing charity that arranged my fight. I suppose I had indeed spent a lot more time not knowing what to say since my transition. This was the sort of place I would need to be watchful, to be careful to whom I spoke and what I said.

I had already decided that I would not tell anyone that I was trans. Still, I suspected from the moments that I moved anonymously through space that the understanding that my male friends especially had about my body impacted the way they treated me, and my goal was to go undercover, to embed, never mind to stay safe among men who liked to beat each other up for fun. In the coming months, that decision would dog me, not least because it highlighted a thorny truth: that, for all the world, I was just another dude in expensive Nikes learning to hit other guys in the face.

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Real boxing gyms, dank spots that were actual training grounds for Golden Gloves champs, were rarely open to gangly newbs like me, but a spate of legendary gyms such as Mendez followed a profitable business model that attracted scrappy Olympic hopefuls, washed-up amateurs looking to become personal trainers or to coach the Next Big Thing, and high-rolling charity fighters alike.

The sport that produced Muhammad Ali increasingly lacked in both heroes and the deeper social narrative of his era, leaving a vacuum eventually filled by a boxing-fitness craze perfect for Instagrammable moments. A hedge-fund manager I met at another boxing gym confirmed this. He wore the classic Adidas triple-striped pants, a Haymakers T-shirt, and a light beard, but was the kind of handsome that required zero styling to appear stylish.

He was the only reason I had a good shot of getting on the fight card at such short notice—just five months before the event. So what if I had to cross my eyes to look in a mirror? They were holding us back, the bad d and the mass murderers and child abusers, the wife beaters and the harassing bosses and the corrupt politicians. Not until I was much older did I realize how complicated her feelings were, that she loved men too, and that her anger was forged in that love: obviously for my brother, and her father, but also for the coworkers that stood up for her, the ex-boyfriends, the civil rights activists she marched alongside in the National Mall, listening to Martin Luther King Jr.

Bearded and swarthy, standing beside him, I felt like the brainy villain next to the hero in an action movie. Then he introduced me to my potential coach: Errol, an impeccably groomed, bald-headed black dude, who looked at me warily. I wondered, self-consciously, if he pd me a certain sort of white man, or if his assessment was a colder, more physical one. This was my inference, of course. Wu-Tang blared over a bell that rang out every three minutes and the constant thwap of men hitting bags, mitts, each other. I did not run a six-minute mile, but I did run three miles in twenty-five minutes, driven by adrenaline and pure terror through a hazing that lasted two grueling hours.

We knew each other only vaguely, and mostly from social media. Not that Chris seemed to make any distinction. He looked at me curiously, but told me not to worry about it. As we watched a guy across the way do one hundred sit-ups, pause thirty seconds, then do one hundred more, I realized how scared I was. I wore my insistence that I be taken seriously, an inheritance from Before, differently on this body. With nobody challenging me anymore, that drive now just looked like standard-issue male confidence. I felt an acute awareness, sitting next to Chris, of the inches and muscle the other guys had on me, and within their bodies the potential for my own spectacular failure.

I flinched at the attention. I had a fight! I walked all the way home, that night, thirty blocks, like the king of New York. I pretended to be in less pain than I was as we practiced keeping our guards up, looking over our gloves, crab-walking around the ring, then turning into position quickly, so as to expose as little of our bodies as possible. This defensive style was cagey, smart. It was about staying safe by keeping your distance, always being ready, never letting down your guard.

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I was familiar with the concept. Then he popped me on the side of the head. He had me close out the night on the jump rope, which I immediately tripped over. Why are you doing this? I could hear my mom asking. She always seemed to me larger than even the history I read about in school textbooks.

Mom, who, when she found out that her husband had been abusing me, put her hand on the center of my chest and told me I had a golden core that no one could touch. I knew I was at a crossro too, fighting for the future that eluded her, working to become the kind of man we could both be proud of.

She was in the ICU in September when the nicest doctor of all took us into a special carpet-lined room with a big wooden table and told us, plainly, that she would not live. When she died a few days after, she passed a mighty hunger on to me.

Nine months later, it was within me, a hunger that lived. My legs were heavy, but sweat poured off me like a second self, washing away.

Masculine Reading amateur woman

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